Hell en Pointe | Alastor ✓

chapter 11

The piano had started randomly playing, and you had yelped and fallen on your ass out of your turns immediately. "What the-?!"

"Oh, please, don't let me stop you!" said a familiar radio-static voice who peeked his head from behind the grand piano. "Continue, dear, please, continue!"

Alastor.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" you hissed, scrambling to your feet and your face flushing with embarrassment. He was disrupting your space, invading your personal time to cry without crying, to be yourself without anyone seeing how you truly felt on the inside. And he was taking that away from you.

"Oh, my apologies," taunted Alastor. He gripped the chair behind the piano casually and tilted his head, the sick fuck enjoying your flustered state. "Did I strike a nerve?"

That annoying ass motherfucker, you thought in fury. How dare he come here? How did he even know you were here? When did he sneak in? What did he want?

You took a deep breath, balking your fists together. No. You couldn't let him see you so disheveled, so angry. You had to show him you were better than him.

You shot him a gentle smile, crossing your arms together. "No. I'm fine. Simply splendid, Alastor."

"Lovely!" he said, clasping his hands together. He turned around swiftly in the chair. "Then continue your beautiful dancing, my love."

Your face flushed, both in anger and flattery. Something burned deep within your core. "Tell me what you're doing here first. How did you find me? What do you want?"

"So many questions..." he said with a sigh, his grin ever-the-wider and his teeth seemingly glowing in the pale red light seeping in from outside. "...Little fawn, it doesn't take a genius like Fitzgerald to determine your location. You are a dancer, after all, of course you would be here."

Duh. You mentally facepalmed. You should have assumed that already. Instead, your mind had first went to Angel Dust, guessing angrily that he had sold you out to the Radio Demon. But Angel was the closest thing to a genuine friend you had at the hotel, and despite your extreme distrust of people, objectively, now that you truly think about it, you don't see him doing that to you. The only person that can truly tolerate Alastor in that hotel is Charlie and Niffty.

"Fitzgerald?" you smirked. "God, you're old as shit. Of course you would bring him up. You were born in his time, weren't you?"

"I wouldn't be trying to insult me with one of the most influential authors in American literature in the twenties, dear [Y/N]," he retorted. "It's not exactly as impactful as you may think."

You rolled your eyes. "Okay. Cut the shit. What do you want, Alastor?"

"I'll tell you," began Alastor, his grin reaching his ears. "If you finish your dance."

You gave him a look as if saying "are you fucking serious." He only smiled more.

"Please," he added simply.

"Fine," you agreed sharply. You turned your back to him and prepared to dance, but he stopped you with a question.

"And I get to play along?" asked Alastor, gesturing to the grand piano in front of him. You rolled your eyes, saying again:

"Fine."

And so he began to play. It was awkward at first. You didn't recognize the piece initially, so it took you a moment to find your rhythm. You eyes lit up when you did realize what the song was however, and you found the beat and spun and leaped and moved to it like it was a second language. It came so easily for you, dance.