cupid clearly hates me.

[ 20 ]

You would say that the quietness in the air was unusual—and it was, considering that there was usually an ambient bustling noise emitting from the city that wafted over the woods like the pungent smell of freshly cooked food—but you were steadily adapting to the silence that was always with you when you sat in Alastor's house, or when you walked through the thicket of trees with him. It was becoming familiar, and nearly comforting, to hear absolutely nothing while standing by his side.

At the moment, neither of you were making conversation. You savored the silence, drinking it up like it was an icy glass of water at two o'clock in the morning. Alastor led you along a non-existent path through the woods, his left hand entwined with yours in a hold that stood as a symbol of unconditional positive regard.

When you looked up at him—and he back at you—you consciously noticed that he was grinning.

"Hey, Alastor?"

"What is it, sweetheart?"

"Why are you always smiling?"

"Because you're never fully dressed without a smile." His grin widened, but something else about his expression changed that made you think deeper about his response. It was his eyes; they had thinned a bit, as if he was trying to remember something.

"Right, but what made you realize that?" you questioned further. "Like, where along your timeline did you start constantly smiling?"

Alastor sighed. You thought that maybe he had predicted the arrival of this specific conversation. "I smile because of my mom," he confessed, his eyes taking on a shimmer similar to one that could be found in a guilty puppy's pleading gaze.

"Why her?"

"She told me that you're never fully dressed without a smile." He paused. "Before she died, of course."

You remembered how Alastor had dodged the topic of his mother last time it was brought up in conversation. The moment was clear to you, a crystalized memory frozen in your mind. The two of you had been sitting at his dinner table, and his voice had softened and his eyes had sparkled, and he had said, "That is another story for another time, my dear."

Maybe now would be the time he finally told you that story.

"What happened to her?" You squeezed his hand tighter, securing your grip on him as if he could run away at any moment, like a frightened deer in the middle of a deep forest.

"She died when I was quite young. Young enough to not fully understand, but old enough to have the mental scar of lost love remain on my heart for years to come." He stared ahead at the trees before him. "She was ruthlessly murdered by an old-friend-turned-psychopath."

"Oh no."

"Yes, that's how it went. Not only was she murdered, but she was kidnapped and tortured before her miserable life was finally put to an end."

His story was steadily turning more and more grave, and at first, you didn't quite know how to react. You cringed and looked down at the forest floor, which appeared darker than it had only moments ago. "Shit, Alastor, I'm sorry—"

"Shall we go visit Charlie and her chipper group of friends at the Hazbin Hotel? I think that would be nice."

You were stuck for a moment, the remaining half of your sentence still sitting in the back of your throat like a held breath.