Static That Slowly Burns

CHAPTER TWO - STRINGS AND STATIC

Hell’s sky was permanently red, but tonight it felt darker — as if the clouds themselves sensed the shift between the two demons walking beneath them.

Lucifer led Alastor through the twisting corridors of his palace, each hallway grander and more ominous than the last. The marble floors reflected their silhouettes: Lucifer’s tall and graceful, Alastor’s perfectly upright, his cane clicking rhythmically in defiance of every step.

“Your palace is as gaudy as ever,” Alastor remarked lightly.

Lucifer chuckled. “And you’re as mouthy as ever.”

“Blessing and a curse,” Alastor replied.

“Mostly a curse,” Lucifer said, glancing back with a smirk.

Alastor’s static hissed faintly — a warning, a twitch, irritation bleeding through his control. But the contract mark under his ribs still burned from earlier, a pulsing reminder of the chain linking him to Lucifer’s will.

The memory of that burning touch made his smile sharpen, strained.

He hated that Lucifer could make him feel anything at all.

They entered a tall chamber lit by chandeliers dripping with black candles. The room was empty except for the two of them — intentionally so. Lucifer shut the door behind them with a soft click.

Alastor arched a brow. “Privacy? How suspicious.”

Lucifer walked past him, but his fingers grazed Alastor’s wrist in passing — light, accidental, deliberate.

“It’s necessary,” Lucifer answered. “I have work for you. Work that requires your… unique methods.”

Alastor tilted his head. “You have many demons at your disposal.”

“Not like you.”

Something in Lucifer’s tone made Alastor’s stomach coil — a blend of flattery and threat, fascination and ownership. He despised how it prickled along his nerves.

Lucifer came to stand in front of him, close enough that Alastor could count the faint cracks of exhaustion around his eyes — a millennium of leadership wearing on a being too powerful to break but brittle in strange, quiet ways.

“You’re going to assist me,” Lucifer said simply.

“And if I decline?” Alastor asked sweetly.

Lucifer’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You won’t.”

The contract mark surged, heat blooming across Alastor’s chest. He inhaled sharply, fingers twitching against his cane.

“Stop—”
The word slipped out unintentionally.

Lucifer’s expression softened — dangerously so.
He stepped closer, lifting a hand but not touching, hovering near Alastor’s cheek as if daring him to flinch.

“Then don’t provoke it,” Lucifer murmured.

A beat. Silence thick enough to choke on.

Alastor forced his smile wider. “You enjoy this far too much.”

“You have no idea.”

Lucifer’s hand finally touched him — a single finger sliding along Alastor’s jawline. Not tender. Not affectionate. Assessing. Claiming.

Alastor held perfectly still, but static crackled at the edges of his vision. He wasn’t used to being touched. He wasn’t used to being handled. Not like this.

“You detest me,” Lucifer whispered.

“With every fiber of my being,” Alastor said smoothly.

“And yet…” Lucifer leaned in, his forehead nearly brushing Alastor’s. “You react.”

Alastor felt the burn of the contract pulse again, as if responding to Lucifer’s proximity.
He cursed internally — it made him feel unsteady, unbalanced, painfully aware.

His voice came out low, dangerous:
“You mistake contract magic for emotion.”

“Do I?” Lucifer’s voice dipped. “You’re trembling.”

Alastor stiffened. “I am not.”

Lucifer slid a hand to the back of Alastor’s neck. The contact sent a jolt through him — not fear, not desire, not rage… something worse. A blend of all three.

“Tell me,” Lucifer said softly, “do you regret signing?”

Alastor wanted to lie. He wanted to sneer, to threaten, to laugh in Lucifer’s face.

But all he said was:
“No.”

Lucifer’s eyes flashed — triumph and something almost warm.

The king released him abruptly.

“Good,” he said, turning away. “Because I’m not finished with you.”

Alastor exhaled slowly, regaining his composure. His grin slid back into place like a locked door.

“Very well,” he said. “What task brings me here?”

Lucifer approached a large table covered in maps, sigils, and scattered sketches — strange, whimsical, out-of-place drawings of ducks among them.

“You’re going to help me secure stability in the Western Ring,” Lucifer said. “An overlord there thinks himself bold enough to challenge my sovereignty.”

Alastor’s eyes gleamed. “Ah. And you want someone who understands… creative persuasion.”

Lucifer smirked. “Precisely.”

Alastor folded his hands behind his back. “And when this is over? What then?”

Lucifer stepped closer again — always closing the distance, never allowing space.

“Then,” Lucifer said, “you stay close to me.”

“Because you need me,” Alastor guessed.

Lucifer shook his head, voice low:
“Because I want you.”

The room fell silent.

Static roared in Alastor’s mind.

Enemies. Bound. Circling each other.

Lucifer extended his hand again — not commanding this time, but inviting.
A choice layered over a contract. A challenge layered over destiny.

Alastor stared at the offered hand.

He hated him.

He wanted to break him.

He wanted—
No. He refused to name that feeling.

But he took the hand anyway.

Lucifer’s fingers curled around his with unmistakable satisfaction.

“Come, Radio Demon,” Lucifer purred. “We have work to do.”

Alastor smiled — sharp enough to cut.

“Lead the way, your majesty.”