You and Alastor were certainly… a pair.

You’d known one another for years—long enough to read each other fluently, long enough to have been something more. Not that either of you ever spoke of it now. It was the 1930s, after all, and some things were better left buried beneath politeness and silence.

Tonight, however, discretion had long since been abandoned.

The two of you were pressed into the shadows of a narrow alley, both drunk and furious. Your hands fisted in his suit jacket, fingers tangling in his neatly kept hair as you slammed him back against the brick wall hard enough to rattle his breath. The impact knocked a sharp sound from him—half hiss, half laugh.

Alastor bit down on his lower lip, a sharp fang nicking the skin. A thin line of blood welled up, quickly wiped away with his thumb, eyes gleaming with something dangerously bright.

You could barely remember how the argument had started—only that it had escalated fast, fueled by alcohol, old resentment, and things neither of you ever said sober.

And frankly, you didn’t care.

“You idiot…!” you snarled, voice slurred but venomous. “You—Bayou Butcher—”

The insult barely finished leaving your mouth before Alastor struck you. His fist connected with your face sharply, your nose bleeding almost immediately—but the pain barely registered before he had you pinned beneath him instead, the roles reversing in a blur of motion.

He loomed over you, gloved hand pressing you back against the damp ground, posture immaculate even now. His smile returned—crooked, amused, and far too calm for the situation.

“Funny how you point fingers, my darling Nightlife Knife,” Alastor murmured, voice low and silk-smooth despite the bite of his words. “Such colorful accusations, coming from you.”

There was unmistakable amusement in his eyes as he regarded your drunken fury—like this was all terribly entertaining to him.

And perhaps, in some twisted way… it was.