Little Moments

Someone was touching him. Hands ghosted around his hips as they guided him somewhere. He could feel himself moving, but he wasn't walking. Oh god; the world spun as he was lifted off his feet and, although moved very slowly and gently, a wave of nausea still threatened to burn his throat as he felt bile climbing from his stomach. A low whine escaped him as he pressed his head against something, and it helped the spinning slow down a little. He could hear someone murmuring to him, but his brain didn't pick up the words as his eyes fluttered and his ears pressed down against his head. The slightest movement was nauseating, and it felt like he was in a rocking boat with every step that whoever was holding him took. He wanted so badly to sleep, but while his whole body was protesting and feeling like it was pressing down on itself, he felt an imposing sense of fear flood through him. What would happen once he closed his eyes? The space between his legs was aching and wet, and he hated to think about what had just happened in the dark and dank alleyway. However, he couldn't help it when his eyes fluttered shut for just a second too long, and then he was out like a light.

That had been a little over a few days ago, but the memory still made Alastor's smile twitch and his ears lay back. He stood in front of his full length mirror, gazing at the same outfit that he had worn that eventful night. It was one of his signatures, and he had been working himself up since then to wear it again, but he couldn't get the feeling of phantom hands roaming his hips and his thighs as the coat swished gently in the light breeze of his room. He felt like his feet were glued to the floor, and despite his mouth starting to go dry, he couldn't part his lips. He swallowed thickly and looked down at the floor, shaking his head to rid himself of the mindset that was trying to fog over the memory and let him forget it. He could find other ways to distract himself from his dreadful thoughts, but he couldn't bear the thought of going out into the lobby in the mindset of an eight year old that felt like someone had waved off their grand attempt at art.

A soft frown overtook his tight smile and, shit. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. A low whine came from the back of his throat. No! He couldn't let himself sink into the little mindset. He'd make an utter fool of himself. Big, teary red eyes tracked across the room and landed on something white and pink. His head felt disconnected from his body as he reached out for the soft, fluffy toy. It was something menial that Angel Dust had gifted him one Valentine's Day. It meant nothing, but Alastor had been the only one to receive it from the spider, and he couldn't stop the way his heart swelled and a happy keen escaped him as he hugged the little plush. Maybe, Angel Dust could help him with this. After all, the porn star had put up with a lot of it himself from his boss's actions. Alastor huffed to himself as he rid himself of his current outfit and pulled on something more comfortable. The cotton of the red sweater he pulled over his head felt warm, and he let the sleeves hang over his hands instead of rolling them up. He bit the inside of his cheek as he looked at himself in the mirror again; he hated it. Intrusive thoughts swarmed every corner of his mind as he stared at himself acting like a little kid. Angel Dust would surely be disgusted and ashamed of him if he showed up behaving like this. Alastor would never be able to live it down if the spider demon decided to expose him to the rest of the hotel's residents. Crocodile tears tracked down his cheeks again, and a little sniffle came from him as he rubbed at his eyes with his too-long sleeves and bit at the fabric to muffle his crying.

'Well, you have to do something!' His thoughts snapped at him as he looked between the mirror and the door. He couldn't just stand there and pity himself or he'd up a sobbing mess curled into a ball on the bed, and, even though no one would see it, that would be a big hit to his pride. Everything felt like too much. The one decision he had to make was weighing down on his shoulders, making his breathing pick up, and his chest start hurting. Why couldn't he just decide? His hoof hit the floor as he stomped in frustration, and he blinked down at it. Did he really just stomp like a child having a temper tantrum? His head was starting to hurt now. Ah, what to do, what to do.