Author's Notes: Let me just say that I'm pleasantly surprised with how much attention this story has received. The wonderful Snefrev on tumblr drew a fantastic picture for this, which I put up as the cover for this (unless they would like me to take it down), but my cropping skills are atrocious so it's cut off, and Highinthe80s wrote a song for this story, which is also on my tumblr. So, very exciting all in all. Lol
Enjoy another update, though this one is a little more graphic.
~ . ~
Ain't nobody gonna love you like the Devil do;
ain't nobody gonna love you like the Devil do.
Well, I've been to church, and I declare,
that there ain't nothin' more to learn in there.
Ain't nobody gonna love you like the Devil do.
- Devil Do, Holly Golightly
~ . ~
Time was strange in Hell, in the sense that there wasn't any. It was all an illusion. After all, what was the point with telling time when you couldn't be late?
Late for eternal, unending damnation? Arthur wanted to laugh.
However, despite the lack of time in Hell, Arthur's wall clock only possessing the tick-ticking of a second hand promenading around a white circle, Arthur did like to set himself on a schedule of shifts. He did enjoy spending time out and about out of his claustrophobic little office, too, you know. And although he was the only Greeter for Hell, he did take these breaks frequently. What was the rush? He would just let the coming souls torture themselves with their own anxiety waiting for what was beyond his office door.
So when the clock chimed zero, Arthur gathered his coat with a smile and latched his door. He moved to lock the filing cabinet and hesitated when glancing down at his wastebasket below, nothing but the abandoned silver cross staring back at him.
He paused.
Thirty-six days of time above ground had passed since Alfred Jones ventured through these halls, red file causing Arthur a stutter in his weekly activities. Yes, Arthur encountered dozens upon hundreds of red files since becoming The Greeter, but Alfred's noble action itched at him in a very irritating way. He couldn't dump that putrid cross because of this incessant itching that bothered him at the most inopportune times.
After all, he was supposed to have his mind on his work! How else would he remain the best in his field, albeit the only one in his field?
Perhaps he was getting soft.
"As a marshmallow," Arthur grinned, shaking his head and proceeding to lock the cabinet. He draped his jacket over the bend of his elbow, switched the lights off, and exited the room. He was greeted with a symphony of wails around the clacking of his polished shoes on marble floor. It sounded like torment. It sounded like a song.
Arthur shut his eyes briefly and let his fingers dance through the air for a moment, caught up in this melody as much as a privileged family enjoyed the deep throated howls of music at the opera.
Before becoming The Greeter, Arthur did admit that he planned to apply for a position in the Sentencing Ward; however, he had an unnatural aversion to getting dirty, and he knew blood stained clothing (among other things). So, he picked a cleaner job with the same amount of pleasure gained from mental torture, leaving the physical to the boys upstairs.
"Good evening, Arthur," his associate said as she passed, smiling lipstick coated lips in his direction. He smiled back at her with a toothy leer.
"Good evening, Melissa. See you tomorrow evening."
She nodded and continued on her way, arms full of labels needing to be retouched for the thousands upon millions of doors in this facility. At the end of the hallway there was a golden elevator, buttons miles high up the wall. Beside them was a ladder, in case a soul needed to get to a particularly high floor. Arthur, however, resided in the basement of the building; the level where the paperwork took place. Only pencil pushers came down here, whereas everything above the lobby was for souls.
He stepped in the elevator, reveling at the thought that screams could permeate down to his floor from such heights. There was a soul escort waiting in the corner of the small cube, eyes black and face brooding. Arthur grinned at him.
"Evening, old chap. Are you having a terrible day?"
The attendant didn't respond, never did when Arthur inquired how his endless day was going. Still, Arthur was all about the appearance of manners and he would keep asking for all of eternity until he did procure an answer. He pressed the lobby button and waited, the box starting its ascent. His nose crinkled when hearing the low lull of music in the lift, wondering why all lifts had such terrible piano solo music. It wasn't like he came to work to be tortured.
Arthur stumbled when the contraption halted abruptly, lights flickering as if having a seizure. He caught himself, head tilted back to see the flashes of light and dark like lightening in the silk upholstered elevator, ceiling never visible from the floor.
"Having power troubles," rumbled the attendant offhandedly. Arthur blinked at him, considering this, before smiling.
"That's dreadful. Should I file a complaint?"
The attendant sighed through his nose and remained silent. Oh, Arthur hated to say that his best friend was such a Gloomy Gus; he could barely get a word out of him, let alone his name.
When the elevator ceased it's concerning groaning and began moving once more, Arthur paused when the last flickers of darkness stopped as well. And when the lobby door opened and a few individuals decided to enter, one climbing up the ladder by the buttons, Arthur mentally cursed and rolled his eyes, changing his mind at the last moment.
"Excuse me, sir," Arthur said pleasantly, smiling at the man climbing the ladder. He glanced down at Arthur as he said, "Would you be a dear and hit level six before scaling that wall? I'm afraid my hands are full at the moment."
The man nodded and retreated four prongs, tapping the button at Arthur's eyelevel before resuming his task of climbing. The elevator doors shut and Arthur turned back with raised eyebrows and another smile towards the attendant. "I am being fickle, aren't I? But I'd like to see something before checking out this evening."
The attendant said nothing and Arthur felt his eyes wrinkling around the edges in amusement. His best friend was such a hoot.
In no time the lift chimed and Arthur exited the cube, making his way down the doors upon doors of regretting souls. It would take a while to find Alfred's room, for every room number had a corresponding letter with it. The entire alphabet was used to accommodate the plethora of souls that came through, and Alfred's room was 6C.
"The boy wants to give me a hernia," Arthur muttered, sharp green eyes scanning the numbers on the walls. He caught eyes with a woman through the glass window of her door, her eyes dripping wet and face contorted in an ugly manner. He smiled and waved, continuing past her like a stranger on the street would.
"6A, 6B, 6C. Well, that was an adventure," Arthur announced, standing in front of a metal slab of black steel, contrary to the other doors, all coated gray. The door had no window on it, differing to most. Above the room number was a plaque scrawled with black print: Black Room. Indeed it was. With a deep breath, Arthur rapped his knuckles twice against the door and waited. He knew he would receive no response, but manners were manners.
"Alfred, lad, you have a visitor," Arthur said, removing his all-purpose key from his coat pocket. There were eight individuals in the building who possessed one, and Arthur would've been lying if he didn't feel quite an exhilarating authority when holding it. No room was out of his reach.
The lock rolled and clicked and then Arthur was in utter blackness. There was no sound or movement from inside, and Arthur bobbed his head to the side in understanding at that. Over a month's time that Alfred had been used to passed. Who knew what he had experienced since then.
Arthur shut the door and felt along the wall. "I'm going to turn some lights on, but I don't want you to go blind while I'm here. That's not my place to enact torment. I'm going to get you some glasses, alright?" He kept his voice pleasant, so not to spook the boy. He wondered briefly if Alfred remembered him at all by this point.
He certainly remembered Alfred.
Arthur's fingers brushed up against something wet on a metal table, an object falling over the side with a clang. He retracted his hand and grimaced when it came back coated in something. Wonderful.
Eventually, with some ungraceful stumbling around, Arthur did locate some goggles and a light switch. He found Alfred sitting in a chair somewhere in the room, and the boy flinched when Arthur's fingers lightly touched his hair. A mewl was Arthur's greeting and he patted Alfred gently, running his fingers through matted locks to soothe him enough to place the glasses over his eyes.
"There, there. They're shaded. Now, I'm going to turn the lights on, so this might sting a little, even with those on. I don't know how often they let you see the light in here, but one can't be too careful," Arthur said, venturing over towards the left side of the room and feeling around for the switch once more. He found it and counted to three, pulling it up and squinted when met with incandescent light that bombarded his vision.
Alfred groaned loudly, dipping his head down so his chin met his chest, twitching every now and then while he sucked a quick breath through his nose. The goggles must not have been effective enough.
"Terribly sorry, lad. I can't help it, though. It will only be for a few moments," reassured Arthur, raising his eyebrows when observing the blonde across from him.
There was a tarp on the ground, most likely recently changed, considering the amount of stains on it were minimal. Off to the side were two metal carts with various tools on it. Arthur noticed a tray used for collecting blood so it didn't drip everywhere, swiping his tongue over his teeth in disapproval when he realized that that was where his hand had been.
Arthur's eyes traced Alfred's figure, the lone person in the room, sitting in a wooden chair with a, what appeared to be white once, cloth gagging his mouth, sweat and grime coating his tanned flesh. His previously golden hair looked dirty and almost brown, and Arthur gave another sigh of displeasure when he noticed his hand was there, too. He needed to wash thoroughly tonight.
Alfred was devoid of a shirt, but there was a black band wrapped around his midsection that helped to hold him to the chair, resting just above the hem of his jeans and right below his pectorals. He approached Alfred slowly and stood in front of the shivering boy with a frown, lowering his eyelids.
"That must hurt more than the light, I presume."
Alfred simply continued to shiver, head never rising from his chest.
"I would unlatch it for you, but I don't wish to be where you're sitting anymore. I'm afraid you'll just have to bear with the needles for now until they remove it."
Arthur knew the Black Room associates fancied needlework quite a bit; sewing skin into quilts, perforating harsh areas like bizarre acupuncture, skewering. The list went on, though Arthur hardly saw reason for the obsession with it. Alfred, nonetheless, was sporting some of the clothing here. Thick, Velcro-like straps smooth on one side but prickled with needles on the other. It was like a form-fitting Iron Maiden.
Bringing back the classics, Arthur wanted to snort.
"Feel thrilled! Most souls don't get visitors," Arthur said amiably, bending down to grasp Alfred's chin and remove the gag. Alfred let out a choked breath, gasping for air and leaning his cheek into Arthur's palm, most likely clinging for some form of human contact after all this time. Well, human-esque.
Blue eyes squinted at him through the shades and Alfred scowled, the indignation there marring his once innocent face. "Yeah, I'm real fuckin' grateful," he mumbled, voice raw and hoarse.
Arthur smiled at him, hand rubbing soothing patterns over his temple, his sideburn. "You should be."
Alfred watched Arthur suspiciously, shaking breaths wracking his form, each no doubt hurting like a bitch with that band around his midsection. Every now and then a whine would leave his lips and Arthur clicked his tongue against his teeth distastefully. The sound wasn't relatively as satisfying coming from Alfred's mouth, a soul of pure, well, purity.
"Do you remember me?" Arthur inquired quietly, genuinely curious as his eyes searched Alfred's. Alfred struggled to pull in air, the task of focusing his vision appearing to be a difficult task in its own right when under this much physical agitation. For a minute Arthur thought Alfred's time in the Black Room had completely faded his memory of his brief period in the greeting office, then Alfred surprised him and furrowed his brow.
"The guy – the guy with the water cooler," he affirmed, his teeth painted a pinkish hue from the lingering blood in his spit.
Arthur grinned. "Bravo. I commend your mental ability to keep me in mind after all this time."
"What do you want?" Alfred breathed, breath hitching with another low moan of discomfort, his shoulders trembling. Arthur could see the small amount of hope pooling behind his eyes, grasping on to the concept that perhaps Arthur had come to declare there was a mistake in the paperwork; that this was all just a nightmare that he could be released from.
Oh, Arthur grew tired of hope. Hope was not something useful in a place like this.
"You may find this amusing –" Arthur paused when Alfred shot him a weak glare. "Or maybe you won't. I'm not even sure myself why I'm here. I suppose just to check in on you; see how you're fairing. I don't come across many souls who are willing to sacrifice themselves for an unselfish cause. It crossed my mind that you may react differently to your sentencing than the others, who really have all the reason in the world to be here."
Arthur let Alfred alone as his pain-addled mind tried to compute what he had just heard. He was intrigued at how well he could see the gears shifting in Alfred's head with mere facial expressions alone. Arthur saw the exact moment when it clicked.
"Guinea pig . . ."
Arthur slowly shook his head. "No. That's not quite right. To assume I see you as a guinea pig would imply that I somehow lured you to sign your soul away. I did no such thing, I'll have you know. Call it unhindered curiosity. You're one of a kind, lad."
Down the hall a long cry rang out, echoing even into this closed off room. Alfred winced, eyes moving to the door. Arthur brushed a strand of hair that was poking his eye out of the way when Alfred's eyes became misty.
"Sure doesn't feel like that," he choked, shutting his eyes and taking another shaking breath.
"Shh, now. Don't cry," Arthur said, though he knew he was terrible at soothing people when he couldn't find it in him to be genuine.
"I make noises like that," Alfred gasped, muscles in his neck straining when moving too much in the band. "I don't – I get this different, but I hurt like them. It hurts like everyone else."
Arthur awkwardly shifted, wiping the trailing tears from Alfred's cheeks with his thumbs. Pushing the goggles up into his hair when Alfred closed his eyes, his fingers smudged the filth on his face.
"That is not true. You hurt worse than them," Arthur said. And even though the light must've stung like acid, building a headache in Alfred's skull, he looked at Arthur in bewilderment.
Arthur smiled softly. "You're selfless and you fascinate me, Alfred Jones."
Arthur marveled when Alfred managed to cry harder.
The funny thing about Hell was that it was always evening. There, of course, wasn't a sun to supply light, so it was impossible to have an absence of something rise and set. However, there was always a red glow in the sky, much like twilight on the earth, painting the buildings and surroundings in a smolder that resembled a low sunset. So, when Arthur would come visit Alfred in the Black Room periodically, Alfred would never understand the greeting.
"What time is it?" Alfred asked, sweat lining his forehead while he stared at Arthur, who was leaning against the wall, fiddling with his tie. He smiled languidly, raising an eyebrow at the boy in the center of the room.
"It's evening," Arthur commented.
Alfred attempted to wet his dried lips, trying to comprehend. "Y-you said yesterday that you were coming here before work when you left." Alfred's voice was confused and rough. Arthur suspected that he had been screaming recently since he left to go home last evening.
"I've told you this three times, lad. Are you starting to forget my words?" Arthur asked, his tone light and airy, contrary to Alfred's. It had been a week and a half, if Arthur was keeping track right, that he started his occasional routine of visiting Alfred when the mood struck him. They were brief visits and they talked about nothing in particular, Arthur's mind on much bigger things such as Alfred's life above and what made his mind tick, and Alfred, well, Alfred's was usually on not throwing up. But Arthur had to reluctantly admit that these visits were starting to become . . . enjoyable. Or, rather, the closest thing Arthur could feel to enjoyment aside from guiding those to torment and misery.
"No. It just doesn't make sense to me," Alfred said around the lump in his throat. His goggles kept sliding to the end of his nose, causing Arthur to grin and push them back up.
"It doesn't have to. It just is."
"Doesn't that – shit. God, son of a –" Alfred said, gritting his teeth when he pulled his arm too suddenly, a splash of crimson hitting the tarp. Arthur flinched, hating whenever Alfred spoke the G-word, but choosing to remain silent until Alfred stopped his writhing. "Doesn't that make it hard to sleep?" he finished, winded.
"I don't sleep, Alfred. One of the joys of being me," Arthur said, strolling over to the metal table and wringing a rag in the bucket of water and bringing it back to wipe up Alfred's arm. He gingerly dabbed at the wound there, steel wool woven in intricate patterns that were fascinating in a macabre sort of way.
"Then why do you go home?" Alfred asked, eyes studying Arthur's movements.
"To develop a sense of normalcy, of course!" Arthur said, eyes bright as they met disapproving blue. He remained thrilled that Alfred's eyes still possessed that look that he had back on his first day in Hell. It was a little foggy, much like a television with too much static, but the idea was still the same.
Alfred snorted. "You can never be normal."
Arthur mimicked pulling a knife from his side. "Ouch. You wound me, boy." When the cloth was soaked red, Arthur ventured back to the bucket to wash it off. "I'd like to think if I pretend hard enough I will be one day. But that is an aspiration to never be obtained."
"Is that why – why you act so phony?" Alfred asked, causing Arthur to hesitate. His smile dropped and he shifted his torso to watch Alfred as he struggled to stay upright in the chair without disturbing his hurts.
"I am not phony."
Alfred rolled his eyes. "Please. You're making it worse when you s-smile like that or say apologies that you don't mean. Half the shit you do is fake."
Arthur pursed his lips, tapping his shoe against the linoleum in the thrum of a heartbeat. If Alfred thought he had struck a nerve it was gone when Arthur smiled. "Do not mistake my intrigue in you souls with kindness. I merely do those things to make a soul's acceptance of its fate that much faster. Besides, I have no choice. I'm a gentleman, after all."
"Gentleman, huh?" Alfred mumbled under a light exhale. He stared at his stained, worn-down sneakers while Arthur shuffled about.
"Oh, this water is an atrocity," Arthur complained abruptly.
"They don't change it," Alfred explained, nose crinkling at the thought of his first infection from contact with that filthy liquid. Why change it anyway? Alfred wondered. Just another way to inflict him with pain. That was why he was here, wasn't it?
"Disgusting. That is simply pure laziness."
Alfred blinked, carrying his vision to his companion, who proceeded to dump the thick, browned jelly-like substance into a large can filled with discarded objects no longer useable. He felt the once familiar pull of skin around his eyes and nose, indicating shock. He hadn't felt shocked by anything in this room for weeks.
Arthur filled the tub up with clean water from a hose connected to the wall, then moved to kneel beside Alfred's chair, rag scrubbing at the grime on his skin.
"This is repulsing," he criticized when dipping the cloth back into the water, frown prevalent when seeing how quickly the water changed color.
"Wh-what are you doing?" Alfred asked in awe.
"Getting rid of this rubbish."
"Why?"
Arthur regarded him as if he were a moron. "Because it's disgusting," he stated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Alfred briefly pondered if this . . . whatever he was had OCD.
"Jesus Christ, you're supposed to be hurting me, not helping me!" he shrieked, hating how this was much worse than having steel wool braided into his skin like nauseating body art. Arthur said it wasn't kindness but it sure felt that way. Alfred didn't want kindness. Kindness brought with it its ugly family; yearning, hope, mercy, unbearable agony when gone unfulfilled.
Arthur flinched violently, his nails digging into the sensitive flesh of Alfred's arm, causing him to arch his back with a gasp. Green eyes hardened in a serious gaze, hand halting its movements. "Please refrain from cursing. I've ask you many times and it is starting to become rude."
Alfred sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and glared back. "Go to Hell."
Arthur grinned a grin that could rival the Cheshire Cat, eyes narrowing into little crescent moons. "Already there, love, and I must say that I'm having a ball."
Alfred didn't say anymore, just silently letting Arthur's nimble hands scrub him clean. Every touch, every attentive stroke, every fleck of grime leaving him felt like Heaven's breath. He would take what sympathy he could get when he could get it, and right now a semi-sponge bath from a careless servant of Hell was like winning the lottery. And all the while, in the back of his mind, he imagined how happy and healthy his brother was.
He thought about what he had given up so that his brother could live.
"Hello. Welcome to Hell. Name, please."
"L-L-L –"
"Now, now. Nothing to worry about. Well, nothing while in this room. What is your name?" Arthur coaxed, eyeing the short woman quivering in front of his desk. She appeared ready to faint. Arthur ran his finger over the corner of his pristine desk that had cost him an arm and a leg to get while he waited. Luckily not his arm or leg, he thought with a chuckle.
Arthur blinked when just noticing a darkening of his carpet around her ankles and grimaced with a tsk. He loathed when their bladders gave out.
"Name, please," he rushed.
"L-Lucy Naka-Nak-Nakamura," the girl hiccupped, burying her face in her hands and starting to wail uncontrollably. Arthur pursed his lips, reeling back slightly when she collapsed on the floor to her knees.
"Yes, I'm very sorry for your – Oh, never mind. Let me locate your file. Feel free to partake in a candy," said Arthur, going through his filing cabinet and sighing with an eye-roll at each high pitched screech. In no time, her file was in hand, and Arthur perused it just as quickly.
"Miss Nakamura. Lucy, dear, would you please get off the floor. I need you to be a good lass and fill out some paperwork."
As Lucy continued to pay no attention to Arthur's polite requests, causing a migraine to form at the base of his skull, a tap-tapping was at his door, someone's head poking in. The blonde male Arthur knew, and didn't particularly care for, was Francis, his eyebrows raising at the messy spectacle at Arthur's feet.
"Am I interrupting something?" he asked innocently.
"What do you want?" Arthur asked, words clipped. His patience dried up when his perfectly quaint office started reeking of asparagus.
Francis had the audacity to grin and beckon Arthur with a flick of his wrist. "I have a personal matter to discuss with you."
"Can't it wait?"
Francis gave a crooked smile to the woman on the floor, obviously past the point of caring about dignity when she pleaded, "I'm sorry, sorry. I don't want to be here. I'll do anything you want, just please."
"Why? Is this urgent?"
Arthur blew a terse breath from his nostrils and shut the file on his desk, standing briskly and placing it in a drawer before locking it. As he stepped around the desk to move towards Francis, Lucy latched onto his leg and he bristled, her fingers playing rather high on his inner thigh.
"Anything," she sobbed, dark eyes full of fear and desperation. He understood her insinuation when she pressed her body to his leg. Predictable lot, damned souls were.
Arthur put on his plastic smile and plied her fingers from his nice suit, stepping over the urine stain on his once red carpet. "I apologize for this inconvenience, Miss Nakamura. I won't be but a moment. I hope you forgive me. Perhaps when I return you could be collected enough to finish your sentencing swimmingly, hm?"
When the door clicked shut Arthur spun on the elder male, eyes intent and irritated. "I'm very busy. What personal matter could not wait until I leave?"
Francis laughed. "Straight to the point, aren't you? Where is your –"
"Francis," he hissed testily. Francis sighed and brushed a strand of silken hair from his face, eyes gazing uncomfortably at the welcome sign above Arthur's door.
"A little birdy told me that you were visiting the upper levels."
Arthur paused, annoyance deflating as his posture took on a more defensive stance. He smiled when Francis looked disapprovingly at him. "Who told you that?"
"Are you?"
Arthur didn't even know where to begin with where Francis could've heard something foolish like that. He worked in the lobby with all of those other detestable oafs who couldn't deal with souls on a face-to-face level. Probably that Ivan galute saw him meandering the sixth floor where he resided. Lucifer knows it wasn't his best friend gossiping about him, though he was known to be a chatterbox.
"And if I was?"
Francis looked as if he was expecting it to be a lie, but with Arthur's tone that beckoned him to threaten him, his expression shifted to consternation. "Arthur, I don't need to tell someone like you what could happen if word gets out to the wrong individuals. You aren't supposed to have any contact with the souls after they leave your office," Francis warned.
Arthur smirked. "I have a key that says otherwise."
"You have a key because you have access to their files," corrected the blonde. Arthur scoffed, indignant an action as it was.
"What? Did you come all the way down here to tattle on me?" Arthur asked, though the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end when thinking of what would happen if he were to do so. He didn't need an incident like last time . . .
Francis's shoulders slumped, rubbing a hand over his mouth and shutting his eyes briefly. "I don't want to. I just wanted to make it clear . . ."
He needn't say anymore, for Arthur knew the implication.
"Right. I see what you're saying. Now, if you don't mind, I have a soul to damn rolling about my carpet that I'd like out of my office in the next ten seconds."
Francis looked like he wanted to protest but then shooed Arthur away, sighing heavily for drama alone. Arthur nodded his goodbye and turned the knob, met with more screams as he entered inside.
He smiled when he continued his day, seeing hundreds of faces regarding him with contempt and fear. Souls came and went, pleaded and cursed, but this only made Arthur's body buzz with more anticipation. He did not get another red file since Alfred, nor had he seen the same look in another soul's eyes since that boy had passed through his door.
He glanced at the black phone mounted on his wall, only one number to dial if anything were to go wrong. His palms started to sweat just thinking about getting a ring from that phone, knowing what the implications were. With Francis's warning in the back of his mind, Arthur departed that evening and visited the sixth floor.
And he continued to gladly go the next day and the next and the next just for spite.