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Angel doesn’t know why he’s doing this; not really. Not when the grumpy bartender has made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t like Angel Dust. But that’s all he knows how to be, really. Every part of him has always been a mask.
Tony: he was a mess. Little mafia boy who carried out orders with emotions shoved so far deep into him they no longer existed. Yeah, he was skinny and tall and easily looked over as someone weak, but that’s what made him useful. Underestimating him made it easy for Tony to pull out hits. It made it easier for Tony to get more drugs and alcohol. It made it even easier for Tony to kill himself; after all, no emotions meant no regret as he snorted more coke and shot up more heroin than anyone with a will to live would ever consider doing. Tony died when his body did.
Anthony: well, that was a mixture of two different people. The Anthony who lived had emotions but was still hiding himself, was still someone who wished he could be someone else. Anthony learned how to cook with his Mama and sister. He would walk around Brooklyn with his head up high and flirt with anyone who would give him the time of day. Anthony was the one who would sneak into Molly’s room late at night for impromptu sleepovers. Anthony was the little boy who played around with his sister's makeup and paid for cheap wigs and would dress up in his twin’s clothes. He was the one who would sneak into clubs he would be murdered for if he was ever caught. Anthony was also the one who woke up in the literal depths of Hell.
Dead Anthony: he was similar to Living Anthony. He would flirt with all the demons around him, dress in drag, and perform like it was his last night. He taught himself all types of performances; from silly little feather shows to the pole to singing to raunchy videos, Anthony did it all. He did it for attention, for love. This Anthony was probably the most real he has ever been. He wasn’t afraid of the consequences of being a queer. He was already dead and in Hell, what else could happen? He liked the attention and liked being able to be a drag queen and liked being able to kiss men without getting shot or stabbed or otherwise harmed brutally. This Anthony was the one whose emotions really showed. This Anthony was so desperate for love that he believed a shitty moth as he drank in his poisonous words and smoke and dreams for the future. This Anthony was so desperate for love-- so in love-- that he signed a soul-binding contract. Anthony died again with his pink signature on a golden scroll, a malicious smile right beside it.
Angel Dust: he’s alive and well. Or, as alive as one can be when they’re already dead and as well as one can be when they’re damned for literal eternity. But Husk is right, all of him is fake. From the clothing he wears to the way his fur is meticulously placed, Angel Dust isn’t doing it for himself. It’s for his reputation, for his fame, but most of all, it’s for Valentino, who would rather maul Angel Dust halfway to his double death than be seen in a bad light. And Angel Dust is Valentino’s prime money-maker. He’s the one Valentino takes everywhere and shows off like a brand-new accessory. So Angel Dust is the one who has to look perfect at all times.
And Husker is right, Angel Dust is the most fake he’s ever been. Flirting isn’t fun anymore, neither is sex, performing, or drag. It’s all a job. It’s all done to make his boss more money.
So he really can’t figure out why he’s trying so hard; why he’s getting dressed in his most Valentino-glamorous dress and putting on makeup that makes his eyes dip into a sultry type of look. But he can’t help himself. Something is dragging him to the cat. Like Husk has a fishing pole and Angel is the fish caught on the hook. There’s no escaping the feelings that come with it. And if Angel’s way of dealing with his feelings is seducing men into his bed then that’s something he’ll have to work on. After he gets Husk in his bed. Because then the feelings should go away. Right?
And who cares if Husk hates this version of him, anyway? It’s the only version of him left. It’s the only version he knows how to be. It’s the only version that has survived. It’s the version everyone else loves most. So maybe Husk is the problem.
So why is Angel doing this? So Husk can finally, truly reject him? So Angel and Husk can stop doing this song and dance; this will-they-won’t-they waltz? So Angel’s fragile heart can finally stop beating erratically around some oddly intelligent drunk bastard?
And with the thought of his feelings, not quite fully formed, Angel leaves his room with Fat Nuggets cuddled on his luxurious bed probably not meant for a little hellborn pig. And Angel struts down the newly formed staircase to the newly built bar and to the not-so-new demon standing behind it.
“Hey Husky,” Angel purrs, leaning against the bar, forward so his chest fluff can artfully drape out slightly. He rests his chin on his primary set of arms while his secondary set rests on his hips.
The barkeep startles slightly. He must have been in a drunken daze, considering his askew hat and twitchy wings. He gives Angel the quickest glance-over possible, some of his fur standing up at his choice of apparel. Or maybe it’s the pose. Or the knowing-smirk-that-isn’t-actually-knowing-at-all.
Husk wants to glare, Angel can tell, but he doesn’t. Instead, he rights the hat so it’s no longer as tilted and stands a bit straighter. “Valentino call you in?” he asks.
If Angel wanted to try, he could detect some frustration in Husk’s tone. But he doesn’t know if it’s directed toward Angel or Husk or Valentino or Alastor or anyone else who could be making Husk’s afterlife even more difficult. So, Angel doesn’t let it phase him and does his best to ignore it. Instead, he bites his lip, letting it pull in a way the camera loves. “All this,” one of his secondary arms comes up to gesture and then caresses down his body, “is for you, baby.”
Husk scoffs, rolls his eyes, and focuses his attention on the already-shining bartop. The rag he’s halfheartedly thrown over his shoulder comes to his hand and he scrubs the top like it’s sticky and disgusting and old, not brand new with only a few dozen drinks having been served on it.
Angel doesn’t let this distract him, though. He has a mission. And yeah, it’s self-destructive, but the feelings are getting in the way of his work. He’s been more distracted, more often thinking and daydreaming how different Husk would do things rather than how his costar is actually doing things. And it’s different from his dissociation, where Angel goes through the motions but not actually in his body. Recently, he’s been in his body scowling and flinching and not being the perfect little toy Valentino expects from him. So, yeah, Angel needs to do this. “Come’n kitty,” Angel bats his eyes, hoping they’re glowing and sparkling in the new bar lights, “don’t you wanna unwrap your present? I got all dolled up,” he starts to trail one of his primary arms up one of Husk’s own, “just,” a poke on his shoulder, “for,” one on his cheek, “you,” a final one, right on the tip of Husk’s cute little nose.
Husk’s nose twitches like he needs to sneeze. He pushes Angel away from him and rubs at his face like Angel is dirty. Maybe because he is dirty. Angel can’t blame Husk for thinking that way, he thinks it himself too many times for it to be untrue.
A deep sigh escapes the winged cat. “What’d you take?” Husk asks, still gently rubbing at his nose.
Angel pulls back in an overdramatic gasp, both his left arms over his heart. “Husker I’m shocked you think so lowly of me! I’m totally sober, nothin’ in me, not yet anyway.” Angel leans down with a wink.
Husk hasn’t dropped his glare. “If you’re so horny, go grab someone off the streets, for all I care,” he huffs. “Don’t make it my problem. You know I hate this fake bullshit. I thought we went through this,” he’s grumbling, talking more to himself than Angel at this point.
This time, Angel does pull back, for real. One set of arms is crossed and the others are on his hips which are popped out. “And I told you this shit ain’t fake,” he growls. “I gotta do this for me. Fuck’s sake, Husk can’t you fucking,” Angel doesn’t know how to continue, so he throws all his arms up and turns his back to the bar. He doesn’t want to leave, though, so he leans against it. He doesn’t think about how his arms or placed or about how best to place his gangly legs to entice someone. Angel just looks up at the glorious hotel ceiling, whisps of white fur, perfectly styled, creating imaginary cracks.
Another sigh comes from the winged demon behind Angel. “Wanna tell me what this ‘s really about?” he finally asks, breaking the tense silence between them. Angel doesn’t know where the other members of the hotel are, and he frankly doesn’t care.
“What’s there to say, Whiskers?”
“You don’t got work, you obviously aren’t horrifically horny, and you’ve been more pushy in the past three minutes than over the past three months. So what’s goin’ on? Really?”
Angel wants to strangle the cat, and not even in a kinky way. Why can’t he read Angel’s mind? Why can’t he just tell Angel to fuck off and ignore him forever? Why does he have to keep being so good? Angel lets the quiet linger for a moment longer, not quite ready to give up on his pursuit. But he can’t go any further than he already has. Boundaries have been crossed far too many times and Angel just keeps doing it. Like an asshole. Like the toxic moth demon he works for. Angel hates himself for that realization.
“Val’s been gettin’ pissed recently,” he finally admits. Angel doesn’t turn around, doesn’t move at all, really.
Husk hums slightly, willing Angel to go on at his own pace. He doesn’t ask questions, he doesn’t force more conversation, he doesn’t turn Angel around, he just waits and lets Angel think before he speaks.
“Been so distracted on set because all these,” a pause, a hesitation, “feelings have been getting to me.” Angel doesn’t say anything else, doesn't dare to.
Angel can hear Husk moving behind him, but he doesn’t look to see why or what he's doing. “Thought you knew that your boss was shitty already?”
Angel shakes his head slightly. The hair-created cracks sway with the movement. “Nah, got through those feelings with the help of drugs,” Angel says. “Already accepted that fate. These feelings are…” Angel trails off. He can’t finish them. Can’t say anything more. Instead, he shifts himself so his secondary arms are hugging his torso and his primaries are gripping the edge of the bar.
It’s quiet again. If Angel had Husk’s ears, he’s sure he’d be able to hear Fat Nuggets’ little clops as he wanders around his obnoxiously pink room.
Another hum comes from behind the spider. And more quiet. “Are these feelings positive?” Husk finally asks.
A huff of laughter escapes Angel. He should just be honest with Husk. Charlie said something about honesty being the best policy or something shitty and kindergarten-like recently. Maybe he’ll try it. And hopefully, it’ll do something. “Feelings I haven’t felt before. Fluttery ‘n painful ‘n uncomfortable but warm. And I can’t stop myself from comparing everyone who dicks me down to,” Angel hesitates again. He doesn’t know if he can admit it. It’s cheesy and stupid and maybe a huge boundary for Husk. Husk couldn’t even handle Angel touching him earlier, how would he feel knowing Angel is continuously imagining him in bed?
“To whom?” Husk finally prompts.
“You,” it’s whispered. The quiet is getting to Angel. Neither demon is saying anything else. So Angel continues in a frenzy, “I’m not tryin’ t’ be creepy or something but I just know you’d be all sweet about it ‘n take your time ‘n make it so it doesn’t hurt in a way that’s not enjoyable and I don’t know how to feel about it!” Angel’s hands are in his hair. His head is finally facing downward. He’s frustrated. He knows Husk doesn’t like him like that, how Angel likes him and that shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. But it does hurt. It twists his insides and makes him feel like he’s overdosing all over again.
More movement from behind him and then nothing. But then two hands, paws, take hold of Angel’s. The ones attached to his head, the ones tugging on stupidly thin hair.
“Angel,” Husk murmurs, holding Angel as if he’s something breakable and not already broken. Treating Angel like he’s special and not dirty and used up.
Angel’s eyes finally blink open and look into the golden hue of Husk’s.
“I care about you too,” the cat finally admits. His tail is twitching slightly in anxiety. “But I don’t want that . I’m not gonna fuck you. Especially not when you’re being Angel Dust. Not when we have shit to figure out, not when you still have that panicked look in your eye when someone brushes by you without warning, not when I know you aren’t ready, and definitely not when I’m not ready,” he says. “If we’re gonna do anything we’re gonna do it right. With dates and flowers and handholding and all that other cheesy shit that Charlie and Vaggie do. I’m not gonna be just another client, I’m not gonna be treated like it and I’m not gonna treat you like it. Got that, Legs?” Husk asks.
Angel just blinks. He nods slowly, not quite believing what he’s hearing. How did this conversation go from Angel wanting Husk to fuck or reject him for sure to this? Angel swallows. “Yeah, but Husk…”
A tilt of Husk’s head, willing Angel to go on.
“I’m dirty and broken,” he finally croaks out. “You deserve better, you’re good and I’m just a whore to be used.” Angel lets out a self-deprecating giggle as he gestures to himself, all dolled up and looking just like he would on camera before his clothing gets ripped off. “All this was s’pposed to either entice ya to sleep with me and toss me like everyone else or for you to tell me to fuck off once and for all. This wasn’t supposed to turn into something real, Husk.” To Angel’s utter horror, his eyes begin to water.
“Baby,” Husk murmurs. The hotel doors open and Charlie and Vaggie enter, Charlie with a loud laugh. Husk ignores it and caresses Angel’s face. “You’re the first person to get my heart to start beating again. I’m called ‘Husk’ ‘cause I’m a husk of my former self but you’re bringing me back. You’re bringing back hope and longing and all those other good emotions I thought were long gone. You, Angel, may think you’re broke, but you’re fixing me. And you don’t even know it.”
Angel sniffs and wipes his eyes. “Can I kiss ya?” he asks. Because that’s all he wants to do right now. He wants to thank Husk, he wants to prove how much he appreciates everything he’s done for Angel and how much Angel appreciates him.
Husk smirks slightly and lifts himself up onto his toes as permission. Angel doesn’t hesitate.
It’s different from the kisses Angel is used to. This one is close-mouthed, with no wandering tongues or aggressive hands gripping wherever they can. It’s sweet and slow, not wanting to get to anything more. It’s a breath of fresh air and a shiver that comes with a slight breeze. It makes a part of Angel Dust die, just a little, and a sliver of Anthony twitch to life.
***
At the entrance of the hotel, Vaggie passes Charlie a ten-dollar bill. "You were right," she huffs still smiling. "They talked about their feelings within three months. I could've sworn the two idiots would have kept dancing around each other longer than that."
Charlie laughs, not taking the money but instead dragging Vaggie to sneak up the stairs, not wanting to disturb the two men.