Chapter Text
Late October
Friday mornings were arguably one of Angel’s favorite times of the week. His studio didn’t stink of body spray and sweat yet, he didn’t have to plan anything for his seniors, and he always arrived armed with two very large iced coffees to fuel his latest and greatest infatuation.
At 7:10 a.m., he abandoned his own classroom for the quiet one kitty corner down the hall. Angel could already imagine his friend and coworker dropping his own leather satchel in his chair and shoving his sleeves up to his elbows while he addressed his students.
With his door open, Angel’s suspicions were confirmed.
“For two extra points on the exam next week, can someone tell me what Martha Washington’s cat was named?”
A few students waved at Angel from their seats, their notebooks already open and laptops ready for whatever activity Mr. St. John had planned for US History today. He winked at them before gesturing to turn their attention back to the front of the classroom. Did this man know how to wear a sweater-vest with a collared shirt. With the sleeves rolled up, it showed off his forearms that Angel found himself lusting over. God, he was a professional and here he was, adjusting his overlay.
“Billie Jean!”
“No. Ava, help him out.”
“Bobby?”
“Guys, this is the 1700s–”
“He was named after that fuckboi Alexander Hamilton.”
Out of Angel’s wet dreams, Mr. St. John ran a tired hand over his face and sighed loudly. “Yes, but Gina, as we discussed at parent-teacher conference, please be more creative than swearing in front of the class.”
Gina tossed her red-gold waves over her shoulder, unbothered. “He was named after Alexander Hamilton because the boy hit on anything that moved, including his sisters-in-law.”
“Good enough! So, let’s discuss Mr. Hamilton’s contribution to the election of 1800…”
Angel snorted, arms crossed as he watched St. John tossed a packet of Skittles to Gina, then scribbled a new question on the SMARTboard. Have mercy on Angel’s gay little heart, for those forearms were sent from Heaven above.
This time, the entire class looked at Angel, and he tried to see himself through their eyes: sipping a shockingly large caffeinated beverage, making heart eyes at a coworker, laughing at said coworker’s straightforward classroom protocol, and basically being a nuisance.
Mr. St. John - noticing the silence that quickly fell over his class - finally turned around. As soon as his brown eyes met Angel’s blues, Angel melted a little bit inside. Warm and carmelly, he toasted his colleague.
“May I help you, Mr. Ragne?”
“Nope! Just dropping off this,” he said, practically skipping over to Husk’s desk and setting the drink down with earned reverence, “and sayin’ hi. Gina, Becca, Aidan - see y’all later!”
He skipped back to the door, smiling as the students giggled at him, losing the focus that Husk had no doubt fought them to get. Who liked US Government class anyway? Certainly not Angel.
“Thanks, go away.”
Another ripple of giggles erupted through the room as Angel rolled his eyes playfully, watching Husk lift the cup.
“You spelled my name wrong.” he snorted, accidentally turning the name towards his class. This caused the class to break out in loud laughter, and Husk shook his head.
“Thank you for this. Thank you soooo much.” Husk sighed dramatically, shaking his head as the kids’ laughter fell into soft giggles.
“You’re soooo welcome!”
“Sneaker Prawn?? That’s the best you could come up with? Get out and come back when you have something better.”
Angel cackled the whole way back to the studio.
~+~
Halfway through a one-sided imaginary lift, Angel’s phone rang across his studio. Surprised, he let it ring out, fully intending to let whoever was cold-calling him in the middle of the day go to voicemail. Sure enough, his phone pinged, and he restarted his music with the remote in his pocket. When his phone rang again, he huffed in annoyance.
The gentle strains of Birdtalker stopped abruptly, and Angel made for his phone, fully intending to silence it for at least the next hour so he could finish this damn choreography. The showcase was in less than a week, for crying out loud, and Molly would have his head if it weren’t.
Speak of the Devil, his sister’s face flashed at him on his screen again, smiling and throwing up a middle finger in fond exasperation. Immediately, all annoyance fled, and Angel swiped to answer.
“Hey, Molls, I didn’t expect to hear from you until this afternoon.”
“Hi, Tony.”
“Uh-oh. What happened? Who do I have to kill?”
“You don’t gotta kill anyone, Tony, except maybe me?”
“I’m confused. You’re Ma’s golden child. Why do you crave death all of a sudden?”
A beat. “I can’t do it.”
“Do what?”
“The showcase. I’m so sorry, Tony, I really am. There’s no excuse. You remember my friend Nellie who was dating that douchebag with the neck tattoo? She’s finally got the courage and the lawyer to get away from that jerk, and she needs an army to move her stuff out of their apartment. We all have to sign affidavits and…I’m so sorry.”
For a split second, Angel felt angry, then he remembered how it felt to get his own freedom back. How he’d needed every single person who loved him there to pack his shit and sign the restraining order. Molly had been there, of course, because that’s who she was - the pillar of calm in the middle of a shit storm
Through the disappointment that churned his stomach, Angel forced a fond sigh. “My sister, the Savior of the East Side. I’ll figure something out, don’t worry.”
“I reached out to one of my old friends about it, but she – and then there was that dancer I used to work with at the old folks’ home? But he hasn’t gotten back to me–”
“Molly. Save your strength for yourself. I’m a big boy. I’ll think of something.”
“I really am sorry. I’ll see you Sunday for family dinner.”
With a few more reassurances that he wasn’t mad, Angel bid his twin adieu, hung up, and cursed his rotten luck. After all of his big talk that he was gonna give his students a performance to remember, here he was with a week to find a new partner and figure out how to make them look like a professional dancer.
There was Danny. The ever popular boy next door who you date for three years and find out it just isn’t what you thought. They’d ended on good terms, now going out for dinner every other Friday with Molly and a couple other friends of theirs.
The Irish lilt that came from his phone did little to calm the nerves that ran through his body at light speed.
“Angel?”
“Ohmigosh, Danny, okay, so funny story, I don’t have the time to find a stranger to learn how’ta do the routine I’ve been working on–”
“Woah, woah! Slow down, what'sa matter?”
“Molly can’t do the winter showcase.”
Danny trilled on the other end of the line, and was probably no doubt chewing on his bottom lip. “Why not?”
“Somethin’ about… movin’ a friend outta her apartment. That’s why I called you.”
Angel bounced on his toes subconsciously as Danny hummed, scrolling through his calendar. Angel always liked watching him scroll through the color-coded dates, watching them fly by in a multi-colored blur.
“When is this?” he asked, and Angel gritted his teeth, shooting a prayer to anything that would listen.
“.... Two weeks?”
“Christ, Anthony! Two weeks–We haven’t danced together in years,” Danny huffed.
Angel grumbled, wrapping an arm around his ribs. “Pleaaase, Danny! Please, I wouldn’t be askin’ if it wasn’t important–”
“Anthony…I wish I could, but I’m going to Ireland for some conference tomorrow. It’s why we couldn’t meet up for dinner Friday, remember?”
Angel grumbled again, raking a hand through his hair, “Fuck, you’re right, I forgot.”
“You gonna be alright? You think Amy might be able to?” Danny asked, and Angel shook his head, remembering Danny couldn’t see him.
“Nah, she’s also got a thing Friday. Something with her husband or whatever. It’ll be fine. I’ll work it out. Love ya.”
“Love you too, good luck.”
Angel hung up the phone, grumbling for what felt like the millionth time as he dropped his phone to the ground. He ran a hand through his hair, the bangs messily staying in place as he started to pace.
“You good, Legs?” Husk stood in the doorway, his face the picture of concern above the bow tie at his collar.
“Yah. Fine. Just..dealing with…something…”
Something clicked in Angel’s brain as he looked at Husk. The way he leaned against the doorframe made him look shorter but he was no doubt taller. Maybe…
“Husk, how tall are you?”
“Excuse you?”
“You gotta be, what, like five-foot seven?”
“Five-foot six. Are you gonna mock me about that, too?”
“You gotta be my dance partner. Just for one day. Please.”
“Okay, I’m gonna go eat, so when you’re not having a nervous breakdown–”
“You don’t have to do anything. I’ll back lead and we’ll dress you like Gene fucking Kelly so all you’ll have to do is stand there.” Angel pleaded.
“Oh, no, I don’t dance-”
“Please, Husk-”
“Get Charles to do it-”
“Look, I don’t have any good options. Just…please. I will owe you a fat favor and my endless gratitude. One dance, and I will never ask you to do it again.”
Husk looked less than impressed, arms crossed against his chest as Angel stared at him. If he cried in front of this man, he’d never forgive himself.
He waited for seconds, decades, eons, and then Husk said the most beautiful thing in the world.