Chapter Text
Husk was already drunk enough that the world felt soft around the edges. His voice was thick, his grin crooked.
“Hehehe, now this is living,” he said. “Not wasting my life behind some bar.”
The words felt good on the way out. Easy. True enough if he didn’t look too close. He didn’t notice the bartender’s glare as another drink appeared in front of him. Or maybe he did and pretended not to. That was part of the deal here. Nobody asking questions. Nobody expecting anything. That was freedom. Right?
The stage lights flickered to life. Husk squinted, eyes unfocused, watching a feminine figure sprawled across the stage like she had been poured there—velvet and shadow. The crowd hummed with anticipation.
“Good booze,” Husk wheezed, lifting his glass. “Nobody wanting nothing from me, and a song sung by a lovely broad. Here’s to you, baby.”
For a second, it was perfect. Simple. Clean.
Then the figure turned. Pink. White. Too many arms.
Husk spat his drink across the bar. “ANGEL?!”
His heart lurched, sharp and sudden. No. No, this isn’t real. This is the booze. This is Hell screwing with him. The casino was always good at illusions. Then Angel started singing. And there was nothing fake about it.
It’s been so very long since Lady Luck kissed you…
Husk froze, glass hovering uselessly in his hand. Lady Luck. Casinos worshipped her. He used to, too. Used to believe streaks turned if you waited long enough, if you drank enough, if you stopped caring enough.
Angel’s voice slid through the room, warm and aching and far too close.
Still, you listen for her song, and pray that she missed you…
Husk’s chest tightened. He hadn’t known Angel sang like this. Not stripped bare. Not like every word was a confession dragged into the light.
Dead inside ’cause you know it’s all pretend…
A short laugh clawed its way out of Husk’s throat and died halfway. Pretend bartender. Pretend freedom. Pretend this was what he was meant for. Angel shifted onstage, deliberate, unhurried. Husk had the sickening thought that this song wasn’t for the crowd at all. That it was aimed. That it was finding him through the noise.
You’re living for the rush, for that royal flush…
The rush. The hit of the first swallow. The clatter of chips. The moment before the loss sank in. Anything loud enough to drown out the quiet truth pressing against his skull: You left.
Tastes like scotch and cigarettes…
Husk swallowed hard. The casino smelled exactly like that. Always had. It used to feel like home. Now it just smelled like Angel.
Angel’s eyes flicked toward the bar. For a heartbeat, they met. Husk looked away too late.
’Til you break your losing streak…
The words landed heavily, final. Not a joke. Not a challenge. A diagnosis. Husk wanted to move. To laugh. To yell. To get up and drag Angel off that stage and demand what the hell he was doing here, singing like this, looking like that. Instead, he stayed seated. Wasted. Silent. Exactly where he said he belonged.
Angel finished with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Good luck out there, boys.”
Then he was gone.
Applause crashed over the room. Someone nearby said something stupid and loud. “Wow, that-that was… that was hot. Wait, does that make me gay?” Husk barely heard it. His head was ringing. His heart wouldn’t slow down. He stared at the empty stage, flabbergasted, discombobulated, absolutely and utterly condooble flabbered.
-
“Boobs are boobs, baby, yeah. You know I’m always saying that, yeah.” The words barely registered this time.
Angel was back at the bar now, close enough that Husk could smell cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. Close enough to remind him this wasn’t a hallucination.
“Hey, loser,” Angel said. “Finally living up to your name, huh?”
Husk snorted because that was easier than answering honestly. “I didn’t know you performed here.”
Angel grinned. “I’m a man of many jobs. One of ’em, being a woman.”
He pulled the wig off. Husk watched the crowd cheer and thought, of course they do.
“Well,” he muttered, “I quit.”
Angel blinked. The grin faltered. “Wow. Uh, I-I mean, I-I guess since Alastor ain’t around anymore, you don’t really need to, but, um, still…”
Husk downed his drink. The burn barely touched him. “That hotel’s a bigger mess than we are.”
Angel scoffed. “Yeah. I think my botched redemption arc was proof of that.”
The words hit Husk harder than the liquor. Botched. Like it was a bad job. Like it was sloppy work. Like it wasn’t Angel standing there, bleeding and shaking and still choosing to stay—Husk’s ears rang. For a split second, the casino noise dropped out entirely, replaced by the memory he kept pretending didn’t matter. Angel, looking at him, terrified and defiant all at once. Angel stepping forward anyway. Angel putting his life on the line for someone who didn’t believe he deserved it.
Husk had told himself it was reckless, that it was Angel being Angel. That it was just another bad decision in a long line of them. It was easier to swallow when you framed it that way.
He didn’t say any of that. He stared into his drink instead, watching the ice melt, thinking how funny it was that something could disappear so slowly you didn’t notice until it was gone. Redemption wasn’t the part that failed, he thought. He’d pushed Angel into Charlie’s plan because it felt safer than hope. Rules. Structure. A script. If it worked, great. If it didn’t, well, Husk could tell himself he tried. What he hadn’t planned for was Angel taking it seriously. Hadn’t planned for Angel believing, even for a second, that he might be worth something more.
Husk’s chest tightened. He took another drink he didn’t need. If Angel called it botched, Husk let him, because admitting otherwise meant admitting that Angel gave something real, and Husk didn’t know how to hold it without breaking it. It meant acknowledging that when Angel stepped into the fire, Husk had already decided he wasn’t worth being pulled out.
Husk exhaled, shoulders slumping. “Sorry for pushing you into that. Should’ve realized it was a—”
“Eh, it’s fine,” Angel cut in. “I’ve accepted that redemption’s not really for people like me.” Husk’s mouth opened. Closed. Then the question landed, quiet but sharp. “Are you still mad I saved your life?”
Husk laughed, short and bitter. “I wasn’t really mad. I… I’m just not worth saving.” He gestured weakly around the casino. “This, this here is what I’m meant for. Just a sad drunk at a bar.”
Angel didn’t argue. “And I’m just a sex worker in a dress whose lunch was three cigarettes,” he said lightly. “To being us.”
They clinked glasses. Husk didn’t know whether to laugh or choke.
Angel’s phone rang. He checked it, sighed. “Oh, speaking of other jobs, I got a film shoot. See you at the hotel tonight, Whiskers.”
Husk shook his head immediately. “No, no, no, you won’t.”
Angel smiled like he knew something Husk didn’t. “Yeah,” he said. “I will.”
And then he was gone again.
Husk stared at the empty space beside him, the echo of the song still crawling under his skin, and realized too late that Angel Dust never disappeared. He just kept showing up.
-
The hotel door swung open with a tired creak. Husk stepped inside, shoulders hunched, words already loaded on his tongue. "Angel! I, uh… I thought about our talk." The sentence died halfway out. The lobby wasn't empty.
Baxter stood near the bar, sleeves rolled up, baton raised, directing a full orchestra of roaches like he was conducting something respectable. Niffty hopped in place, clapping along, eyes bright. Cherri Bomb lounged against the counter, boots up, drink in hand. Fat Nuggets gnawed happily on the edge of the bar.
And Angel Dust was right there. Sitting on a stool like he never left. Laughing.
The sound hit Husk square in the chest. Angel was leaned back, one arm draped over the bar, legs crossed, grin wide and real. Not stage-real. Not armor. Just… easy. Cherri said something Husk didn't catch, and Angel snorted, almost spilling his drink.
Husk stood there. Stayed.
Cherri noticed him first. She smirked. "Hey. Look who's back."
Husk forced his voice to work. "Well, somebody's gotta keep you guys drunk." He gestured weakly at the scene. "Where's Angel at?" The question felt stupid the moment it left his mouth.
Angel turned on the stool, eyebrows lifting. "Wow. Rude."
Cherri laughed. "Yeah, Whiskers. He's been right here." She nodded down at Fat Nuggets. "Also, miracle of miracles, somebody actually fed the little guy."
Fat Nuggets squeaked approvingly and went back to chewing.
Angel leaned down, scratching behind his ears. "You're welcome, babe."
Husk's chest tightened. He hadn't realized how braced he was until now—hadn't realized how ready he was to find the bar empty, the room colder.
The roaches hit a dramatic final note. Cherri winced. "That—that's nice, Niffty. Good job."
Niffty beamed. "Yes! Good job, Niffty!"
Angel clapped along, laughing. "Encore, baby!"
The normalcy of it was almost worse than if Angel had been missing. No tension. No accusation. No punishment. Just Angel. Waiting. Laughing. Alive.
Husk cleared his throat. "I… uh."
Angel looked at him then. Really looked. The grin softened, just a hair. "Hey," he said, casual as ever. "You good?"
Husk opened his mouth. Closed it. All the things he'd practiced on the walk back piled up and tripped over each other. Apologies. Explanations. Regrets. None of them fit now that Angel was right here, not angry, not distant. Not gone.
"Yeah," Husk said finally, voice rough. "Yeah. I just… thought you'd be out."
Angel shrugged, lifting his glass. "Nah. Figured I'd stay in tonight." He smiled. "Hotel's kinda growin' on me."
Husk swallowed. For the first time since he left, the hotel didn't look like a mess. It looked like a choice.
-
Husk slipped back behind the bar like muscle memory never left him. His hands knew what to do even when his head didn't. Glasses lined up. Bottle uncapped. The familiar weight of the counter grounded him. He didn't comment on the fact that he came back here automatically. Didn't comment on anything.
Angel was still at the bar, laughing with Cherri, legs hooked around the stool, one heel tapping idly against the brass rail. He looked settled. Comfortable. Like this was always where he meant to end up. That realization stung more than Husk expected.
Husk poured a drink for Cherri, slid it across without looking. "You're welcome," he muttered preemptively.
Cherri smirked. "Missed you too, Whiskers."
Angel watched him over the rim of his glass. Not openly. Not obviously. But Husk felt it anyway, like heat at his back.
Fat Nuggets had claimed the space beneath Angel's stool, chewing contentedly on something that might've once been part of the bar.
Angel leaned down, scratching behind his ears. "Someone's clearly been fed."
Husk grunted. "Miracle."
Angel's mouth quirked. "You're welcome."
That got him. Not the words. The tone. No accusation. No edge. Just… there. Husk reached for a glass to clean. It didn't need it. He cleaned it anyway.
"So," Husk said, eyes fixed on his hands. "You didn't go out."
Angel hummed. "Nah."
A beat.
"That's new," Husk added.
"Yeah."
Nothing else. No explanation. He didn't owe Husk one, and that truth scraped on the way down. The roaches finished packing up. Baxter argued quietly with Niffty about tempo again. Cherri drifted off toward the couch, leaving space that felt intentional. The bar got quieter. Angel didn't move.
Husk finally looked up. "Thought you had work."
Angel rolled his glass between his fingers. "Had the option."
Husk nodded slowly. "And you didn't take it."
Angel's eyes flicked up, met his for half a second. "Guess I didn't feel like disappearin' tonight."
The words settled heavily between them. Husk swallowed and reached for a bottle, then stopped. Set it back where it was.
"You don't gotta stay," he said, voice rough. "Not on my account."
Angel snorted softly. "Didn't say I was."
Another pause.
"I just stayed."
Husk's chest tightened. He wiped the counter, even though it was already clean. Behind the bar, there was nowhere to hide.
Angel leaned back on his stool, arms crossed loosely. "You always do that."
Husk frowned. "Do what?"
"Act like you're a fixture," Angel said. "Like you're part of the furniture and not… you."
Husk bristled. "I'm just doin' my job."
Angel's gaze softened, just a fraction. "Yeah. I know."
That was worse. Because Angel wasn't pushing, he was noticing. Husk poured himself a drink out of habit, then hesitated. Set it aside untouched. Angel clocked it immediately. Didn't comment. Didn't smile. The silence stretched. It wasn't awkward. It was loaded.
"So," Angel said eventually, forcing lightness back into his voice. "You plannin' on drinkin' yourself into a puddle tonight, or you gonna be responsible and shit?"
Husk snorted. "Since when do you care?"
Angel tilted his head. "Since I'm sittin' here."
The words landed and stayed. Husk exhaled slowly. "Yeah. Okay."
Angel's smile was small. Real. "Good. I like you upright."
Husk huffed despite himself. Kept his hands busy. Kept his eyes down. But Angel stayed at the bar. And Husk stayed behind it.
Neither of them crossed the line.
Neither of them left.
-
Time thinned out in the hotel gradually, the way smoke does—not all at once but curling away from the corners until what was left felt exposed.
One minute, the lobby was loud. Cherri's laugh cracked against the walls, sharp and unrepentant. Niffty hummed while she wiped down surfaces that didn't need saving. Baxter muttered anxiously about tempo and timing, baton flicking in his fingers like the fate of the universe depended on it.
Then, slowly, it wasn't.
Cherri staggered toward the stairs, boots scuffing, two fingers raised in a sloppy salute. "I'm gonna pass out before I commit arson. Night, freaks."
Husk grunted something that might've been a response. His attention was already elsewhere.
"Goodnight!" Niffty chirped, skipping up the steps, already halfway to polishing something upstairs.
Baxter trailed after her, still arguing with himself, the roaches scattering around his ankles.
The lobby exhaled.
Fat Nuggets remained, curled against the base of Angel's stool, his breathing deep and steady, little chest rising and falling like he belonged here, like he'd claimed the space.
Husk wiped the counter again. The wood was cool beneath his palm, worn smooth from years of use. It was clean. It had been clean. He knew that. This wasn't about hygiene. This was about grounding. About giving his hands something to do so they wouldn't betray him.
Angel didn't move from his stool. That was the problem.
In the casino, people stayed for reasons Husk understood. Drinks. Lights. Noise. The rush of believing luck might still smile at you if you asked nicely enough. Here, Angel stayed without any of that. Here, Angel stayed for reasons Husk couldn't label without bleeding.
Husk cleared his throat, the sound rougher than he intended. "You don't have to keep loiterin'. Bar's technically closed."
Angel tipped his head, just slightly, eyes half-lidded. The expression was lazy, but there was nothing careless about it. "Then technically stop talking to me."
Husk's ears heated instantly. He turned his attention to the bottles behind the bar, reaching for the one he'd set aside earlier. His fingers hovered there, just above the glass.
He didn't pick it up.
The pause stretched. Husk felt it like a held breath. He hated that Angel noticed. Hated that Angel didn't comment on it. Hated that Angel didn't tease or prod or push. It felt intentional, like Angel was giving him room. Like Husk still had choices.
Angel tapped the bar with one claw. Not loud. Not impatient. Just a quiet, steady rhythm that said I'm still here.
"Your hands are shakin'," Angel said softly.
Husk stilled instantly, fingers curling into the rag. "They're not."
Angel lifted his gaze to meet Husk's eyes. Not playful. Not flirtatious. Just focused. The kind of focus Husk used to have himself, back when he could read a room like a deck of cards and tell who was bluffing before they even placed a bet.
"They were," Angel said gently, like it wasn't a weapon.
Husk's jaw tightened. He wanted to snap back. Wanted to say something sharp and ugly that would win the moment outright. Winning moments used to matter. Winning was how you survived, how you stayed on top, how you didn't end up owned. Now he was behind a bar, being studied by someone who knew exactly how to hide and was choosing, inexplicably, not to.
Husk swallowed. "You're good at watchin'."
Angel's mouth curved into a small, fleeting smile. "Takes one to know one."
The words landed too close to the chain around Husk's soul. The invisible collar he never talked about. The leash he pretended not to feel until it tightened. The leash that pulled him into Charlie's redemption circus in the first place, because obedience was easier than deciding what you wanted.
Husk curled his fingers around the rag and wiped a slow circle into the wood, watching the motion like it might hypnotize him. Angel glanced down at Fat Nuggets, reaching out to brush his knuckles lightly against the pig's back. Then he looked up again.
"You were gonna go back, weren't you?"
Husk's stomach dropped. The words weren't accusatory. They were matter-of-fact. Like Angel already knew the answer and was just checking the math. Husk could lie. He was good at lying. He'd survived on it. But Angel was still here, still watching, and Husk had the awful sense that lying was a bet Angel would call without blinking.
"…Yeah," he admitted, barely audible.
Angel nodded, slow and unsurprised, like this fit exactly as he'd expected.
"Didn't," Husk added quickly, the edge in his voice sharper than he intended.
Angel's eyes softened. Just a fraction. "I noticed."
Silence stretched between them. Not empty. Heavy.
Husk set the rag down. His hands felt too empty without it, stripped of purpose.
"I don't know what you want from me," he said, voice rough, stripped of its usual bite.
Angel blinked, genuinely surprised. "Who said I want anything?"
Husk let out a single, bitter laugh. "You're sittin' here."
Angel leaned forward, elbows resting on the bar, chin settling into his hand. For the first time tonight, he looked tired in a way that wasn't theatrical—not posed. Just worn.
"I'm sittin' here," Angel said quietly, "because I can. Because I wanted to. Because I'm… tryin' not to disappear."
Husk's throat tightened. There it was. The thing he couldn't stand. Trying.
Trying was how you lost. Trying was betting too much on a hand that wasn't guaranteed. Trying was how you ended up with nothing left but regret and a leash around your neck.
Husk exhaled slowly, gaze dropping to the untouched glass on the counter. "That's a bad habit."
Angel's mouth quirked. "So is drinkin' yourself into oblivion. Look at us, growin'."
A huff escaped Husk before he could stop it. The sound was too soft. Too human.
Angel's gaze flicked up, catching it instantly, like he was storing the moment away somewhere safe.
Husk straightened, reflexively reaching for a bottle, needing the distance it provided. His fingers closed around the neck.
He stopped halfway.
Didn't pour.
Angel didn't move. Didn't say anything. Just stayed where he was, eyes steady, presence unyielding.
And Husk realized, with a jolt that felt like cold water to the face, that this was worse than the casino ever was. Because the casino never asked him to be a person.
And Angel, sitting there quietly, was asking without asking.
Husk's voice came out low. "You should go to bed."
Angel stood slowly, careful not to disturb Fat Nuggets. He lingered a second longer than necessary, close enough that Husk could smell smoke and sugar and something unmistakably Angel.
"Yeah," Angel said, eyes lingering on Husk's hands. "In a minute."
He didn't leave right away.
Neither of them did.
-
Angel didn't turn toward the stairs right away.
He shifted his weight instead, one heel hooking around the stool rung again, fingers drumming lightly against the bar like he was reconsidering something. The motion was small, restless. Husk watched from behind the counter, every twitch and pause registering whether he wanted it to or not.
Angel cleared his throat.
"So," he said. "I was thinkin'."
Husk stilled, hands flattening against the bar. Thinking is dangerous. Angel, thinking out loud, feels worse.
"Uh-huh," Husk replied, noncommittal.
Angel glanced toward the stairwell, then back at Husk. His smile flickered in and out, like he hadn't decided which version of himself to wear. When he spoke again, his voice was lighter, deliberately so.
"I got a bottle upstairs. Not great. Not terrible. Thought maybe I'd… finish it."
Husk's first instinct was to refuse. It hit immediately, sharp and practiced. Say no. Shut it down. End the night cleanly before it turns into something with consequences.
He folded his arms across his chest. "You don't need me for that."
Angel hummed, gaze dropping briefly to the bar, then lifting again. "Didn't say I did."
There it was again—that careful phrasing. Angel wasn't asking for anything specific. He was offering proximity and letting Husk decide what it meant.
Husk's tail flicked once behind him, betraying the hesitation he kept off his face.
"You're invitin' me to drink," he said flatly.
Angel lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Nightcap. Conversation optional."
Husk snorted quietly. "That's new."
Angel's eyes softened, just a little. "Yeah. Tryin' things."
That word again. Trying.
Husk's gaze dropped to the counter, to the untouched glass still sitting there like an accusation. He thought about the bottle behind him. About how easy it would be to pour, to drown the moment, to keep the distance where it belonged. He also thought about the casino. About how loud and bright it was, and how alone he'd felt sitting in a crowd full of noise.
Angel waited. Didn't rush him. Didn't fill the silence with jokes or flirtation. He leaned there, fingers idly tracing a groove in the bar, eyes on Husk's hands like they were telling him something Husk wouldn't say. That was worse than pressure.
"You don't gotta," Angel said finally, quieter now. "Just figured I'd ask."
Husk exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping a fraction.
"I ain't good company," he muttered.
Angel's mouth curved into a small, crooked smile. "Funny. I was thinkin' the same thing about me."
That landed somewhere deep and uncomfortable.
Husk reached for the bottle behind the bar at last. He didn't pour. He twisted the cap back on and set it carefully where it belonged.
"Lemme lock up," he said gruffly.
Angel's eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across his face before he schooled it away. "Yeah. Sure. Take your time."
Husk didn't miss the way Angel's foot tapped once, quick and nervous, before he stilled it.
He moved on autopilot, closing down the bar the way he'd done a hundred times before. Lights dimmed. Bottles secured. Cloth folded just so. Each motion deliberate, grounding, buying him seconds to think.
Bad idea, he told himself. Bad ideas are how you lose.
But staying behind the bar alone with a bottle felt worse tonight.
When he straightened, Angel was still there, watching him with an expression Husk couldn't quite place. Hope, maybe. Or just relief.
They headed for the stairs without speaking.
-
The upstairs hallway smelled like old carpet and dust baked into the wallpaper. The kind of stale that never left, even when someone tried to cover it with cheap floral cleaner. Their footsteps didn't echo so much as sink into the runner, muffled like the building was swallowing sound to keep secrets.
Husk kept half a step behind Angel. Not protective. Not on purpose. It was where his body put him when he was tired and sober enough to remember that being in front made you responsible.
Angel slowed at his door and fumbled with the handle. Metal scraped metal, a soft skrrt like a nail on a bottle cap. His fingers hesitated, then tightened, then the latch finally gave.
"Uh," Angel said, pitching his voice light like he was tossing a cigarette into a gutter. "Welcome to the glamorous life."
He stepped aside. The joke landed in the space between them and stayed there, waiting to see if Husk would pick it up.
Husk paused at the threshold.
Angel's room hit him with warm air and pink light and the faint, stubborn stink of smoke that lived in fabric. Not fresh cigarette. Not the sharp bite of a bar. This was the kind that had been exhaled into blankets and pillows so many times it was basically part of the upholstery now.
The neon wasn't loud. It was constant. It hummed just below hearing range, a steady electrical whine that made the room feel as if it were vibrating slightly. Pink light slid over everything and turned shadows soft-edged, but it didn't make them go away.
The bed dominated the room, wide and plush enough to drown in. The blanket was half off, twisted at the foot, as it got kicked during a bad dream. Pillows were piled high, but not arranged. Just… there. Used. There was a faint dent on one side, the fabric rubbed smooth by the same shoulder over and over.
Posters on the wall were taped up crookedly. Some glossy and loud, Angel Dust with a grin meant to sell. Some were smaller photos, with edges curling and the tape yellowed. A few were stuck up in a hurry, corners lifting like they'd been peeled back and pressed down again. The room looked like someone tried to build a private place out of scraps and stubbornness.
Fat Nuggets hopped up immediately, hooves making a soft, damp thump-thump on the mattress. He circled once, snorting, then flopped down hard in the center with a satisfied whuff like he owned the lease.
Angel's expression shifted when he looked at him. It was subtle, but Husk caught it the way he caught cards in flight. The brightness drained. Something gentler replaced it.
"Yeah, yeah," Angel muttered, toeing off a heel. It hit the floor with a quiet clack. "You act like you pay rent."
Fat Nuggets answered with a sleepy snuffle and ground his face into the blanket.
Husk stepped in.
Angel closed the door behind them. Didn't lock it. The click was louder than it should be, sharp in the hush, and Husk's shoulders tightened anyway. Reflex. The kind of reflex that had nothing to do with Angel and everything to do with what it meant to be trapped.
His wings shifted, feathers brushing fabric. The roulette-dot markings under them flashed as they settled, the patterns catching neon. His tail gave a slow, agitated flick, plume feathers whispering against the chair he hadn't even sat in yet.
Angel moved to the dresser and reached for a bottle. The glass knocked softly against something on the wood surface, a slight clink that made Husk's ears twitch. Angel's fingers brushed past framed photos without stopping. Husk saw one anyway: Angel grinning with an arm around someone, cropped out. Another: Fat Nuggets as a tiny piglet, tucked into Angel's lap, eyes closed.
Husk looked away too fast, like he'd been caught reading a hand he wasn't invited to.
"You want the good glass or the chipped one?" Angel asked, glancing back.
Husk's throat felt dry in the warm air. "Surprise me."
Angel's mouth curved, real this time. He handed Husk a glass with a small nick on the rim. Their fingers brushed. Husk felt the warmth in Angel's skin through fur, the tiny static pop of contact.
Neither of them commented.
Husk chose the chair by the window because it kept the door in his peripheral vision. Habit. His body doing the math without asking.
Angel sat on the edge of the bed, not sprawling even though he could. One leg bent, knee up. The other stretched out, socked foot nudging the blanket. His extra arms shifted subtly: top set bracing behind him, bottom set staying close like they didn't trust the space yet. Like, even here, he didn't fully uncoil.
Angel poured carefully. The liquor glugged into the glass, thick and slow, and he stopped shy of "too much." There was control in it. Measured. The way someone poured when they didn't want to wake up tomorrow and hate themselves more.
They drank.
The alcohol burned, but it was a clean burn, not the cheap rotgut that made your stomach clench. It spread low in Husk's chest, warming him rather than dragging him under.
"This ain't bad," Husk admitted.
Angel shrugged like it didn't matter, but his shoulders eased a fraction. "Told ya."
Silence filled the room again, but it wasn't empty. It was full of small sounds. The neon hum. Fat Nuggets' breathing, thick and even. The faint rustle of Angel's fur when he shifted. Husk's own claws ticking once against the glass.
Husk became aware of how much he could smell Angel up here. Not the stage scent. Not the perfume. Just the mix of smoke in fabric, faint sugar, and clean fur under it like he'd showered and didn't expect anyone to notice.
Angel looked over. Their eyes met. Husk held it a beat too long. Angel's lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks. Those freckled eyes under his real eyes caught the light.
"This doesn't mean anything," Husk said, because if he didn't say it, his brain would start naming it, and that was worse.
Angel nodded, like he'd expected the disclaimer. "Didn't think it did."
A beat. The air felt thicker. Husk could taste the alcohol on his tongue, sharp and medicinal.
"…Thanks for comin' up," Angel added, quieter.
Husk swallowed. His throat clicked. "Yeah."
They drank again.
-
Time started slipping sideways the longer they sat. Not from drunkenness. From the fact that neither of them was filling the space with noise.
Husk noticed the bottle was lighter than it should be. Not empty. Not close. Just lighter. Enough time had passed that it should feel like "later," but it didn't. It felt like an ongoing moment.
Angel sank back into the pillows. The plush gave under him, swallowing his spine. His shoulders dropped like he'd set something heavy down and didn't want to pick it up again.
Fat Nuggets wedged himself against Angel's hip, warm and insistent, and Angel's hand immediately found him. Fingers combing bristles in slow, repetitive strokes. The motion was absentminded in a way that made Husk's chest tighten, because it was the only part of Angel that looked effortless.
Husk watched it like his eyes couldn't stop.
That was when it hit him. This room wasn't a vibe. It wasn't indulgence. It wasn't "Angel Dust's aesthetic." It was control. The neon was constant. Predictable. The clutter was familiar. The bed was unmade because no one came in here to judge it. The door wasn't locked because locking it would admit there was something to fear. Nothing here surprised Angel. Nothing here asked him to perform.
Husk's stomach turned a little, slow and sour. He thought about the casino: lights that never dimmed, sound that never stopped, the constant churn of attention and hunger. He thought about the hotel bar: safe because it was public and well-witnessed. After all, no one was allowed to get quiet enough to break.
This room was neither. This room was where Angel went when he couldn't be Angel Dust anymore and didn't know what to replace him with.
And Husk was sitting in it. Invited.
That cost something.
Angel shifted, adjusting his shoulder, and there was a quick, involuntary wince. His jaw tightened, then relaxed. Gone so fast most people wouldn't clock it.
Husk did.
"You good?" Husk asked before he meant to.
Angel blinked, like he'd forgotten Husk was there for a second. "Yeah. Just stiff."
Too smooth. Too practiced.
Husk didn't push, but he noticed the way Angel stayed pressed to the headboard, how he didn't sprawl even though the bed begged for it, how he kept his limbs arranged like he was expecting interruption. Contained like someone who'd learned that comfort got punished.
Husk's claws flexed once against the chair arm. This is his safe place. And I'm sitting in it.
He looked at the door again. Closed. Unlocked. Angel trusted the hotel not to hurt him. Angel trusted Husk not to hurt him. The weight of that sat on Husk's ribs like a brick.
Angel yawned wide, unguarded, eyes watering slightly. He scrubbed at one, then his hand dropped back onto Fat Nuggets automatically, fingers resuming their slow strokes like he needed the sensation to keep himself steady.
"Didn't mean to get all quiet on ya," Angel murmured.
Husk's voice came out rough. "You ain't."
Angel hummed, unconvinced, and took a smaller sip, then placed his glass carefully on the nightstand. Not carelessly. Not with a clunk. With precision. Like spilling would be catastrophic.
Fat Nuggets snorted louder, shoved his weight more insistently into Angel's side. Angel chuckled, low and fond.
"Traitor," he told the pig.
Husk's throat tightened. He hated it. Not because it was gross. Not because it was sentimental. Because it was real. Because it made the room feel even more private.
The chair gave a soft scrape when Husk shifted. Angel's eyes snapped to him immediately, sharp even through the haze.
"You okay?" Angel asked.
No joke. No flirtation. Just concern. That was another cost, too. Being cared about without theatrics.
"Yeah," Husk lied, automatically.
Angel studied him for a second, then let it go. But Husk knew Angel saw the lie. Angel just chose not to call it.
"Y'know," Angel said after a moment, voice slow, "most people don't get this far."
Husk's ears twitched. "This far?"
Angel gestured vaguely around the room. "Up here."
The implication landed like a heavy card slapped down.
Husk swallowed. "Didn't realize there was a line."
Angel cracked one eye open, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "There is."
Husk exhaled through his nose. "Huh."
They sat in it.
And then, because quiet was dangerous and Angel seemed to know it, he rolled the bottle between his palms and flipped back into a steadier tone, like he was lighting a match in the dark.
"So." He said it like a coin tossed onto a table. "You gonna tell me why you went back?"
Husk's first instinct was sarcasm, because sarcasm was armor. "I like casinos."
Angel watched him with that steady, low-light spotlight gaze. "No. You like casinos the way I like stage lights. That ain't a reason. That's a symptom."
Husk's jaw tightened. "Funny. Didn't know you were a doctor."
Angel's smile tilted. "I'm a professional at bad choices, babe. I can spot 'em in the wild."
Husk huffed. The sound came out closer to a laugh than he intended.
Angel grabbed it like he'd earned it. "Yeah, yeah."
Then the grin faded, like it had done its job and was allowed to leave.
"So," Angel repeated, softer. "Why'd you go back?"
Husk stared at the neon line along the bed frame, listening to it hum like a wire under tension.
"Because it was mine," he admitted.
Angel didn't interrupt.
Husk kept going because stopping would mean swallowing it again, and he was tired of swallowing.
"The hotel… that place is Charlie's. Even when Alastor was pulling strings, it was still her dream. Her stage." Husk's fingers tightened around the glass. "The casino was where I knew what I was. What I was good for."
Angel's eyes flicked to Husk's hat on his knee, the red band catching the pink glow. "Cheatin'?"
Husk's mouth quirked. "Winning."
Angel's smile turned sharp. "Same thing."
Husk snorted. "Yeah. Exactly."
Then, quieter, hating himself for saying it: "No one in a casino looks at you like you're supposed to become better."
Angel's expression went still. His gaze dropped to the bottle neck. He ran his thumb over it like he was smoothing something down.
"People look at you like you're supposed to be better?" Angel asked, humor thin as paper.
Husk met his eyes. "You know what I mean."
Angel looked away first. Not dramatic. Just… done with that particular eye contact.
"Yeah," Angel said softly. "I do."
He cleared his throat like he was stepping onto a different mark.
"Okay," Angel said, voice lighter, "my turn."
Husk raised an eyebrow. "Your turn for what?"
"For you lookin' at me like I'm a riddle," Angel said, and there was the edge of a grin. "Ask."
Husk should refuse. He should fold. But the room was warm, and the neon was constant, and the pig was snoring, and Angel was here like he'd decided not to disappear.
"Why do you do so many jobs?" Husk asked.
Angel's smile snapped into place. Automatic. "Because I'm a hardworking little citizen."
Husk waited.
Angel's smile faltered. He exhaled, long and tired, and let his head thunk back against the pillows softly. "Because if I stop, I gotta think."
Husk didn't fill the silence.
Angel kept going anyway because quiet was both permission and a trap.
"When I'm busy, I'm useful," Angel said. "When I'm useful, I'm… somethin'. When I'm not useful, I'm just…" He gestured vaguely at himself, the bed, the room, like the idea tasted bad. "A problem."
Husk's fingers tightened on his glass. "That's a dumb system."
Angel's mouth curved. "Yeah. Well. I didn't build it, babe. I just live in it."
Fat Nuggets snorted like punctuation.
Husk swallowed, then asked the question that had been hovering between them like smoke. "And the dressin' up. The performing. The whole… broad-on-a-stage thing."
Angel's posture shifted. Not fully defensive. Just… guarded. Like his skin got colder.
"It's fun," Angel said too quickly.
Husk waited.
Angel's eyes narrowed. "You're doin' that thing again."
"What thing?"
"That stare like you're gonna pull a rabbit outta my ribs," Angel said. "It's creepy."
Husk huffed. "I'm not creepy."
Angel pointed with the bottle, deadpan. "You're a cat with wings and a magician hat who reads souls for sport. You're creepy."
A laugh cracked out of Husk before he could stop it. Short. Real.
Angel grinned like he'd earned it. "Yeah, yeah."
Then the grin faded, like it had done its job and was allowed to leave.
"It ain't just for show," Angel admitted, quieter.
His fingers picked at the label again. Peel. Press. Peel. Press.
"When I'm up there," Angel said, "I'm in control. Kinda. I decide what they see. I make it pretty. Loud. Funny." His throat bobbed when he swallowed. "And if they're clappin' and cheerin' and droolin' like idiots… for a few minutes I don't gotta wonder if I'm disgusting."
Husk's wings twitched. A flinch he couldn't stop.
Angel caught it immediately. "See? Told you. Takes one to know one."
Husk breathed through his nose slowly. "You like it?" he asked. "The dress stuff."
Angel's eyes narrowed again, assessing. "You askin' because you're curious or because you're judgin'?"
Husk held his gaze. "Curious."
A long second.
Then Angel exhaled. "Yeah. I like it."
Simple. Honest.
"I like being pretty on purpose," Angel added, voice light like a dare. "I like pickin' the wig, pickin' the heels, walkin' out and watchin' everybody lose their minds because I own the room."
A smirk. "Also, it pisses off the right people."
Husk's mouth twitched. "That part tracks."
Angel's grin returned, smaller.
"But it's also…" Angel's voice dropped. "A place where I get to be Anthony and Angel Dust and whatever else I feel like bein'. Without somebody tellin' me which one makes money."
Husk cleared his throat. "So you perform."
Angel nodded once.
"And you drink," Angel shot back, quick, sharp, but not cruel. "And you gamble. And you disappear into places that used to belong to you."
Husk stiffened.
Angel's eyes softened like he regretted how accurate he was. "Sorry. That was…"
"True," Husk muttered.
Angel's mouth curved. "Yeah."
Husk's gaze drifted to Angel's hand again, still rubbing Fat Nuggets in slow circles.
"You really love that pig," Husk said.
Angel looked down at Fat Nuggets like he was looking at a heartbeat. "Yeah. He's… innocent."
Angel caught himself, added quickly, forced light: "Also, he's shaped like a meatball, and it's funny."
Husk finished his drink slowly, then set the glass down.
Angel watched him.
"I saw that," Husk said, his voice flat.
Angel blinked slowly, deliberately misunderstanding. "Saw what? Me lookin' this handsome?"
"When you shifted," Husk said. "When you went back against the headboard. You flinched."
Angel's smile disappeared. He stayed perfectly still. "I said I was stiff."
"You lied," Husk said. "Stiff doesn't make your jaw tighten like that. Stiff doesn't make you wince like someone slapped you."
"Why do you care?" The question came out low, dangerous.
"We just spent twenty minutes talking about control and not disappearing," Husk said. "And you're hiding being hurt in your own safe room. That doesn't track, Angel."
Angel exhaled, a ragged, irritated sound. "It's fine. It's just a bruise. Happens."
Husk pushed himself up. The armchair scraped back against the carpet with a loud, grating skrrrrrt.
Angel jumped, visibly. His head snapped forward, eyes wide. Fat Nuggets woke up with an offended, sleepy grunt.
"Whoa, what the fuck?" Angel snapped.
Husk ignored him. He took the two steps it took to cross the room and stood beside the bed, his shadow falling across the mattress.
"Show me," Husk said, voice low and uncompromising.
Angel stared up at him. "Fuck off, Whiskers."
"Not bleeding," Husk said. "Bruised. That was a wince, not a yelp." He leaned down slightly. "Show me."
Angel cursed under his breath. "Fine, you nosy bastard."
He reluctantly unbraced his top arms from the headboard, rolled his shoulders forward, and slowly, carefully, lifted the pink silk fabric of his pajama top.
Where the fur met the skin of his lower ribcage, there was a sprawling, horrific bloom of purple, black, and greenish yellow. It was the dark mark left by someone who knew exactly where to hit.
Husk's breath hitched. His mind went suddenly, violently clear.
His hand moved before he could stop it. He reached out slowly and laid two heavy, furred fingers—not his claws, but the soft pads—onto the raw, tender skin just above the bruise.
Angel sucked in a sharp, involuntary breath, eyes snapping shut.
"Cold," Angel managed to rasp, voice tight.
Husk pulled his hand back immediately. He looked at the bruise, then back at Angel's tightly closed eyes.
"When did that happen?" Husk asked, his voice steady, but stripped down to a razor's edge.
Angel opened his eyes. He forced a faint smirk. "When I wasn't being useful," he said, the irony sharp, confirming everything Husk had just feared.
Husk stood there, towering over the bed, his large body frozen. Angel's vulnerable secret—the physical cost of his life—was now a shared truth.
-
"You ever do magic for fun?" Angel asked.
The question was tossed out lightly, casual as breathing, but it landed with unexpected weight. It didn't belong to the room's earlier quiet. It disrupted it.
Husk blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
Angel gestured with a lazy flick toward the hat resting on Husk's knee. The brim dipped slightly under the motion. "The cheesy stuff. Pull cards from behind ears. Make coins disappear. Somethin' that ain't murder and alcoholism."
Heat crawled up Husk's ears immediately, a flush he couldn't stop. He shifted in the chair. "I don't… do that."
Angel smiled. It wasn't wide. Not teasing. It was smaller than that, careful.
"You should."
Husk adjusted his grip on the glass. "Why?"
Angel shrugged. "Because I wanna see it."
The words hit Husk square in the chest. They landed, solid and undeniable, and stayed there.
Angel's eyes widened a fraction, and he rushed to soften it. "For scientific purposes."
Husk stared at him, unimpressed.
Angel grinned. "For Fat Nuggets."
Right on cue, Fat Nuggets snored.
Husk exhaled slowly. "You're ridiculous."
Angel beamed. "And you came upstairs anyway."
The words dropped between them like a poker chip hitting felt. Soft. Final. Already counted.
Husk looked away. His voice came out rougher than he intended. "Don't get cocky."
Angel's grin softened, easing into something quieter, more genuine. "Wouldn't dream of it."
They sat there. The neon hum became background noise, constant and low.
And Husk realized, with a reluctant ache that tasted like metal at the back of his throat, that this kind of conversation was its own gamble. Because once you understand why someone hides, it gets harder to pretend you don't care when they disappear.
Husk stayed still, hat heavy on his knee, painfully aware of his hands resting empty on his thighs, unoccupied, exposed.
"You don't want that," Husk muttered, eyes still averted.
Angel lifted his head slightly. "Why not?"
Husk exhaled. "Because it's… stupid."
Angel's mouth quirked. "Buddy. You've seen me cry over a pig. I think we're past stupid."
Fat Nuggets punctuated that with another snore.
Husk shot him a look. "Traitor."
Angel laughed softly. "I'm not askin' for fireworks. Just… somethin' small."
Husk's fingers twitched. The heart-shaped pads glowed faintly beneath his fur.
Slowly, he reached for his hat. Angel's joking expression melted away as he watched. He straightened. His focus sharpened, eyes fixed on Husk's hands.
"Don't laugh," Husk warned, voice low.
Angel raised his hands. "On my life."
Husk snorted. "You're bad at that."
"On the pig," Angel corrected solemnly.
Something eased in Husk's chest, just a fraction.
He turned the hat upside down on his knee. The magic stirred. Old magic. Lounge magic.
His fingers dipped inside the hat. Nothing.
Across from him, Angel leaned in without realizing it. "Uh-huh," he said, his voice catching a fraction.
Husk lifted his empty paw, palm up.
"See?" he said, trying for flat. "Nothin'."
Husk tilted the hat. Something whispered against felt.
His wrist flicked.
A single playing card slipped free, spinning once through the neon glow. The edge caught the light and briefly turned molten. Gold-orange warmth bloomed faintly around it before Husk caught it cleanly between two claws—Ace of Hearts.
Angel inhaled sharply. It was the sound of someone forgetting to be careful.
Husk tapped the card against the brim. It vanished in a soft puff of gold smoke, faintly scented with ozone and old paper. The smoke curled for half a second, then dissolved.
Angel's mouth opened. Closed. His expression shifted. Surprise first. Then something like awe. Then that dangerous softness.
"…Okay," Angel breathed, voice low. "That's hot."
Husk scoffed. "You say that about everything."
"No," Angel said, quieter. "That's different."
The words weren't flirtation. They were recognition.
Heat crawled up Husk's neck. He looked anywhere but Angel. He reached toward the nightstand on reflex.
"Gimme your hand."
Angel blinked. "Excuse me?"
Husk finally met his eyes. The look between them tightened. His voice dropped. "Your hand. If you want the trick."
Angel hesitated. Then he extended one of his upper hands, palm up. No glove. Bare fur. Warm pink pads.
Husk moved slowly. Their hands hovered inches apart. He could smell Angel clearly now. Sugar and smoke and soap. A scent that belonged to here. To safety.
"You flinch," Husk murmured, "I stop."
Angel swallowed. "I won't."
Husk lowered his paw. Contact.
Angel's hand was warmer than Husk expected. His heart-shaped pads pressed gently into Angel's palm, and a faint gold bloom flared at the point of contact.
Angel gasped. It was sharp, quick, involuntary. His fingers twitched like they wanted to curl around Husk's paw. He stopped himself.
Husk's claws traced slow lines across Angel's palm, deliberate and controlled.
When Husk lifted his paw, something rested there.
Angel looked down. A tiny folded paper heart. Warm. Perfect. Presented.
Angel's breath broke, soft and uneven. "…Husk."
The way he said the name ruined the room. It was bare.
"It's just paper," Husk said, trying to put distance between them.
Angel curled his fingers around it anyway. Careful. Reverent.
"Yeah," Angel whispered. "I know."
Fat Nuggets chose that exact moment to wake. He shoved his warm, blunt little head between them.
Angel laughed, breathless and shaken, and pressed the folded heart briefly to Fat Nuggets' forehead like a blessing. "You missed it, buddy."
Fat Nuggets huffed, satisfied, then wedged himself back into Angel's side.
Husk exhaled slowly. The gold glow faded from his paw pads.
"That's all," Husk said quietly. "That's the trick."
Angel looked at him. Just looked like he was trying to memorize Husk.
"That wasn't stupid," Angel said.
Husk shrugged. Angel placed the paper heart carefully on the nightstand. He adjusted it by a millimeter, then pulled his hand back.
"Your secret's safe," Angel murmured.
Angel's eyes didn't leave Husk.
And when Angel lifted his hand again, slow and hesitant, Husk's breath caught.
Angel's fingers trembled.
Husk's paw lifted a fraction without his permission.
They both noticed.
Angel exhaled, sharp and shaky, and dropped his hand back onto the bed as it burned him.
"Sorry," he whispered immediately. "I… I shouldn't."
The absence hit harder than touch would have. Husk's chest tightened.
"It's fine," Husk said too fast, too stiff. "You didn't do nothin'."
Angel dragged a hand down his face. "I get… stupid when I'm tired."
Husk laughed once, hollow. "Join the club."
Angel turned slightly, shifting back toward the headboard. It carried the weight of a door closing. His shoulders tensed.
Husk felt it like a physical blow.
He stood abruptly, chair scraping loudly against the floor. The sound was violent in the quiet.
Angel flinched.
"I should go," Husk said, voice rough. "You need sleep."
Angel nodded quickly. "Yeah. Yeah, probably."
Husk moved toward the door, steps heavy on the carpet.
At the door, he hesitated.
He did anyway.
Angel gestured toward the paper heart on the nightstand. "…Thanks," he said, voice quiet enough that it barely survived the air. "For the magic. For comin' up. For… not disappearin'."
Husk's throat tightened. He nodded once.
"Night," he managed, rough.
"Night," Angel echoed, softer.
Husk closed the door. The click was gentle. It still sounded final.
Out in the hallway, the air was colder. Sharper. The neon didn't follow him. The hotel's dim light felt flat after the warmth of Angel's room. Husk leaned back against the wall, breath coming too fast, wings trembling faintly as adrenaline flushed through him.
He pressed his forehead to the plaster. It was cool. Unforgiving. Grounding.
"That was stupid," he muttered to no one.
Inside the room, Angel stared at the closed door, as if he were trying to will it open again without moving. His fingers curled into the blanket until the fabric wrinkled. Fat Nuggets stirred, sensing the shift, and Angel pulled him closer, burying his face briefly into bristles, inhaling like he needed something tangible to keep from spinning out.
"That was stupid," Angel whispered into the pig.
Fat Nuggets snorted, unimpressed.
Neither of them slept easily.
Neither of them forgot how close it came.
And the worst part was the part neither of them said out loud, because saying it would make it real: They both knew they'd do it again.
-
Husk didn't remember deciding to try again.
He remembered sitting on the edge of his bed, boots still on, wings hunched too tight for a room this small, hat heavy in his hands like it had gained weight since he left Angel's.
The hotel was quiet in that after-midnight way that wasn't peaceful so much as expectant. Pipes ticked. Somewhere far down the hall, a door closed. The air smelled faintly of old carpet, dust, and whatever cheap cleaner Niffty favored this week. Not pink. Not warm. Neutral. Safe in a way that didn't ask anything of him.
Husk set the hat on his knee. The motion was careful, deliberate, as if he were reenacting a ritual that only worked if every step was right. He flexed his fingers once, feeling the familiar buzz in his paw pads. The heart-shaped marks were dull tonight, barely warm.
"C'mon," he muttered, barely audible. "It's not a big trick."
That was the lie. It wasn't a big trick, but it was a specific one. And Husk didn't like how precise that distinction felt.
He tipped the hat. Fingers dipped inside. Nothing. Just felt. Just the scratchy lining and the faint smell of old smoke that never quite left him. He dragged his claws along the seam, waiting for that subtle whisper, that telltale slide of something lining itself up.
Silence.
Husk frowned. Adjusted his grip. Tried again, slower this time. Nothing. No whisper. No warmth. No hum under the skin.
His paw pads felt inert now. Heavy. Like dead weight instead of conduits. He rubbed them together, frowned when there was no spark, no answering pulse. That's… not right.
Husk's breath came a little faster. He told himself it was the leftover alcohol. That he was tired, that magic wasn't a vending machine you could kick until it gave you what you wanted.
Except it always used to be.
Husk tilted the hat harder. Something clacked inside. He startled.
"Ha," he said, sharp and ugly. "There you are."
He flicked his wrist.
A coin tumbled out and hit the floor with a dull clatter, rolling under the bed like it was embarrassed to be seen. No glow. No smoke. No finesse. Just gravity.
Husk stared at the empty space where the trick should've been. His chest tightened.
"…What," he muttered.
He tried again, this time with more force. Too much force. The hat tipped, and another coin slid out, then another, spilling clumsily onto the carpet. Wrong.
Husk's wings twitched. He scooped the coins up and shoved them back into the hat.
"C'mon," he growled, low. "Don't do this."
He closed his eyes again, harder this time. Pink light. Neon hum. The weight of someone watching without wanting anything. Angel's breath hitching when the card appeared. The way his hand stayed open. The way he didn't pull away.
You stayed.
The thought slipped in uninvited. He opened his eyes sharply.
"Don't," he muttered to the empty room. "That's not how this works."
He tried the trick again anyway. Nothing. Just emptiness. The hat was suddenly too light in his hands.
Husk let out a breath that sounded too much like a laugh. "…You gotta be kiddin' me."
He dropped the hat onto the bed and scrubbed a hand over his face. His paw pads throbbed faintly now, not with magic, but with the echo of it.
That was when it hit him. The magic didn't show up because he wanted it. It didn't show up because he followed the steps. It showed up because Angel was watching. Because Angel stayed long enough to see it. Because for once, Husk wasn't performing to win, or hustle, or survive. He was answering.
And now, alone in a room that didn't glow and didn't hum, there was nothing to answer.
Husk let his head fall forward. His wings sagged. "…Son of a bitch," he whispered.
It wasn't anger that twisted in his chest. It was grief. Because if the magic only came when it was for Angel, then that meant something inside Husk had shifted without asking permission. It meant part of him recognized Angel as a reason.
And reasons were dangerous. Reasons got used against you. Reasons got taken. Reasons got you chained.
Husk stared at his hands, at the stupid heart-shaped pads that wouldn't light up no matter how hard he willed them. He thought about the paper heart on Angel's nightstand. About the care in the way Angel placed it. About the way he apologized for wanting.
Angel didn't stay for the magic. The magic happened because Angel stayed.
The realization sharpened until it was almost unbearable.
Husk exhaled, long and slow, and for the first time in a very long time, he didn't reach for a bottle to drown the feeling.
He sat there. Hat abandoned. Hands empty. Heart beating like it didn't know what game it was playing anymore.
Somewhere down the hall, Angel was sleeping poorly, clutching a folded paper heart like it might disappear if he let go.
And Husk, alone in the dark, understood something that terrified him more than any debt or leash ever did:
If Angel leaves, the magic will go with him.
And if Angel stays again—Husk wasn't sure he'd survive it.