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“Please,” Angel whines, drawling the vowels for far too long. He curls himself over the bar counter, showcasing his svelte frame. He pouts and bats his eyelashes for good measure. It’s useless because Husk isn’t even looking at him. Angel tries not to take it personally. Tries.
“No,” Husk says for the umpteenth time; he sounds bored out of his mind as he lazily scrubs the counter with a rag. It’s an obvious subterfuge to avoid looking at Angel because the surface is spotless. Niffty always makes sure of that, the little clean freak.
“Come on,” Angel insists. He’s been trying to convince Husk to attend Cherri’s birthday party with him for what feels like hours now. Angel can feel himself becoming exhausting, but he can’t stop. “There’s going to be booze and drugs and sex. Maybe an explosion or two. What’s not to love?”
Husk doesn’t even deign to respond this time; he turns around and grabs one of the many bottles on display. With a deft use of his claws, Husk uncorks it and takes a generous gulp of the pungent amber liquid. He turns further away from Angel; only his wings are visible now.
It’s a clear dismissal. Angel would know; he’s been dismissed plenty in both life and death. He should gather the scraps of dignity he doesn’t have and leave. Go into his room and snuggle Fat Nuggets or maybe take the pig out for a walk. However, if there is one thing Angel Dust never learned is how to stop, especially when it’s hurting him.
“Please,” he says again, but it’s not bratty or coquettish this time. It’s just tired. Pathetic. Just like him. His eyes prickle with tears, all eight of them. It’s humiliating. The good news is that this is finally his cue to leave. Angel draws the line at letting Husk see him cry.
But it’s just his luck (read: lack of it) that this is when Husk finally looks at him. Really looks at him, feline eyes wide and intent on Angel’s crumbling face. “Why do you want me to go with you?” he asks. “Cherri is your friend, and Charlie cleared you to go out without a chaperone.”
Angel doesn’t answer. He can’t. He tries to swallow but there is a jumble of words and fears in his throat.
“Angel?” Husk asks, tilting his head. There’s something about how he says Angel’s name in that ridiculously deep voice… It cracks Angel like a goddamn walnut.
“It’s just…” Angel sighs. He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. Angel doesn’t like talking about this, not even with Husk. It’s so much easier to fall into his nonchalant and crass porn star persona. It’s his protection, his armor. Why can’t Husk just buy it like everyone else? Why does he have to see beneath the surface when everything in there is rotten and damaged and disgusting and–
“It’s just what?” Husk pries. He’s not letting this go now. Angel should hate this hot-and-cold attitude, but he can’t bring himself to even dislike anything about this fucking avian cat. He’s doomed.
Angel tries to find the words. Something truth-adjacent but that won’t make him sound as pathetic as he is. “It’s easier to make good decisions when you’re there,” he confesses, voice barely above a whisper. Angel is the one who can’t look at Husk now, so he just stares at the colorful collection of bottles on the wall. Once upon a time, he might have grabbed one and left. Fled this difficult conversation. But Angel is trying now. “Charlie said she believes in me, but we all know she’s too trusting for her own good.”
And just the thought of disappointing her…
Husk’s footsteps approach. He’s always silent as – well, as silent as a cat, but Husk knows that Angel becomes skittish when he lets himself be vulnerable, so he makes himself heard so as not to startle him. A small, broken part of Angel waits for Husk to grab his chin to force him to look at him. He doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t. It’s one of his favorite things about Husk; he never touches Angel without permission.
“So, the problem is that Charlie trusts you, but you don’t trust yourself?” Husk asks. It’s quiet and yet the rich rumble of the words makes Angel–
No, Angel stops the thought right there. Nothing good will ever come from it. Husk might insist that they are both losers and might be willing to be his friend, but not… It doesn’t matter. Angel wouldn’t wish himself on anyone, especially Husk. Husk already lost so much; he deserves better than damaged goods.
“Angel?” Husk calls again, and Angel snaps out of it.
He laughs, playing it off, wearing his attitude like a bullet-proof vest. “I mean, who would trust me around a pile of drugs? They call me Angel Dust for a reason,” Angel jokes, but Husk only huffs in annoyance, crossing his arms. He truly has no tolerance for Angel’s persona. “Fine, I don’t trust myself. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“No,” Husk deadpans and takes another swig from the bottle. “I’ll go with you.”
Angel blinks, startled. “Really?”
“Really,” Husk says, and Angel is so happy that he can’t help but hop onto the counter. He grabs Husk’s face and smacks an obnoxiously loud kiss on his cheek.
“Thanks, Husksy, you’re the best.”
Husk’s ears twitch and he clears his throat. “Yeah, yeah, I’m great,” he grumbles, pushing Angel away, but it’s not brusque. It’s careful, and Angel tries his best not to lean closer. “Now let me do my job.”
There is literally no job for Husk to do since there is no one to serve, but Angel lets him be. He slides from the counter and onto one of the stools. Angel mindlessly scrolls on his phone while Husk organizes the drinks on the shelves. Despite selling himself as just a common drunk, Husk knows his booze, and Angel finds something akin to peace in watching him carefully sort the bottles in a complicated system.
If his little atrophied heart skips a beat here and there… it’s a problem for another time. Angel is just happy to have Husk as a friend. A loser just like him.