Chapter Text
November 23rd – twenty-three hours earlier
It had only taken one alert to wake Anthony up; he had focused on the phone screen, eyes still clouded with sleep and the sullen look of someone who didn’t have the slightest desire to wake up.
The notification had been an Instagram story from Velvette – he had to decide to delete it from his favorites, he told himself, the time in which he obsessively checked her profile to spy what Valentino was doing was over. Luckily.
What he definitely didn’t expect was to see Valentino himself, dragged out of the men’s room by Vox, holding on to the tycoon as if he were dying, and another man who had come out of the same bathroom just before his ex, with a bunch of tissues pressed against a bloody nose and a dark and deeply humiliated look in the amber gaze he kept down in a room full of elegantly dressed people who were silently watching the scene.
Amber eyes. Yeah.
And while Velvette’s bored but sarcastic voice was commenting in the background on that sort of ‘charity brawl’, Anthony’s heart had jumped into his throat.
Taking the first clothes he had at hand and going out on a cold November morning, before dawn, had been instinct; knocking repeatedly with a devouring rage, which had grown during the taxi ride, on Henry Husker’s apartment door after he had slipped into the building without ringing the bell, had been a very specific intent.
He heard Husk’s sleepy and confused curses even before the snapping of the lock.
“Who the f— Anthony.”
Amber eyes.
He didn’t wait to be invited in: he slipped in with a sort of half-push, barely looking at him, while he heard him close the door and ask a wary:
“What are you do—“
“This is you?”
Husk blinked, caught off guard. He looked down at the screen of the phone that Anthony had unlocked and was practically pushing in his face: him leaving the party, Velvette’s voice on loop.
In the silence of a city that hadn’t yet woken up, the scene sounded even more surreal.
Anthony, undaunted, watched Henry’s amber eyes focus on the screen, realize and... Darken, visibly.
Of course it was him, no answer needed.
Anthony, however, had enough words for both of them.
“Who the fuck do you think you are to interfere?!”
“I just—”
“You what, Henry? Do you have any idea what kind of fucking mess you’ve gotten yourself into? That you’ve gotten ME into?!”
“Hey, it’s not my fault your ex is a fucking psycho—”
“He’s not just my ex, he’s my boss! And you knew it. Have you even thought about that? Did it even cross your brilliant mind that I work with Valentino or were you just playing the fucking hero?!”
“Wha—”
“What, you couldn’t have done it with your wife so you try it with me?! I’m your goddamn experiment to try to be a decent partner for once in your shitty lif—”
That flood of nastiness stopped at the exact moment Husk smashed a half-full bottle of whiskey that had been abandoned on the table onto the ground; a puddle of broken glass and alcohol at the feet of the man who was now staring at Angel with an expression he had never seen before.
It didn’t seem strange to him, at that moment, to think of Henry Husker and frame him in the stories he had told him – Alastor’s fixer who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty when asked.
Dark hair, whiskey eyes, bloody hands.
Anthony shivered, instinctively, as he felt the tingle of a cutting fury, so much so that it seemed strange not to hear a growl at the end of Henry’s words when he hissed a lapidary: “Shut up.”
Now it was his turn to blink and focus: fists clenched, his breathing more rapid and yet an unnatural calm at the bottom of those amber eyes which, more than ever at that moment, seemed like those of a large feline ready to pounce.
He stayed put.
Anthony took a breath, then another. He cracked his neck and stood up straight, to take advantage of the extra inches of height compared to Henry and deliberately stare him down with an air that was nothing short of venomous.
“You had no right to interfere.”
“I said shut. up.”
“Now, because of you, Valentino is going to give me hell and—”
Another sound of glass breaking, this time a tumbler – the sound and the sudden movement of Husk throwing the glass to the floor made him duck his head in a spontaneous reflex. Which made him even more furious.
“Oh so now that is what you do, anh?! You break everything when you don’t know how to argue?”
“I swear to fuck Anthony, if you don’t—”
This time it was the blond who interrupted Husk’s low, husky growl to march toward him – broken glass under the soles of his Docs – and search for the fabric of the gray tee he had probably slept in to yank him higher and look him straight in the face.
“You can smash all the fucking glasses in your shitty apartment, for all I care.” Anthony hissed, freckled knuckles clenching in the fabric, as Henry’s hands automatically rose to grip his wrists, without the usual gentleness.
The anger of both of them, distilled in every breath.
Anthony thought that he had never seen Husk look at him like that and a small voice – which this time was not Valentino’s – made him notice that he didn’t like that feeling.
Not even a little.
“And for all I care, you can get the fuck out of here.” Husk spat out after moments of dense silence, metaphorically ruffling fur as he still gripped his wrists to force him to let go.
This time it was Anthony who was caught off guard; he snorted a half-laugh, salty and incredulous.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“This is my house and I don’t want you here.”
Something tightened in the pit of his stomach and, in response, he tightened his grip on the gray fabric.
See, amorcito? Eventually he will leave too, as everyone always does.
Anthony remained silent, listening to Husk’s rapid breathing and, for the first time since he had entered the house, looking at the damages that the charity brawl had left: left cheekbone purple and swollen, exactly like the eye, a rather ugly scratch on the forehead, near the hairline of silver-streaked hair, and swollen nose. Probably broken.
“Anthony.”
Not Tony, not the velvety murmurs Henry made as he nuzzled into him when he lay between his legs and tickled his neck with his beard.
Anthony. A warning and a threat.
He shook his head, slowly, and swallowed, blinking back what had begun to look disturbingly like angry tears.
“Why did you have to screw it up?” he hissed, unable to stop himself.
He honestly wasn’t sure if the question was directed at Henry.
You were the one who ruined everything, Angel Dust.
Husk barked a sort of humorless laugh, brusque and decidedly incredulous.
“I ruined everything? You barge in here at a fucking indecent hour of the morning and yell at me that I should mind my own business and stay out of your life, you bring up my marriage when you know full well—” he snarled, releasing the grip on Anthonys’ – so tight that the beaded bracelets were imprinted on his skin – to plant the palms against his lean chest and shove him back. Hard.
Anthony, who hadn’t expected it, let go to stumble back – glass cracked again under his soles – and balance himself, avoiding falling.
That rejection burned like salt on an open wound.
“—how much I feel like shit enough already. So no, Anthony, you are the one who ruined everything.” Husk concluded, straightening his tee and pointing peremptorily at the closed door. “And now, since it doesn’t seem possible to have a normal conversation with you, beat the fuck outta here.”
The blond took a ragged breath, stuck in his throat, while a renewed anger – bitter as bile – choked the only words he could muster.
“You’re a dick.”
“And you’re full of bullshit.”
A slap would have hurt less.
Anthony gasped, as if he’d been knocked out of breath by a physical blow.
“... What?”
“I have no idea what the fuck happened in the past or if it’s still happening, nor do I intend to trust that piece of shit Valentino, but there’s clearly something you haven’t told me and I don’t like getting fucking played.”
Tony glared at him in disbelief, feeling the ground fall beneath his feet.
What the fuck did Valentino tell him?
The anger rose again.
“Listen to the fucking pulpit that’s coming from!” he exclaimed, in a snarl. “Of course, because you told me everything about your past, right?!”
“I told you what you need to know, the rest is none of your business.”
“You’re a self-righteous bastard.”
“News for you, darling: I know.” Husk cut him short, starting to walk away to pick up a broom and dustpan and ignoring Anthony, as if he had already walked out the door.
Out of his life.
A detail that made Anthony burst out laughing again, with an absolutely hysterical streak: it wasn’t really a laugh, it was more of a strangled sob.
“Fun-fucking-tastic!” he exclaimed, dripping sarcasm. “Oh that’s really fantastic. How come that any man I end up falling in love with is a total—”
Stop.
Just stop.
Time became tangled in its own fabric, slowing down to such an extent that the perception of the rapid heartbeat reached him far away, as something that wasn’t happening to him. Not at that moment, when everything was gone and all that remained was the awareness of what he had just said.
Spitted out, without even realizing it: a realization that perhaps even Anthony had had at that moment. Struck by a feeling that had grown slowly, over those months, and that he had promised himself he would never feel again.
But you know how these things go, right? The heart does whatever the fuck it wants.
That damn marble rolling down.
Petrified, he found himself staring into a pair of equally shocked amber eyes – standing in the living room of that tiny two-room apartment, a deafening silence interrupted only by Brooklyn starting to wake up outside the window.
Say something, Anthony, please say anything.
Nothing, his brain had officially shut down.
“You—” it was Husk who broke the silence, scratching out a strangled half-laugh directly from the vocal cords, his amber gaze fixed on the other with a half-incredulous, half-terrified look. “You what?”
The blond didn’t know if what hurt him more was the question stuck in Henry’s throat or the look of pure panic plastered on the man he had just confessed to loving in the most stupid, absurd and pathetic way in the world.
The suffocating feeling of being exposed – vulnerable – was something he had forgotten how much he hated. And how much he hated, above all, reading in the eyes of anyone who was facing something he had promised himself he would never see again.
Rejection.
If you were the first to pull away, to build barriers, to treat every person as if they were replaceable, there was no risk.
But Henry Husker, to his great frustration, had carved out an all-too-comfortable niche in his brain.
And, unfortunately, there was no way to get him out.
“Shit.”
Anthony reached into his blond locks with both hands, ruffling them even more, as if trying to hold together something that threatened to break – his self-control had surely said goodbye at least ten minutes ago.
The smile that curved his lips had the deep bitterness of someone who didn’t really believe he had sunk into that situation.
For the thousandth time.
Helplessly, Anthony began to laugh – again, a laugh that had none of the joy that had been there within those walls.
Husk, this time, said nothing – the broom clutched in his hand, forgotten just like the dustpan, unable to move. To do anything other than watch the man in front of him have some sort of breakdown and be unable to do anything to help him.
“Shit, I’m such an idiot.” Anthony sobbed at the end of that laugh, wiping the tears from his lashes with the index and middle fingers of his left hand – it had been the laughter, he repeated to himself, only that. “’Cause you obviously don’t feel the same.”
Husk took another breath, wincing as if stung by something; he swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, searching for the right words.
“Tony, I—”
“Oh, I’m Tony again now? Do I make you feel so sorry that you’ll at least give me the pet name?”
“I really wish you’d stop putting yourself down all the time.” Husk scolded softly – as he always did, without exception, whenever Anthony showed himself to him like this: vulnerable, open. Just himself.
He shook his head, several times, banishing the thought and the familiar feeling of being accepted, completely.
How could he not fall in love with him, after all?
“You’re right, I should go.” he announced, marching towards the door.
“Tony—”
“No, really, it’s much better this way,” he continued, with a certain urgency, turning the handle down and opening the door.
On the threshold, he searched one last time for Husk’s amber eyes, who in the meantime was still standing in the middle of the puddle of whiskey and broken glass on the floor.
The pieces of his heart that he had just taken and shattered into a million pieces.
“Are you in love with me?”
Anthony’s question had the tender and fragile violence of a whiplash – sudden and painful.
To be asked, to be answered with yet another silence.
Henry, pale, opened his mouth a couple of times, unable to formulate any answer.
Anthony curved a bitter half-smile, while the tears once again clouded his vision.
“See? If you don’t know how to answer, the answer is no.”
Husk flinched for the umpteenth time, with an unreadable discomfort.
“See you around, Husk,” the blond greeted, walking out the door without looking back and closing it behind him.
This time, they both knew it was a lie.
November 24th – present
The kaleidoscope of what had been the day after Anthony had slammed the door out of Henry’s apartment was a jumbled mess of memories tangled together.
Images more or less blurry – or incredibly clear – and the familiar sensation he felt when he got so high that he forgot how to hold his head up straight.
At the moment, Anthony had even forgotten how to open the door that led to the lobby of his apartment building. He stood there, hot forehead resting on the door’s dirty glass and eyes half closed in the devouring down from the fix that had melted under his tongue.
A year and a half of sobriety flushed down the toilet along with the little dignity he had hoped to have retained.
The flash of the text he had sent to Cherry after arriving home that morning crossed his mind along with his friend’s response.
Cherry 🍒💣
sorry babe i'm at starbs goth guy’s lake house!! remember him, ye? brb this night
[...]
u okay??
He hadn’t even answered her – too complex to explain over text, too long for a phone call to someone who had better things to do than listen to his sad complaints.
See? She left you too. I’m the only one who will never leave you, Angelito.
Valentino’s voice had been particularly insistent all day.
He squeezed his eyes shut in a sharp breath, a frustrated half-growl as he shook his head and shoved the key in the lock with far too much force.
The image of him leaning on the door with all his weight to open it overlapped with the memory of the body of the stranger he had pushed himself against, looping arms behind the man’s neck and curving a languid smile in the strobe lights of who-knows-what club. Some place different than usual, where for one night he could be whoever he wanted.
He wasn’t Angel Dust, he wasn’t Anthony.
That day, he had been a collage of different names given to as many people he would never see again.
He had been Jeremy, who had stuck his tongue in the mouth of a stranger when the guy had picked him up with the excuse of wanting to try out his tongue piercing.
Pathetic.
He had been Adam, who had been drinking one drink after another, in the pub he had slipped into before moving to the club with a couple of guys he had then lost sight of after leaving his jacket in the cloakroom.
He had been Oliver, who had knelt in the club bathroom and fumbled with another stranger's zipper to suck his cock – if Val had known that he hadn’t even asked for payment, he would have put out yet another cigarette on his ass.
Anthony stumbled up the steps to his floor, dragging the soles of his untied Docs, and remembering too late that he had left his panties in stranger number five’s car – or maybe he had left them there on purpose, as sort of payment for what he had shoved into his mouth on the dance floor.
Chemical paradise.
He wasn’t Angel Dust, who had taken ecstasy like that; he wasn’t Anthony, who had taken his first hit in a year and a half and had remembered why he was still an addict.
A thousand centipedes of intoxicating pleasure swarming under his skin, a wave of excitement that had galloped through his veins until it had tripped his consciousness and reduced the pain he had felt up to that moment to mush.
Why the fuck did everything in his life always hurt so bad?
He thought back to Henry and how, after so many years, the only person who had ever put an end to the desire to drown everything in a fix, a snort or a pill had been him.
It had become a new kind of addiction: not the toxic and inebriating one that Valentino had given him and that he continued to feed, oh no.
It was the addiction to feeling good, sober, centered.
Clean.
It was the desire to be better, to really be worthy of someone, to commit to making something work and not screw everything up.
Well, look at that? In the end you did it anyway.
“Shut up, you fucking bitch.” Anthony chewed, gripping the handrail and stopping on the second floor to catch his breath.
He leaned the head against the stairwell’s wall, eyes closed to stop the whole world spinning around him.
A new flash, a new memory: the black leather seat of stranger number five’s car, underwear yanked down and the short black skirt rolled up his hips; fingers dug into the backrest, the condom he rolled down on the stranger’s cock, the spit sliding towards his hole to soften an entrance that hadn’t been gentle in the slightest.
Anthony took a sharp, annoyed breath, shaking his head again and moving away from the wall to start climbing the stairs again, a little sore.
It had to hurt, like the pathetic fuck with which he had sold himself for a now watered-down pill – the effect, for someone who was used to snorting even plaster, was always very light.
That’s why he always needed more of it. And more. And more.
The keys jingled in his hands on the fifth-floor landing as he reached the door of his apartment wanting to crawl out of his skin and wash it all away.
Henry’s kisses were always so hungry, his hands so gentle, his eyes so kind.
Remembering them now, after the delirious day he’d had, hurt even more.
In the end, Anthony put the keys in the lock – after three strikes – with the firm belief that life had really been a bitch for making him fall first.
You know, lovers always lose: their appetite, their sleep, their head.
Their heart.
It had happened with Valentino, it had happened again with Henry – just when he thought he could be different, that he could control himself.
And…
Wait a minute.
The key turned empty.
Anthony frowned, pretty sure he’d closed the door when he left.
He turned the handle, still a little dazed but more sober than before, carefully peering into the dark apartment.
“Aaah, amorcito! Finally, you’re back.”
Anthony shivered in a cold sweat; that voice was no longer just in his head.
The embers of a cigarette flared in the shadows, near the couch, coloring the suffused darkness of the room with reddish smoke – there was a dim light coming from the windows, now that his eyes were getting used to it – and completely nullifying Anthony’s dizziness.
Suddenly sober, he groped along the wall next to the door for the light switch, even though he already knew who he would see.
There, sitting on the slightly battered sofa, was Valentino himself in all his Latino splendor, with a lit cigarette and his lip split by Henry’s punch.
The sharp, dangerous smile that curved his lips made the gold canine flash, in the poisonous image of someone who didn’t come with good intentions.
“Hola, Anthony.”
The blond cursed himself: he had never asked for his keys back.