Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

September 15th – present

Cotton wool.

If someone had asked him to describe the feeling of a hangover, he would have answered like this: it's almost like having cotton wool in your mouth, a dry tongue and a bitter sensation on the back of your tongue. It must also be said that most of the time, the ability to clearly describe the feeling you get after having downed half a distillery is a bit lacking; they should have asked him when the excruciating headache – an army of infernal demons busy razing everything in his skull to the ground – had passed, after a black coffee, an aspirin and a few more hours of blackout. Then yes, perhaps they would have had a coherent answer.

It certainly wasn't new, that's it. Nothing he hadn't already experienced more times than public decency – and his liver – could tolerate.

What was certainly new, however, was that bed; never, in his entire life, had he slept in sheets so soft and so... Bizarre. They were silk, judging by the consistency under the fingertips with which he was rubbing them, and against the beard-scruffed cheek that he raised in a half-grimace to roll onto his back and try to focus on the ceiling, the situation, his life. One thing at a time.

Only no, it wasn't possible. The effort of understanding the above and below had already been challenging enough, but the moment he tried to turn onto his back – ignoring the need that his stomach was screaming at him to stay still and the weight he felt right there – he encountered an obstacle.

He struggled to focus on a plastered ceiling, definitely not the one in his apartment – a crucial crack was missing from the parts of the chandelier that the previous tenant had mounted incorrectly – and a little voice in his head made him assume it was the one in his old house.

About his old life.

The pounding migraine didn't help one bit with understanding accurately.

He muttered something unspecified, struggling to put together two words that made sense and was about to put a hand over his eyes to shield himself from the light that filtered through the curtains of a window to the left of the mysterious bed - a light even too intense for his current tastes.

He tried to raise his hand and move on those wrinkled silk sheets, but at that moment he realized the second news of that morning: he was naked. And except for a dark red tie with the knot still tied although loose, he was stark naked.

“..What the-“

He turned his head to the right, confusingly following the sound of low, quiet breathing that he hadn't registered before, revealing the third, exciting detail: the weight he felt on his stomach was tangible, in the literal sense of the word; upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a pale, decidedly masculine, freckled arm, with vague blond fuzz and quite a few beaded bracelets, lying across his belly and connected to an equally freckled shoulder belonging to a reclining young man next to him, face buried in the pillow and a mop of blonde hair all disheveled. A final glance highlighted how he too was naked and the sheet twisted around his hips by mere chance did not leave even a little room for the imagination.

Henry Husker stared transfixed.

There was something that had to be done, at times like these, something important. Something he was desperately trying to remember but the temporary shock had made him remove.

Husk gasped, unable to stop staring at the Naked Man to his right, who stirred in his sleep with a sigh that precedes waking; as he moved, he rubbed the arm planted on Husk’s belly, making him shiver.

As he tried to remember what the hell he was supposed to do, that arm moved again, unconsciously, towards the strip of black hair connecting his belly button to his lower belly. Dangerously downwards.

He grabbed his hand – the Naked Man's nails were lacquered a questionable shade of purple – to stem the inevitable clash with his morning hardon, which that tickling under the navel and just above the cock had certainly not helped. On the contrary.

It was at that moment that the Naked Man opened his eyes, blinking a couple of times and allowing Henry to focus on a still slightly sleepy hazel gaze, the black pencil a little smudged under his eyes but the languid air of someone who instead seems well aware of himself. And aware of where he was.

“Good morning, gorgeous.”

The Naked Man's malicious smile, half hidden by the pillow, struck him with the force of a mallet against the temple. The glimmer of a golden canine – was it really golden or a hallucination? – made him blink and take in a sharp breath.

It was there, right then, that the dawn of understanding decided to rise and sweep away the hangover fog.

What should you do when you find yourself in bed with a stranger, without knowing why or how?

To ask.

“.. And who the fuck are you?”

September 14th – seventeen hours earlier

There is a motto, in every casino in Las Vegas or in the known world: the house always wins. At the end of the evening, every effort and every bet made, every penny earned, will still be very little compared to what the gaming room will have managed to squeeze out of you, amidst the sparkling lights and tinkling noises of slot machines.

The game is also here, isn't it? Trying to win something impossible.

That's what he always said to his players, dealing out the cards with consummate croupier skill and observing them as they put everything they had up for grabs.

To be good at your job you need to study it and try it. Get to know it.

That's how he started, his father – who he believed it was, at least, his mother had never wanted to delve deeper into the subject – had explained it to him.

What they should have explained to him in detail, however, is that the first moment you pick up a deck of immaculate cards to shuffle it, feeling the rigid rustle between your fingers and watching the colored suits promise wonders, something inside you changes. Something that you probably already had inside you, in some way, and that, recalled by the wink of a Queen of Hearts, quivers and begins to whisper in your ear.

They should have also explained to him that the moment you push the chips onto the green table – colored circles of frosted plastic, glittering promises of money, dreams and hopes – and look your opponents in the eyes to try to read them, knowing you don't have nothing, you are also putting yourself at risk. That you can lose the game – lose yourself – and no one will ever give you back what was taken from you. That you can end up screaming and wake up at night, bathed in sweat, that you can break your knuckles against the mirror of the toilet where you locked yourself so as not to wake your wife and save the shreds of that relationship that you insist on calling ‘marriage’ even if the woman in that bed now only looks at the ghost of who you once were.

Which, after all, he also did it every day, in front of the same broken mirror that he had promised to repair, without success. An empty, haunted shell inhabited by the ghost of a man who had done nothing but follow the unwritten rule of gambling: the house always wins. And that damned piece of soul you inevitably bet will never come back.

“…Henry?”

A blink, Henry's amber gaze lifted from the still untouched glass of water in front of his intertwined fingers, so tight they dwarfed the knuckles of a pair of large, tawny hands. The constant ringing in his ears – he no longer knows if it really exists or if he imagines it every time – slowly faded away, while the reality of where he was enveloped him again, leaving him vaguely stunned.

The Davis Polk & Wardwell lawyer studio. The meeting room. His lawyer, sitting next to him, watching him with a mixture of impatience but silent understanding. The lawyer of who would soon be his ex-wife hosted across the table. His wife – no longer, not for long – with teary, angry eyes, filled with all the things she could have shouted at him instead of just looking at him one evening at dinner and crying, over yet another take-out dinner, that she wanted divorce.

“Henry, shall we continue?”

Henry Husker forced himself to tear his gaze away from the woman he had once loved so much that he had built her a silly swing in the living room, ‘ because in Manhattan there are no houses with gardens ’, to stare at his lawyer, a man ten years younger than him and the face of someone who had already arrived in life or was at least on the right path.

Not like you , giggled that annoying and unbearable little voice that had never left him since that day. Since the Accident. Since what had forced him, his wife and daughter to move elsewhere, to leave the lights of Las Vegas and the Nevada desert behind them, in a hurry and without looking back.

Henry cleared his throat, loosening his fingers and sticking his hands under the table, straightening his posture and cracking his neck in a thick, slow sigh to release the tension. He just nodded, yanking his gaze back to stare stubbornly at the window beyond his wife's head.

Both lawyers nodded in return, turning towards the mediator seated at the head of the table, who in response rearranged for the millionth time the bundle of papers and documents to be signed in which the marriage of Henry and Lidia Husker had become just that: wastepaper.

“Great, I'd say we're almost done. Mrs. Husk– ahn .” a distracted, vaguely embarrassed rustle, while the mediator was looking for the maiden name of the now almost ex-Mrs. Husker. “Dixon. Mrs. Dixon, do you want to add anything to what your lawyer has already expressed?”

Lidia looked again at Henry who, in response, didn't even bother to lower his amber eyes to peek at her, even though that look burned him like she was pressing it against him.

You've always been a coward, Husky.

He could only hear Lidia sniffling, as if she were holding back a half-sob. Whether it was anger, dissatisfaction, or simple sadness, he couldn't tell.

“You can see Caroline whenever you want, if you want.”

Henry's fingers tightened again, under the table, and only then he found the courage to slide his gaze back onto his ex-wife. Lidia had always said that she would have loved for their little girl to have his eyes – “ You are so beautiful, Henry, they look like they are made of amber .” But Henry had always secretly loved that the two women in his life had the same way of looking at him: a pair of bright brown eyes. On the other hand, Caroline Husker had certainly taken his hair, which in Caroline's case had become a mane of black ringlets that not even the toughest combs would have been able to tame. Husk's were slightly disheveled black waves, longer sideburns on the sides, a now salt-and-pepper quiff and silver-brushed temples, which very well underlined his forty years.

Forty-two, Husky, don't lie.

Only after a few moments in which he stared at Lidia in silence – lost in those reflections that had started to come to him at the most inopportune moments – he shrugged his shoulders with the usual nonchalance. Dull, drained – anesthetized with all the alcohol he could get his hands on. At least at today's meeting he showed up sober.

“When you need it.”

He had never lost his Nevada accent; not even with his alleged father, a proud man from Louisiana, and his constant criticism of the way his mother had taught him to pronounce words. Not even after he had gotten out of the way. Or to say it better, that Henry had gotten out of the way – when he wasn't a coward, when life hadn't yet emptied him and everything tasted like whiskey, impudence and hope.

He had grabbed it with his fists, that possible future, the same fists that that asshole had used on his mother – only to not be able to use them anymore, when Henry had broken both of his father’s wrists. What use can a card-dealing wizard who can no longer use his hands have?

He never really knew what happened to him after their last fight.

Lidia looked at him again, her eyes this time no longer just shining but full of those tears that Henry had ignored so many times – he had listened to her sobbing into the pillow until she fell asleep, without having the courage to turn towards her.

The mediator at the head of the table cleared his throat again, while Lidia's lawyer cautiously stretched out a hand to caress her shoulder in a professional but understanding manner and Henry, once again, slid to look at the glass window of the skyscraper, overlooking Lexington Av.

“Custody of the minor will be entrusted to the mother, Mrs. Dixon, until further decision of the court. A social worker will come regularly to check that Mr. Husker's home is suitable to accommodate a minor. The child's visits will take place once a week, unless the mother forbids it. Mrs. Dixon will receive a maintenance allowance in the amount-"

All the following bureaucracy became a background buzz in Henry's head, as he listened to twelve years of marriage – twelve years of their lives – tabulated like a list of assets given away, divided up, shared. Twelve years of love, family and memories torn to shreds by judicial procedures and agreements signed between the two parties on an anonymous dotted line.

The house was owned in Lidia's name – she had always been the rich one between the two, and her father-in-law had never failed to point out how absolutely unsuitable Husk was for his daughter from a good family. Henry has always been an annoying whim that had stuck with her after her rebellious period as a dancer in Las Vegas.

The new Henry’s lease, a squalid apartment on the sixth floor without a lift in Brooklyn, which the social worker would certainly not have found up to standard for a little eight years old girl.

Twelve years in which they had become strangers and the only thing Henry could think about in that moment was how much he wanted to get out of there and drink something until he drowned that horrible feeling of having lost everything – again – in several glasses.

Pathetic, as well as cowardly.

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”

Judging by the way everyone at the table looked at him, the thought hadn't been that much silent. Fuck.

He sighed, rearranging himself in the chair for the umpteenth time and inserting the middle finger of his left hand under the knot of his dark red tie, which until then had been tightened around the collar of a white shirt that had seen better days, to loosen it slightly.

“Sorry. Can we sign these papers and leave? I'm in a bit of a hurry.”

He had never liked goodbyes, let alone when he was about to walk out of Lidia's life without looking back. The same Lidia who, at the moment, was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief that came straight from the hands of her lawyer.

Fuck her and make her happy , Henry thought resigned, I wasn't capable of doing that anymore.

Another rustle of papers, a pragmatic mumble, a black pen. Husker signed where the lawyer wearily pointed, before sliding what was left of their marriage across the polished, expensive wood of the conference room table towards his wife. He didn't even look at her as he got up from the chair, picking up his black suit jacket from the back of the chair and wearing it over his now slightly wrinkled shirt.

“Well, all done here. Mr. Husker, Mrs. Dixon, it was a-”

Pleasure.

The mediator's outstretched hand, accompanied by his parting words, remained hanging in the air as Henry left the meeting room with a vague nod to those present – including his ex-wife – heading towards the elevator as if he had the devil on his tail.

The ding! of the doors that opened first on the thirty-seventh floor and then in the lobby informed him that he had reached his destination, without him remembering anything about the descent.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in the crisp New York September air as he patted his jacket pockets for the pack of cigarettes – a tremor in his fingers that had nothing to do with the temperature, still rather lukewarm.

The first puff with which he asphalted his lungs had the same taste of the bitterness with which he had witnessed the end of the marriage as if it wasn't really him, the one in the meeting room. It wasn't him who had signed, the one who had looked at his wife with indifference and who had dismissed seeing his daughter with a vague "as needed”.

The truth, Husker thought, puffing smoke from the left corner of his lips – without even taking the cigarette out of his mouth – with his hands deep in his pockets, is that it all hurt too much. A fucking pain, as if that last signature had torn something else from his chest and the void had widened a little more. The truth, he then reflected, raising a hand to stop a yellow taxi, is that he could run away as much as he wanted from Las Vegas, from the Accident, from that whole situation; he knew perfectly well that the steps would take him nowhere anyway.

September 14th – twelve hours earlier

If someone had told him, just a month earlier, that he would find himself tipsy – no, let's face it, completely drunk – in a random club somewhere in Brooklyn arguing with the bartender about having another glass of whiskey and thus being able to end that glorious day with his head in the toilet, he would have said: “shit, that's really me.”

Yeah, cause there was nothing new in the way Husk had chosen to drown his frustration – the temptation to gamble everything and leave Lidia without a cent out of pure, selfish and irresponsible satisfaction – in a glass. In several glasses, to be precise; so many that now the aforementioned bartender, a brute with an octopus tattoo on his shaved neck and looking rather exasperated, had denied him another round.

The man with the octopus tattoo reiterated the concept again, shaking his head and starting to walk away along the rather filthy counter of that place where Henry had landed after giving up the money to the taxi driver and telling him “ take me to Brooklyn, wherever the fuck you want .” The taxist had driven for a while, without a specific destination, before abandoning him on a completely random street when the taximeter had reached the amount that Henry had put in his hand.

End of the line.

To be honest, Husk's apartment wasn't too far from where the taxi driver had dropped him off, but he didn't feel like going back and drinking a six pack sitting on the floor still littered with boxes to empty and with the flood of intrusive thoughts who would follow him into the silence of what he had to start calling "home".

So, Black Dot it is.

“Look man.”

That phrase came out more slurred than Husk would have liked, even though the grip with which he reached out to grab the bartender’s elbow was firm. Ready. A legacy of muscle memory that still endures, despite the blood alcohol level.

The bartender, probably accustomed to such scenes, simply stared at him with a vaguely menacing but controlled look; someone who wasn't at his first rodeo.

Husk cleared his throat, as he pushed the empty tumblr onto the counter right towards the hand of the arm he had grabbed.

“I'm paying, so I’m fucking right to want another one. Just one, then that's it.”

The man, unperturbed, gave a polite tug on his arm – Henry let go, without much resistance, but leaned forward a little on the counter, ending up on his chest, perched a little hunchbacked on the stool; the black suit jacket badly crumpled on the seat next to him, the lace-up men's shoes hooked to the footrest and the shirt sleeves rolled up, all wrinkled, up to the elbows. The dark red tie miraculously still around his neck – although at least a couple of collar buttons had said goodbye a couple of hours ago.

“I said no, man.” the bartender repeated, mocking him, before whistling – in the chatter of the place, under which some rock-country music was playing, Husk barely heard him. The buzz in the background was just that: an indistinct and confused noise, the clinking of glasses, the cracking of billiard balls from the three tables piled up at the back of that tavern, the loud laughter of the customers. A place frequented not exactly by Manhattan's crème de la crème.

He didn't see what the bartender was whistling at – or rather, at whom – but when he put his left cheek on the counter to look where the bartender had ended up, he saw him talking to another thug dressed in black and looking like he was the one taking annoying customers and kicking them out. And Henry knew it well: when he worked as a bartender, in the period before becoming a full-time croupier – that youth when he spent all his tips on Las Vegas dancers – he had had a lot of talks like this with bouncers.

Since when had he become the troublesome drunkard to be chased away?

Grumbling, Husker pivoted on his hands to lift himself off the counter he was slumped over to stumble off the stool and walk away; or perhaps leave directly from the club and crawl home, if his feet started to cooperate.

Completely forgetting about his balled up jacket, he headed towards the exit, regardless of possibly bumping into any other customers in the club. And in fact, as it happens, without looking he ended up taking in a guy a little shorter than him, with an infinitely more angry look, stuck in a leather flying jacket with studs on his shoulders. A guy who had three pints of beer in his hand – and sure enough, the crash! that reached Husk's ears confirmed that "he had". They had just all fallen to the ground.

“Christ on a stick, watch where you're going, you fuckwad!”

Henry focused on him, gliding over the burn scar that took up much of the right side of his face, and silently wondered why he had to bump into the seemingly most brawling person in the whole place. Except that he didn't react as one should react on these occasions, with a sincere “sorry” and a retreat.

Oh no, not even a little.

“Fuck you.”

“Oh you, you ugly–”

“Whiskers, where the fuck were you?”

A male voice that Husk had never heard before – Brooklyn accent and somewhat high-pitched, nasal tone, someone that used to chewing syllables and choosing how to pronounce them – interrupted the potential punch that the angry leather shortie threatened to slam in his face. Literally, given that Henry turned his head in the direction of that call at the same time as the guy in question, who in the meantime had grabbed him by the front fabric of his shirt to pull him closer and take better aim.

Whiskers?

Husker raised his thick right eyebrow, looking deeply perplexed.

He focused, at least four inches above his line of sight, on a tall, lanky young man with a mop of blonde hair and lots of freckles on his nose. The young man – clad in a pair of tight black shorts and an unlikely eco-bio-something fuchsia teddy jacket, seductively slipped over the left shoulder – stared at him with a dazzling smile and a wrinkle of his nose.

Was that a gold-encapsulated canine?

The brawling shortie tightened his grip on Henry's shirt, who in response leaned forward a little more in a sudden dizziness, his attention still focused on the blond who was currently approaching them, stopping the Black Docs with equally fuchsia laces there, in the pool of beer on the floor that framed the scene – which for the record, the bouncer still at the counter was observing very carefully.

“Oh, don't make that face!” the blond boy continued the act, waving his left hand with an almost flirtatious air, as if he were chasing away an annoying fly. “I went for a piss for like three seconds and you disappear.” he clicked his tongue against his teeth a couple of times – like you do with a somewhat grumpy cat.

Husk, increasingly confused but sufficiently accustomed to getting out of uncomfortable situations in whatever alcoholic state he found himself in, had the good sense to keep quiet.

The shortie didn’t.

“Is this old drunkard with you?” he asked, skeptically.

The little voice inside Henry growled that he wasn't that old, but thankfully his mouth didn't cooperate.

“Yup! Sorry, he becomes a mess when he drinks. But you know how it is, a difficult day, a boss who takes your soul and makes you work noon and night, things like that.” the blond rattled off, with consummate nonchalance, inventing a potentially valid version.

So valid that the brawler let him go with a final push, clicking his tongue between his teeth in a sort of hiss and walking away muttering something incomprehensible.

The dazzling and disarming smile of his savior slowly disappeared as the other walked away, transforming into an annoyed half-grimace that had nothing malicious about it.

“This place is filled with dickheads. Are you okay, sweetheart?” he asked directly to Husk, who in the meantime was still staring at him without having moved from there.

He blinked, struggling to connect his brain and metaphorically ruffling his fur.

“It was none of your business.”

“You're welcome, it was my pleasure to help you!” the blond chirped promptly, in an ironic tone. Then he chuckled a little, shaking his head and sighing.

“Look, to make this story believable you have to at least pretend to sit down with me.”

He pointed with his thumb behind him to the counter, a little further away from where Henry had been sitting before – Husker followed the direction of his gesture, framing the stool where his crumpled jacket should have been.

Yes, it should have.

“Shit.”

The blond raised his left eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest and resting the weight on his right hip, in the sharp image of disappointment.

“Just say no, dickhead, there's no use insulting me after I saved your drunk ass–“

“No, I–“ he absentmindedly pointed to the counter behind the other's back, struggling to put together a meaningful sentence. He sighed, surrendered, running his fingers through his silver-streaked locks and disheveling it even more.

“I believe they stole my jacket.”

His savior sucked the air between his teeth, in a not exactly happy half-grimace.

“Ouch. Sorry, whiskers. At this point, a shot is a must.” commented the blond, moving forward and catching Husk with an eloquent look – without even realizing it, he ended up following him.

“The bartender no longer serves me alcohol.”

“Oh, but you don't know my power of persuasion. Trust me.” he gave him an understanding wink, glancing over his left shoulder.

“I'm Anthony, by the way. What's your name?"

Chapter Text

September 14th – eighteen hours earlier

Let's face it, Anthony Scavo had never been a patient person.

He pretended very well, of course, and to his sister's daughter he was the best uncle in the world – he would not have accepted to hear otherwise under any circumstances, especially if the author of the statement was an adorable seven-year-old girl with a wild passion for frog puppets – but when it comes to looking after other kids.. Nah. This was not the case.

He was better with dogs, he earned his living by doing so; the amount of bored rich New Yorkers who bought a pet dog and didn't have the material time to look after them was endless and their money a pleasant addition to the fact that he always liked them.

His dog-sitting senses, precisely, reminded him of the delay accumulated on his schedule cause that stupid detox program he had been forced to attend - a program sponsored by the very person he was supposed to meet at least twenty-five minutes ago. But still.

Not lowering his gaze at the brat seated in the plastic chair in front of him, on the other side of the clinic's waiting room, had become an irritating question of principle. Above all, given that he had stolen the last cherry lollipop from the glass vase at the reception and was eating it in front of him without shame; Anthony got the green apple one.

Who the fuck invented apple as a candy flavor?

Little shit.

The child, in response to this mature and polite silent thought which Anthony was very sure was written all over his face, continued to suck his lollipop, sticking his index finger in his left nostril.

An absolutely marvelous scene.

The only thing that prevented the present adult – at least in terms of age – from making an all too obvious disgusted grimace was the sound of the doctor's office door opening, accompanied by the chatter and the unmistakable crystalline and Disney-like tone of his favorite psychiatrist: Charlie.

There's plenty of irony to be inserted somewhere in the word ‘favorite’, considering that Anthony was too busy choking on his own vomit, being resuscitated, and listening to his sister cry and scream at him that either he was ‘off to rehab or they were done’ to choose who would be his shrink for the next nine months locked up in the Mountainside Treatment Center. And even after getting out of there.

“See you next week, Mrs. Tanner!”

Charlie dismissed her with a wave, while the aforementioned Mrs. Tanner approached the brat sitting in front of Anthony – who apparently was waiting for his mother – to hold out her hand for him and walk out of the room. Before leaving, the child in question stuck his cherry-red tongue out at him, unseen.

“Oh, you fuc–”

“Anthony!”

His indignant expression and the probable insult were interrupted by the lively and foresighted greeting of Charlie, a blondie with a loose braid that went down to her lower back, dressed in a masculine suit of black trousers, white shirt and red jacket.

Charlie Magne was the living expression that Disney princesses exist not only in movies and fairy tales but can also live in a Manhattan penthouse on Fifth Avenue – although Charlie would have gladly lived in an occupied basement without complaint, but the Magne family standards were of a certain kind. Above all, there was Samael's fatherly desire to keep his daughter out as much as he could from the irrepressible demon of being a Red Cross nurse and savior of the needy and derelicts, so that the entrepreneur's descendant would never be seen hanging out in a crack-house to bring lunch to the junkies who occupied it.

Page Six had been talking about it for weeks. But this is another story.

Anthony clicked his pierced tongue against his left cheek a couple of times, taking the apple-green lollipop out of his mouth, standing up and stretching his long, well-trained body – a thinness given to him not only by drug, but something that the Italian-American genetics had left him with; unlike Nicholas, the older brother who had stopped growing at a certain point during adolescence, Anthony and his twin Molly had blossomed; especially him.

A lanky blond man at least 6'1” – not counting the extra inches added by the tank of black Docs with fuchsia laces – stared at Charlie a good few inches below with a cheeky smirk. The right gold-encapsulated canine flashed for just a moment.

“Hey doc, always a pleasure.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting, but Mrs. Tanner had an emergency and I had to reschedule her appointment, I don't usually do this like, you know, I'm really sorry–”

“Charlie.”

Living proof that all psychiatrists have at least as many problems as their patients; in Miss Magne's case, logorrhea and the savior complex. Not to mention the obvious daddy issues, but that's another matter and Anthony hasn't studied enough psychology to be able to delve into it.

And to be honest, from which pulpit could he accuse her anyway.

“No problem, I already warned the owners that I would be stopping by later.”

“Thank you and sorry again.”

Charlie's smile could have summoned pretty little birds at the window, Anthony would have bet on it.

At first, this cheerfulness that seemed forced bothered him immensely, but having spent nine months in therapy and having been seen in the worst conditions had given him the certainty that Charlie was anything but false. It was a reassuring thought, in a certain sense, the same one he felt in that moment, softening that slightly annoyed smile from just before.

“Loona, can you call Mr. Kepler and tell him to delay our appointment by half an hour? So we don't keep him waiting.”

The pop! of a pink chewing gum was the first response Charlie received, while Anthony lazily cast a hazel glance at the receptionist seated behind the counter.

In three months of going to the studio once a week, the perpetually bored-looking goth girl sitting back there – lots of piercings, the right side of her head shaved and long hair bleached gray – had barely looked up from her cell phone to welcome patients. So, like always, she simply shot Charlie a black-coated look and muttered a sort of indolent assent, before going back to scrolling Instagram with her thumb lacquered in black nail polish.

Anthony wondered again, genuinely, how they could have hired her in the first place.

Charlie giggled with incredible nonchalance, satisfied, walking away and leading the way into her study.

The Mountainside Treatment Center was a palette of warm, light colors, a riot of beige, cream, various shades of wood and gray; abstract prints on the walls – in the same sandy, relaxing shades – and ivory carpets everywhere in what looked more like a luxury SPA than a detox center.

After all, Manhattan has a certain reputation, as does the Scavo family: even though his father no longer wanted to see him or finance him after he discovered ‘certain things’, Molly had full access to the family funds.

Absolutely illegal and up to their elbows in the Mafia's dirty money, but money doesn't look in anyone's face.

Thus, his hospitalization in the previous months had gone smoothly and, at the moment, the follow up sessions with Dr. Magne were also going well – those and the meetings with the other recovering drug addicts. Even if, as everyone told him, you never really heal: you just learn to live with the desire to get a fix, take a snort, swallow a pill down.

Anthony sank lazily onto the chocolate brown leather sofa inside Charlie's studio, lifting his Docs to plant the heels of his long, slender, freckled legs on the armrest as the doctor closed the door and moved to her usual position: the opposite sofa, next to the bookcase filled with various medical texts, slightly suffering plants and a few photographs here and there.

“So, Anthony.” Charlie began, crossing her legs to place the notebook on her left knee and swing the black pointed high heel shoes lazily, clicking the pen ready to take notes. “How was this week?”

“Great.” he replied promptly, with a certain indolence, without staring at her but scrolling with his thumb on his cell phone one Instagram reel after another; a background perhaps irritating but which didn't seem to disturb Charlie even by mistake. “Just great, yeah. I have a new number at the club and Fat Nuggets’ family recommended me to some of their friends, now I walk their dogs too.”

“Valentino's club?”

The question – which wasn't really, despite the question mark – made Anthony remain silent for a few moments, busy scrolling the screen without wanting to look at her yet. The thin wrinkle between his slightly furrowed eyebrows confirmed that he had heard her perfectly, however.

“.. Obviously.”

“And what happened to what we said to each other–” the rustle of paper that reached the blond's ears suggested him that Charlie was going back through her notes, even though he remembered very well the conversation she’s trying to recall. “Three sessions ago?”

“Mh?”

“The resolution you had set for yourself to find work as a performer in another club.”

Anthony remained silent, darkening slightly: his brow was now visibly furrowed and he looked like someone who didn't seem very inclined to talk about that particular topic.

He heard Charlie's sigh, which made him blink and take his hazel gaze away from the screen to finally look at the psychiatrist, with an insolent face. The other was not discouraged and offered him another of her Disney-like smiles, open and calm.

“And how is it going with the weekly NA meetings? Are you going?”

The hum that came out of Anthony's throat sounded like a sort of assent but a very doubtful one.

“.. Aaaaaalmost all the time.”

“Anthony–”

“Hey I know, I know, doctor's order otherwise you’ll put me back in here.” he cut her short, sitting up properly now and blocking the screen to put the phone away; he looked directly at Charlie, who returned the look with a vaguely melancholy expression. “I only missed two meetings, and for the evening one last week I had a very good reason to skip, Cherri had found tickets for–”

“Anthony.”

He swallowed whatever retort was about to emerge as he caught sight of the psychiatrist’s gaze. Okay, Charlie was a Disney princess, but when she looked at her patients like that, she was no joke at all. No threat, never: just the solemn and conscious expression of someone who takes her job seriously.

“If you don't go to the meetings, I’ll be forced to write a negative report. And considering that your sister is still your legal guardian, after the last–"

“Come on, I’ve been clear for almost a fucking year!”

“–time you ended up hospitalized here, I strongly advise you to follow the prescriptions of your psychiatrist, that is me, if you don't want to be treated like a child.” Charlie continued, regardless of the interruption. Her cheeks became redder when she had to show off what she liked to call 'aggressive kindness' – as Anthony had heard it defined.

He sighed, annoyed, drifting to stare at the bookcase, suddenly interested in the few photographs that peeped out among the various medical and psychology texts; he focused in particular on a photo of Charlie and her girlfriend – he had seen her at least a couple of times, in the nine months in which he was hospitalized there, when she picked up the doctor on her motorbike after Charlie’s shift – sitting on a wall of who-knows-what building in Manhattan, half hugging and smiling. Charlie’s cheeks redder than usual and an empty wine glass in her hand.

God, it's been so long since he'd had a drop of alcohol.

“Fiiiiine ~” he chanted, in an exasperated sigh, his left cheek resting on the same hand and his elbow propped on the arm of the sofa, unable to look at the psychiatrist. “I'll go. Happy?”

Charlie's placid but enthusiastic ‘ mhm ’ confirmed to him that yes, she was definitely happy.

“Is there anything else you would like to tell me?”

September 14th – ten hours earlier

It probably wasn’t exactly how he expected the evening to end; it started in the usual way, with a couple of johns, and now he found himself in a pretty aroused situation. And no, not cause he had been paid.

Like, who would have thought that the guy he had saved – or picked up, point of views – at the Black Dot while he was enjoying a well-deserved ‘break’ from the johns, will end up pressed against the wall of the alley behind the club and not because some short-tempered dude wanted to punch him?

Funny, just how fast one night could change.

Anthony shoved the tongue in his mouth in a hungry kiss, like he could even get himself drunk with that breath of whiskey and tasting the cigarette the other had smacked away just before crashing his mouth against Anthony’s lips.

And it’s not that the other was standing still.

Oh no, not at all.

Husk’s hands firmly clinging to Anthony’s ass, a knee stuck between his legs against which Anthony rubbed himself in a soft moan; he tore the same sound, although decidedly more like a scratched and throaty growl, right from Husk when he sank his teeth into his lower lip before lapping the cold, metallic ball of the piercing over it.

Anthony moved away only to breathe on his mouth, eyes half lidded and expression languid, rubbing his forehead against Husk’s to stop him in a ‘ssssht’ while the other leaned forward to catch his lips again.

“Take it easy, kitten.”

“Call me a kitten one more time and I’ll punch your face.” Husk muttered without any real threat. Just ‘ Husk ’, which Anthony had assumed was some sort of nickname or surname, considering that he had not given him any other answers to that request for introductions which had occurred a couple of hours ago.

Hours, glasses – non-alcoholic for him – and chats.

Going from talking – even if Anthony’s had been a sort of monologue, Husk seemed more interested in listening to him and gulping down another hard-won whiskey only thanks to Anthony’s persuasion power – to coming out to take a taxi had been rather fast.

Going from staring at each other to kissing like that , stumbling into the alley, had been even faster.

Not that Anthony was complaining, of course: one of the main reasons why he had intervened in that pathetic scene between drunks and show-offs was the fact that Husk was a certified daddy: tall – even if less than him, which certainly wasn’t a problem – broad shoulders, well built, slightly silvery dark hair to get your fingers tangled in and pull, an equally salt and pepper beard bristling in all the right places, tawny skin and those eyes.

Oh yes, those amber eyes – vaguely feline, in a certain way – which in the moment they had stared at him, although clouded by the distillery he had downed, had made something flicker deep down in Anthony’s lower belly.

Anthony chuckled without restraint, massaging the back of Husk’s neck with the fingertips of the hand he had stuck right there, at the base of his skull, to hold on to his hair.

“Oh, kitten has claws.” he gurgled, languidly, getting in return a sort of another exasperated growl that took the form of yet another kiss – Anthony’s breath broken by the contact of those lips that made him close his eyelids again, open his mouth to welcome Husk’s tongue and start rubbing himself against the other’s knee in obvious demonstration of the effect he was having on him; and the fact that Husk had literally growled had made him even harder.

Just as Anthony was sliding his hand not gripping Husk's hair further down – to rest it right on the crotch of his trousers and moan softly against his mouth the satisfaction of feeling that the effect was definitely shared – there was yet another interruption.

Another thick and slightly shaky breath, not from Anthony this time, as Husk pressed their foreheads together to catch his breath.

The blond thought that looking at Husk short of breath, with those amber eyes and the look of someone who would fuck him right there in that alley, wasn't helping his self-control. At all.

“I’m not–”

There were several words he might not like associated with that ‘not.’

Anthony remained silent, however, his hand still firmly resting on Husk's cock to feel it over the fabric of his trousers and lightly rub his palm against that hardness, intoxicated.

And to think that he wasn't even getting paid; perhaps this was better not told to Valentino.

“I don't think you have any blood left in your brain to tell me what ‘you’re not’, Husky.” Anthony teased, grinning and slowly rubbing his freckled nose against his – he looked as if he'd broken it at least once.

There came a half-cuss under his breath and a shake of the head, as if Husk needed to clear his head.

“I'm drunk.”

“I noticed.”

“I'm not sober.”

“Do you want to give me other synonyms?”

“I can’t–” incredible how he still managed to hold a more or less meaningful conversation, even if it was slurred. Anthony was pleasantly surprised and incredibly amused. “Take advantage of you.”

The blond chuckled again, quite in disbelief.

“If anything they could accuse me of the opposite, considering that you are the drunk one.”

“I kissed you.”

Anthony's grin glinted gold in the darkness of the alleyway, while his grip on Husk's crotch tightened to feel it between his fingers – even through the fabric. This earned him yet another low, hungry sound from the other’s throat, as if it were a purr.

This man will make me go feral.

He leaned in to whisper directly in his ear.

“I know.”

Husk – who in all this had not yet removed his hands from Anthony's ass, clinging to those black shorts that left very little to the imagination – caught his breath, although his breathing showed no sign of slowing down, especially not when the blond began to trace a trail of kisses from the jaw down, along the throat and neck until reaching the wrinkled collar of the shirt; his amber eyes narrowed, languid again.

“There were the house keys in my jacket.”

A glimmer of awareness, in all that alcohol.

“It's okay, I know a place.”

“I'm not coming to your house, I don't know you.”

“And I don't want you there, whiskers.” Anthony replied without hesitation, while that hand on the crotch moved up a little to yank the shirt out of his pants and find the skin.

Oh, the delicious feeling of lower belly hair against his fingertips as he fumbled to undo the button.

“Say you’re a serial killer in a very sexy disguise, I'm not going to show you where I live.”

“I'm not sexy.”

“Oh, so you’re a serial killer?” Anthony joked, peering at him and raising his left eyebrow with an ironic look but an amused glint in the depths of his hazel eyes. “Can't you just take a compliment and shut up?”

Husk moaned again, before pressing his head against the brick wall behind his back and arching his hips in an instinctive gesture against the blond’s hand that had found its way inside his pants, and his boxers. He gripped his ass tighter to pull it onto him, making Anthony stumble a little as he giggled and tightened his grip around his cock.

“So, will you come with me and let’s see if we can do something about this, anh?” he mewed, sliding back to his ear in a wet trail of kisses to leave that hot murmur there.

Husk nodded, rubbing his profile against Anthony’s in what seemed to him a caress more animal than human, hungry and languid at the same time.

Yeah, definitely feral.

“Make me feel better.”

Anthony blinked, caught slightly off guard by those words that sounded far too ‘personal’ for a shag that was just about to start in an alley behind a completely random club in Brooklyn.

He stopped his hand in Husk’s pants and the grip on the back of his neck became a sort of caress, before letting him go and removing his other hand too.

“I'll call a cab.”

A kiss to seal that agreement and a nod from Husk who, left there against the wall, simply refastened his pants with some difficulty.

And while Anthony called the taxi, he tried not to think about everything Valentino might say to him – shout at him – if he found out that he was about to take a drunk to the usual hotel where he went to fuck the clients without getting paid a single cent.

But then again, he had promised Charlie this at every session, hadn't he?

Cutting ties with Valentino also and above all meant disobeying him.

And for that pair of amber eyes – for those words that had tickled his damned empathy – the consequences seemed like something rather distant, buried somewhere at the bottom of his conscience.

Chapter Text

September 15th – present

Finding the place where Alastor had arranged to meet him had proven to be some kind of a quest, considering that that asshole loved dragging him to unlikely places that not even Google considered reachable; once it was a place open for more or less three days that didn't even have a website, the other time it was a home-restaurant and therefore “it's obvious that it's not marked on the map, Husker, don't be silly”, the yet another time it was a sort of traveling kiosk stuck in an unknown area of Central Park.

It seemed to be one of Alastor's favorite amusements to make his life miserable.

This time, by some chance dictated only by karma that had decided to give him a break, the taxi had abandoned him in the middle of the Wall Street area; from there, following the bizarre directions to reach The Red Lotus had been an interesting adventure – it's a fact that doctors have unlikely handwriting.

So, fully hungover and with yesterday's clothes, he showed up at the only old-fashioned Chinese restaurant in that profoundly modern neighborhood.

The waiter at the entrance had let him in by looking around discreetly, as if he were accessing some secret club – but knowing Alastor, it could have been like that.

He had been waiting alone for at least fifteen minutes, sunk in the jade green velvet armchair around a round table with a revolving tray in the center; the waiter had taken him to a sort of private room, separated from the other tables, occupied only by Asians or businessmen that who knows what they were talking about. Certainly not the weather, considering the air of profound discretion displayed by all the waiters.

He had ordered some water – no aspirin, alas – and had already finished it, so there was nothing left to do but massage his left temple, his cheek resting indolently on the palm of the same hand, his elbow propped up on the aforementioned table.

All he had to do was distract himself and not think about the smell of fried food that wafted through the restaurant, which under normal conditions would have made him very hungry, while at the moment he was only thinking about how much he wanted to barf even his soul.

He closed his eyes, in yet another sigh of the day, while the flashes of the night before crossed his brain in a rush of pleasure.

Blond hair clenched between his fingers, the silver ball of a piercing tickling his nipple, the freckled back into which he had sunk his nails, the sound of fabric stretching until it tears, an amused and excited moan whispering in his ear–

“Husker, my good friend!”

Henry gasped a bit, reopening his amber eyes and blinking a couple of times to raise the gaze and focus on the one he was waiting for: Alastor and his perpetual, charming smile.

They'd met at Louisiana State University – that time in life when Husk thought business studies would really get him somewhere, but the lure of Las Vegas and casinos had been too great.

The promise of a faster, more glittering and adrenaline-filled gambling career had been far more attractive than years of study and subsequent work; he had dropped out after the first year, without exams or money in his pockets: the clandestine poker club held by the fraternities had been a great way to lose, win and then lose again.

He had gained Alastor, however, a School of Medicine freshman who for some reason unknown even to Husker had taken a liking to him; in his own way , of course.

Henry was pretty good at reading people – especially at the gaming table – but after all these years he had never really understood what was going on in the head of that asshole who had beaten him at poker so many times that once he had forced Husk to run around campus in his underwear to pay off their bet.

“You're late.” Henry groaned, watching the man take a seat in front of him, undoing the button of his dark red jacket and automatically smoothing out the high-tailored black shirt he was wearing underneath, which underlined the caramel shade of his mulatto complexion.

When he wasn't busy chopping up corpses as a medical examiner – locked away in the Lennox Hill Hospital morgue, where he could stay away from people – Alastor had a tendency to dress in an almost anachronistic manner.

A charming gentleman from another era.

“Actually, the early one it's you. I specifically chose to give you a different time from our agreed appointment, considering your tendency to be late even on the most important occasions.” he pointed out, removing an imaginary lint from the shoulder of his jacket and smiling again at him. Sharply.

He looked him up and down, coldly, and Husk felt as usual under scrutiny. Except this time he was pretty sure he couldn’t get away with it.

Alastor wrinkled his nose a little, looking vaguely disgusted.

“Tell me you're not wearing the clothes from your walk of shame, please.”

“​The clothes.. ?”

“The ones from last night, Husker. Tell me you didn't choose the day before the interview that I so generously obtained for you with one of my contacts to get drunk in some seedy– That's a hickey.”

Although the question mark was missing, Alastor's raised eyebrow and that smile tinged with a shade of disgusted amusement made Husk’s thick eyebrows rise.

Yet another flash of the night before – a tongue running over his Adam's apple, making him moan, before a mouth latched onto the left side of his throat to suck softly as Henry's hands slid between the thighs that pressed him against the mattress to search for something – made him blush on his ears. Unmistakably.

He brought his hand to the left side of his neck, massaging a purple trace that in his haste that morning he hadn’t even seen in the mirror.

Maybe he had purposely avoided looking.

He cleared his throat, nonchalantly, tugging the wrinkled collar of his shirt up a little further. His silence was a telling enough response – as was Alastor's scolding sound.

“Embarrassing. How old are you, thirteen? Thank you.”

The last ‘ thank you ’ was for the waitress – a pretty Asian girl with a red dress, who had brought them the menu without saying a word.

“I didn't notice.”

“That someone’s mouth was trying to peel off a piece of your skin? For sure.”

“Look, just because you don't like to fuck doesn't mean that–”

The next words got stuck in Husk's throat as Alastor's dark eyes lifted from the menu to glare at him, both incandescent and lethal: a red-hot, sharp and far from friendly blade.

He swallowed, vaguely uneasy.

“Sorry.”

Alastor lazily turned a page of the menu, adjusting his small round glasses with thin metal frames and returning to stare at the writings in English and Cantonese.

“A gross and messy pastime that doesn't even deserve my attention.”

“I know.”

“But yours does.” he replied again, peering at him over his glasses and accentuating that inscrutable smile again. “I thought you were no longer having sexual intercourses with your wife.”

Husk settled himself better in the suddenly uncomfortable seat.

“I told you confidentially.”

“I don't consider slurring drunk on my house’s sofa to be a conversation worthy of the discretion that certain matters deserve.”

Husker sighed, for the umpteenth time, dropping the menu and resting his elbows on the table to go back to massaging both temples now, leaning forward a little on the table. Alastor's highly polished and formal vocabulary – practically devoid of a Louisiana accent, by choice – didn't help his headache. At all .

“It wasn't my ex-wife.”

“Oh right, the divorce signature. It was yesterday, right?”

He knew it very well, yet that need to reiterate the concept in an arrogant smile made Husk want to stop holding his head and smash Alastor’s face instead.

He limited herself to glaring at him, not saying a word.

“So what was it, a sleazy farewell fuck? Lidia’s final act of compassion towards you?” Alastor asked, rather bored, turning the pages of the menu as casually as he talked about Henry’s sex life and what was left of his marriage. “I think I'll have the lacquered duck.”

Henry remained silent, his mind drifting elsewhere again.

September 15th – three hours earlier

The Naked Man sat up between the silk sheets, stretching lazily – he stretched his arms upwards, bending his left elbow behind his back and pulling it with his right hand before relaxing his shoulders and cracking his neck in a satisfied breath.

Regardless of Henry's question, as if he hadn't even heard him.

Husk, for his part, slid to stare at him with renewed attention, following the path of freckles from his thin shoulders along his slender chest, getting stuck for a couple of moments in the left nipple’s piercing – the one he had sucked between his teeth, to make him moan in a way that he remembered perfectly and that threatened to transform that morning hard-on into a full erection – and continuing downwards, where the hips tightened to reach the line of the lower abdomen and what was under the sheets.

Now, with the stretching, not so much under.

“Yeah, I'm still hard.”

Husk, caught red-handed, yanked his amber eyes to search for the stranger's, locking onto that hazel gaze that shone with mischievous amusement. Something that then became a hint of laughter – crystalline and dirty at the same time – as he ran his fingers through his light blonde hair to untangle the tuft.

“Relax whiskers, nothing happened.”

Well, this was definitely not what Henry expected.

He blinked.

“.. What do you mean.” he asked, warily, watching the Naked Man get out of bed and head towards the bathroom. In the room. In what looked, to all intents and purposes, like a hotel room of some sort.

But more than the furniture, Henry's gaze focused on the stranger's bottom – equally freckled, with a small stylized heart tattooed on the right cheek.

Husk’s hands sunk there, holding on tightly, when he had taken off the stranger’s black shorts to reveal a pair of pink lace panties under which was an already hard cock that had made Henry’s mouth water.

Husker shook his head – bad idea, given the hangover – to get back into focus.

“Meaning you were so drunk I was about to give you a head and you fell asleep.” replied the Naked Man’s voice from the bathroom, from which came the sound of water from the drain, then from the sink and then he reappeared wrapped in a white bathrobe that he was lazily tying at the waist.

First, Henry noticed the hotel's monogram – one of any Best Western around New York. Because he was still in New York, right?

As he thought about it, his aching brain decided this was the time to really dwell on the stranger's words.

He frowned again, his ears red and his expression annoyed.

“Hey, I don't–”

Dark.

A new flash.

Time that rewinds quickly, back not even clear how many hours but which fits into the plot at a certain point of the evening at the Black Dot. The guy with the beers he had bumped into, the stranger's intervention, the other two glasses of whiskey and the chatter at the bar; the work as dog sitter, the photos of some kind of chihuahua dressed in a pink sweater, a slightly nasal but genuine laugh that rings in his ears. The other's knee pressed against his, a freckled nose that wrinkles as he stares at him, long fingers that casually run through his salt and pepper quiff to underline that it suits him, that gives him the look of an actor from Hollywood in its heyday.

Husker opened his mouth, without a sound coming out. Not yet.

The Naked Man tilted his head slightly towards his right shoulder, raising his left eyebrow in a perplexed manner.

“You don’t .. ?”

The stolen jacket so no wallet or house keys, the offer to pay for a taxi in exchange for a cigarette; the glimmer of the gold-encapsulated canine, in the orange light of the streetlight. That stranger who had spoken to him, who had treated him without coldness, who had filled the deafening silence in his head and made him forget for a couple of hours the desire to gamble everything he had left in his account at the first table poker – his voice had been more effective than all the alcohol he'd downed that evening; his irresistible desire to feel that smiling mouth on him, to feel better. A little bit'.

Henry cleared his throat, again, as the memories tangled up pleasantly on each other.

Just like them, tangled in the cab. The direction muttered by the stranger to the taxi driver, the hotel reception, the blue carpet in the corridor after the lift in which they kissed again. And again. And again. The click of the electronic key to open the door, the breathing in the darkness of the room and the urge to tear off one's clothes to feel the skin under the fingers, the lips. Mixing moans with growls, with clenched-teeth curses for a devouring pleasure, the silk sheets under his back and the weight of a thin, warm body crouched on top of him. The fingers threaded through those blonde locks, the pleasant and sleepy languor given by the alcohol and the sensation of feeling so good, the touch of the stranger's mouth that descended lower and lower from his chest to his lower abdomen and then–

Dark. Again.

“..Anthony.”

The blond blinked again, straightening his head and stretching a half-smirk that was both amused and perplexed.

“So now you remember my name.”

Henry nodded, covering himself better with the sheets, even though being dressed only in a dark red silk tie didn't give him that much authority. Anthony, in fact, snickered again.

“You were already wasted when we started drinking. I'm surprised you managed to remember my name.”

There was something underlying that comment that Husk was unable to grasp completely. Perhaps the fact that the other had averted his gaze to look around for something, perhaps the crease of his lips – awared and a little bitter – as if that were a situation that happened quite often. Not the ( lack of ) sex with a stranger: the fact that in the morning, whoever was there, rarely remembered the man they had spent the night with.

He frowned again, undecided whether to consider that sensation real or not, while Anthony resumed speaking with the fluency of someone who always seems at ease in every situation. The left shoulder of the bathrobe slipped down, almost as if it were more of a dressing gown than anything else, as he bent down to rummage without even asking permission inside Henry's pants for the pack of cigarettes.

Husk, still too confused by the pieces of the previous night that were slowly fitting together in his brain, said nothing.

Anthony, thankfully, still had words for both of them.

“I paid for the room.” he began, lighting the cigarette – his tone a little slurred due to the filter held between his lips. The fact that he shouldn't smoke in the room seemed like an absolutely negligible detail. “No worries. But I recommend that you go and report the theft of your jacket and wallet like, now .”

He took a thick, satisfied drag before exhaling the smoke from the left corner of his lips and pinching the filter between his fingers so he could speak again, his hazel gaze locked on Henry.

An indecipherable flicker.

“You know, I really, really wanted to–” he sighed dreamily. “–fuck, but considering how drunk you were, maybe it’s for the best.”

Husker cleared his throat, for the umpteenth time, scratching the back of his neck a little uncomfortably and looking away from the blond with a grumpy expression to look at literally anything else in the room. After a couple of moments, he focused on the burning cigarette that appeared before his nose.

He raised his amber gaze again to catch sight of Anthony, who in the meantime had approached the bed again and was grinning at him eloquently, offering him his own cigarette – which Henry took, thanking him in a silent nod.

“We could reschedule and finish another time, what do you say?”

The question caught Henry quite off guard and he nearly choked with the smoke. He exhaled, eyeing the tip of Anthony's tongue teasing the golden canine in a mischievous smirk.

“I am—”

Married, separated, divorced? Messed up, unemployed, a gambling addict?

The events of the day before and the signing that decreed the end of his marriage crossed his mind along with a thousand other details that a stranger, no matter how friendly, certainly shouldn't know.

“Married.”

You’re always a shitty liar when you're not at the gaming table, Husky.

Anthony remained pretty unfazed, simply crossing his arms across his stomach lazily and raising his left eyebrow for the millionth time.

“Ah-anh. And where is your wedding ring?”

Henry raised the hand holding the cigarette to notice the obvious absence of the gold band on his left ring finger. He sighed, taking another drag and ending up passing the cigarette back to Anthony, who took it from his fingers.

“It's complicated.”

September 15th – present

“It's complicated.” repeated the Henry of the present, sitting in that jade green armchair in The Red Lotus restaurant, with a splitting headache and a sense of guilt that he couldn't understand whether it came from having almost taken advantage of Anthony – even if he was the drunk one – or from lying to him so blatantly.

Maybe both.

“My interest in this story ended five minutes ago, Husker, focus on your order. I’m hungry.”

You could always count on good old Alastor for a few words of comfort.

As if summoned by the needs of the doctor’s stomach, the silent waitress from before appeared at their table with a notebook to take their orders.

Henry suppressed a half-snarl and the desire to get up and leave only thanks to the reason why Alastor had arranged to meet him in that sub-species of opium den disguised as a restaurant.

He tightened his fingers, between the silver-streaked temples, and ended up running them all the way to the nape of his neck to straighten his quiff and try to calm down while Alastor reeled off his lunch to the diligent girl, who took note – Anthony's fingers in his hair had given him a completely different, pleasant sensation.

He waited for his turn in silence, basking in that thought for a couple of moments before the guilt came back to bite his stomach. Or maybe it was just the alcohol that threatened to spill out , upon smelling a trail of spring rolls passing by their private room.

“Just a coffee for me. Black.”

The waitress took note and left, despite Alastor's expression of placid disappointment.

“I invite you to lunch and all you order is a coffee?”

“No, you set me up for an interview that by some bullshit-astral coincidence is in your lunch break, so don't fucking bother me.”

“Mm, fair enough.” Alastor cut him short, in his usual smirk, leaning back and intertwining his fingers – very firm, those of a surgeon if he hadn't chosen not to deal with the living – to stare with interest at the aquarium that separated their table from the rest of the room.

Husker remained silent for a few moments, thoughtfully smoothing his tie.

Pale hands, with freckled knuckles, that had tugged and pulled that very tie out of the way unbuttoning his shirt. Anthony's excited voice panting against his ear, one button after another: don't take this one off, I want to hold on to it while you put your—

“So.”

This time it was Henry himself who tore himself away from these thoughts, which were rapidly becoming pretty unsuitable for a conversation of any kind. As well as threatening to make him hard again.

“Who is this mysterious contact of yours?”

Alastor stared at the fishes, tracking the floating path of a surgeonfish – blue and yellow – in the tank next to them. The everlasting smile, this time with his mouth closed.

“All you need to know is that he is one of the tycoons of Wall Street and that he needs to move large amounts of money without too many controls.”

Now Husk understood why he had chosen that place for lunch.

“Money laundering?”

Alastor shrugged casually.

“Not directly from you, no.” he specified. “He has a place artfully constructed for this task, a refined speakeasy that works wonderfully. But his last bartender had–” Alastor paused, slowly drifting up to find Husker's amber eyes, a dark shadow at the bottom of the black gaze. The smile, as always, just right there. “An unfortunate accident. So, he needs a replacement.”

Wonderful.

“A bartender.”

“A trusty no-questions-asked bartender, Husker, and I immediately thought of you. Do you see how much I value our friendship?”

They weren't the exact words that came to Henry's mind, but he didn't have time to express his disappointment before Alastor's gaze fixed on something beyond the fish tank and he accentuated his smile, getting to his feet.

“Zestiel, my dear, what a pleasure!”

Husker got goosebumps, in a shiver that had nothing to do with his hangover or the desire to throw up. You didn't have to be too expert in Manhattan's not exactly legitimate undergrowth to have heard the name of the man who was approaching their table – tall, black, dressed in an absolutely refined way – associated with various not too legitimate financial operations.

A rich, elderly tycoon who believed he was still in the days of Al Capone.

He turned to focus on him and kept an eye on the man as Zestiel passed the aquarium and shook Alastor's hand with vigor and a few laughs here and there about the weather, the threat of possible rain that afternoon and the business in which the medical examiner himself was apparently involved.

Who else does a gangster need but someone who can get rid of the bodies?

“Zestiel, meet Henry Husker.”

Alastor's bright voice broke him out of his reflections, making him blink a couple of times again and lift his amber gaze to search for Zestiel’s pitch-colored one – who smiled slightly at him, with the look of someone who was evaluating every detail of who he was staring at.

Suddenly, the hickey on the left side of his neck seemed even more obvious.

Henry cleared his throat, bowing his head in a hint of greeting.

“Pleasure.”

“Sit down, my dear, we have already allowed ourselves to order. Husker?”

Husk slid back onto Alastor, forcing himself to let go of Zestiel – who, in response, continued to stare at him as he sat down in the only remaining seat.

The doctor's smile was one of the most unreadable he had ever seen on his face.

“Let's talk business.”

Chapter Text

September 15th – fourteen hours earlier

It’s complicated.

Anthony raised his left eyebrow again, looking even more skeptical than before, snatching back the cigarette Husk was holding out to him and waving his free hand lazily to keep the smoke from landing near the detector on the ceiling.

“Look, you're definitely not the first married man I’ve ended up screwing, so–”

“No.”

The blond watched the other shake his head again, looking more determined; he took yet another drag from his cigarette, making the embers blaze, with an interested flicker deep in his hazel eyes as he caught a hint of genuine blush on Husk’s cheeks, who in the meantime had looked away and was quite interested in picking a thread off wrinkled sheets.

Interesting.

He exhaled the smoke, while the other swallowed who knows what elaborate justification – he stopped to peek at the bobbing Adam's apple, the same one he had run his tongue over the night before.

The rough sensation of his beard against the hot lips, the contrast with the cold ball of the piercing, that low, husky sound in Husk’s throat that Anthony had felt purring directly in his mouth when he had started to suck that same spot in which he had run the–

“..ter not to.”

Anthony blinked a couple of times, coming back to the present and focusing on that amber gaze that had returned to stare at him in the meantime.

“Mh?”

“I said it’s better not to.” Husk reiterated, without a trace of resentment but with all the firmness that the hangover was able to grant him, as he began to get out of bed.

Anthony stood there watching him fumble with the sheet in a not very successful attempt to drape it over himself. He curved his lips into yet another sharp and tender smile at that rather superfluous display of modesty. He folded his arms lazily, the cigarette still dangling from his lips and his left shoulder – uncovered, given the bathrobe that had slipped seductively further down – leaning against the wall in front of which the headboard of the unmade bed rested.

“I’ve seen it all, handsome,” he pointed out, as Husk finished securing the sheet around his waist. “No need, I don’t mean to jump on you.”

The man muttered some more grumpy, embarrassed grumbles that Anthony didn’t even bother to understand, distracted once again by watching the hem of the white sheet’s fabric curled over the man’s butt as he was currently bending over to pick up his clothes.

Big, strong hands, urgently sliding his teddy jacket off the shoulders, a fuchsia stain on the floor on which they both threatened to stumble over, then grasping with an urgency that spoke of need at the collar of his black tank top and pulling him again. More against, more over him, more everything. Those hands tugging the tank top again to take it off, with a sound of tearing fabric, his own low, ecstatic laughter and that “sorry” murmured against his mouth – it wasn’t that that had excited Anthony even more, but the purring that followed. A ‘I’ll buy it back, whatever you want’ panted on his lips, before those strong but gentle hands found his thighs to pick Anthony up and straddle him in his lap, letting himself fall sitting on the bed, then sliding down to find his pierced nipple and start sucking. Biting.

The last puff of smoke that Anthony took from his cigarette was to convince himself once again that no, he’s not gonna jump on him. Or to say it better, he couldn’t jump on him but for fuck’s sake, how much he wanted to.

“I think this is yours.”

He eyed the torn tank top in Husk’s hands, who was holding it out with his metaphorically lowered ears of someone who had messed up but with the usual gruff look that made him smile yet again; he chuckled, then shrugged and moved away from the wall in a fluid thrust of the hips to go and throw the now burned-out cigarette in the toilet before returning to the room.

“Take it as a gift. And anyway–” he sighed theatrically, dropping onto the bed with a still somewhat sleepy indolence. “What do you mean it’s better not to?”

Husk, in the meantime, had found his black boxers and had abandoned the sheet to its fate.

Anthony's hazel gaze fixated on him, following the soft twitches of his belly as he bent down to pick up the trousers of his elegant suit and put them on too. Observing that broad back disappearing under the whiteness of a wrinkled shirt, he couldn’t help but absentmindedly fiddle with the ball of the tongue piercing, while an unmistakable tug on his lower abdomen reminded him that before leaving that hotel room he needed to release excitement somehow. Probably jerking in the shower.

A detail of that back stuck in his head – strange scars, burns or carved in the flesh he couldn’t say, in a bizarre shape that resembled a pair of wings – but he was still too excited to dwell on it too much.

“That we don’t know each other well enough to tell you my shit.” Husk replied, as rough as his fingers busy fastening the buttons as best they could.

“Ah-anh.” Anthony replied, unruffled, leaning back on the bed and supporting himself lazily with his elbows, his gaze still glued to the other and a cocky smile. “It doesn't answer the question of why it’s better not to get laid.” He tilted his head slightly towards his right shoulder, almost flirtatiously, chasing Husk now on all fours on the carpeted floor retrieving a shoe that had ended up under the nightstand.

A tired huff, like someone who is feeling all the hangover, before getting up again with the shoe on, his hands now busy rearranging the dark red tie.

Oh, that tie.

Anthony sank his teeth into his lower lip in a thick breath, reflexively parting his thighs under the bathrobe, fully aware that his arousal was completely showing at the moment.

That tie he had grabbed with his left hand, tightening the knot and pulling it just enough to elicit yet another low, throaty sound from Husk. Dilated black pupils in those amber eyes, and judging by the erection he felt pushing against the crotch of his shorts, it wasn't just alcohol. The shirt undone, the dark red fabric twisted around the palm a couple of times to hold it better in the hand – that fucking tie – and pull it a little more as if it were a leash to force the man he was straddling to lift his head and parting his lips in a hungry groan, mixed with a growl. A grin of pure excitement, intoxicated as if Anthony had just snorted a line in the toilet of some random club.

“Because I’m a mess, kid.” There was no paternalism in that nickname. It tasted more like what Humphrey Bogart had muttered to Ingrid Bergman in a bar in Casablanca.

“It doesn't seem fair to drag you into my mess just because I had a bad day.”

Damn Husk and his being a truly old-time Hollywood gentleman.

Anthony pushed the memories – clear, vivid, so fucking exciting – to the back of his consciousness so he could analyze them calmly later and focus on yet another statement that stirred a feeling in the pit of his stomach; a feeling that had nothing to do with sex.

That man – who was currently patting his pockets, uneasily, as if searching for something only to realize that said “something” was gone along with his jacket stolen at the Black Dot – seemed capable of taking every label Anthony tried to stick on him from the night before and peeling it off.

Husk wasn’t the usual bored and drunk husband who Anthony used to pick up in bars, or the desperate man from whom he could extract money by making him believe he had sucked his cock; and he wasn’t the one that regretted, the one who stammered about having a wife while he zipped up his pants, the one who couldn’t get hard and preferred to take it only to say later that it had never happened before, that he’d never been turned on by men.

He had attached a ton of labels and they had always all turned out to be just right.

But Husk.

“I can’t pay you back for that tank top.”

Husk and that golden, feline gaze with which he was now staring at him, standing in front of the bed, as if he wanted to tie up all the loose ends before returning to his life and his mess. The same mess he didn’t want to drag him into.

At that very moment, Anthony thought, looking up at him, that he had never wanted to be dragged into someone's mess so badly. And he had had far too many messy relationships in his thirty-something years – Valentino above all.

It was just the thought of Valentino that made that pleasant warmth that had spread in the pit of his stomach freeze; he blinked again and cleared his throat, to quickly put that feeling away with the other pleasant memories of a night that was perhaps much better left like this: hazy, soaked in alcohol and the potential of what could have been.

The fantasies, at least, would not have disappointed him – kicked on a floor while crying that no, he hadn't hidden any more money, that he had already bought the last dose and pushed it into his veins. That he was so sorry, that he wouldn’t do it again. Which was absolutely superfluous: Valentino had always liked to hear him beg, it didn't matter if he did it on nothing.

Anthony shrugged his shoulders idly, letting Husk’s kindness slide over him: apparently, it wasn't just the alcohol that made him so gentle.

“Nah, no need, don’t worry. This gives me an excuse to go shopping.”

Husk gave him a small, closed-mouth smile – something the blond noticed more in the depths of his amber eyes than on the lips. Yet another brushstroke of sweetness that Anthony packed away in the back of his mind, in what had now become a whole box of sensations to be locked away.

“So… Thank you.”

He looked down at the hand professionally held out towards him, to seal that night.

Anthony chuckled again, his hazel eyes trailing to search the other’s in yet another amused flicker.

“For what?”

“For making me—“ Husk hesitated for a moment or two, before shrugging. “You really made me feel better.”

No, dear Husky, it was you who made me feel good.

But no, Anthony didn’t say that. He simply tilted his head towards his left shoulder again, the cocky smirk softening.

On the wave of amusement – ​​and that warm and light sensation – Anthony raised his right hand but, instead of squeezing the other’s, he slid it towards the dark red tie to use it for sitting up again while he dragged Husk a little further down to find his lips halfway.

The kiss he pressed against that slightly parted mouth captured a breath and a word stuck on the other’s lips; it was a soft kiss, slow but quick. The kind you might give with the habit of someone who does it every morning before leaving for work. A kiss that had nothing sensual about it, but which said exactly what Anthony hadn’t had the courage to say out loud: thanks to you.

He pulled away after a couple of moments, letting the tie slip from his fingers and rubbing his freckled nose against Husk’s. He grinned again – the golden canine half sunk into his lower lip – as he noticed the other man's somewhat hazy expression.

“You better get going, whiskers.” he crooned, leaning back on the bed and staring up at him, parting his thighs again to show clearly what was going on between his legs, the bulge visible under the slightly pulled away bathrobe. “Unless you want to watch me wanking in the shower.”

Husk cleared his throat for the umpteenth time, rearranging his tie and frowning – a cat ruffling fur again – as he headed for the bedroom door without any other words.

On the threshold he stopped to eye Anthony with an indecipherable expression.

“.. I’m going.”

“Off you go.”

The sound of the doorknob going down, the electronic lock clicking, the muffled footsteps on the carpet and the last glance still searching for him.

What do you say in these cases? A little lie to make farewell less bitter.

“See you around, Husk.”

Anthony had told so many lies to so many lovers that it had become a habit by now but, for the first time, he really wished it wasn't a lie.

The faint smile of the man at the door came after a deeper breath, as if he was waiting for those very words, along with an amused and compliant shake of the head.

“See you around, Anthony.”

September 15th – present

“Anthony?”

In the mirror, a pair of hazel eyes focused not only on his reflection but also on Kitty’s, one of Valentino’s assistants who is in charge of “organizing” the backstage of the club and deciding who goes on stage and when.

“Are you ready? You're on in five minutes.”

“Yeah darling, here I come. Just the finishing touches.”

Kitty's understanding smile vanished from the reflection of Anthony’s dressing room mirror, swallowed up by the door along with music’s volume which returned as muffled as his thoughts.

Anthony sighed, brushing back his blond tuft and ending up filling his long fingers with pink glitter – the same shade as his nail polish – as he looked back at himself to finish applying three round glitters under his eyes, following the line of his cheekbone.

It had been a beautiful day, despite a slightly bizarre start.

He had closed the night he had just spent in that metaphorical box, got dressed and went to the Narcotics Anonymous meeting that he just couldn't afford to miss again. Charlie hadn’t specified to be there on time, just to go, and Anthony had no intention of ending up locked up in rehab again. So he’d spent his lunch break eating stale donuts and drinking coffee that tastes like tar, listening to Amelia talk about how she’d been tempted to steal the hospital’s supply of oxycodone but hadn’t.

Sitting in a circle, on that uncomfortable chair, Anthony hadn't said anything – he rarely shared his experience with those illustrious strangers – but he found himself thinking about Husk; who knows what he was doing at that moment, whether he had filed a report for the jacket’s theft, whether he had argued with his wife for getting drunk and spending the night out. Or who knows if he had already forgotten about him.

In the afternoon he had met the new family to whom he had been recommended by Fat Nuggets’s owners and had taken their dog for a walk – a rather chubby pug with the lazy look of someone who really doesn’t like walks. Even in Central Park, sitting on a bench with his fourth coffee of the day while the aforementioned pug sniffed every single blade of grass with great interest, the thought of Husk had crossed his mind again: there's nothing wrong with daydreaming a bit about someone you’ll never see again anyway, right?

Arriving at The Vees – Valentino’s club – for rehearsals, he hadn’t even met the owner; which obviously made the day even better. He had had dinner with the other performers, agreed on the performances schedule; he had even found time to call his sister to confirm the usual Sunday lunch.

So yes: it had been a beautiful day.

And yet.

The relentless, insistent worm of that box that didn't want to stay closed continued to eat his brain. Because fantasizing is fine, but there were so many things that Angel could have done to avoid it going the way it had and, clearly, his brain had chosen the moment right before going on stage to show him all of them. A long series of ‘if I had done’ this or ‘if I had said’ that had definitely dampened his mood.

“See you around, Husk.” he repeated, mocking himself and chewing those words with a certain disgust. “Shit, couldn't you just have asked for his number? But no, congratulations you dickhead.” he muttered those thoughts, pressing the last pink rhinestone into place more firmly than necessary and sliding both of his hands into his hair again.

He clutched at the blond locks in a heavy, exasperated sigh, propping his elbows against the top of his vanity table and looking again at himself in the mirror.

The reflection did not show the man who had jack off in the shower that morning thinking about a stranger with an odd nickname; the one who looked at him from the frame lit by pink lights, from the clean glass on which a dancer had left a red lipstick kiss, was a young man in a black fishnet shirt – made to show off his lean, trained body, freckled and sprinkled with the same glitter that was in his hair; a pair of equally black leather shorts that would have lasted very little out there, and the stage makeup.

It was Angel Dust, in that reflection, and something in Anthony told him that the cheeky but empty smile he saw on his glossy lips wasn’t really his.

Angel Dust did not ask drunk, married, messed-up forty-year-olds for phone numbers.

Angel Dust did not think all day about how good it would be – not hot, not just hot – to spend the morning in that shower with Husk and make him blush again, or growl that low, fucking horny sound as he took his cock in his hand and did what he had done to himself under the water a couple of times.

Angel Dust did not go to NA meetings to hear stories he didn’t give a shit about, because all he wanted was just another fix.

Angel Dust was easy to wear; he was sexy, carefree, always on top.

He was a mask that fit him like a glove, an invention to survive Valentino and all the bullshit that had messed up his life long before he met his boss – his ex, his drug dealer, his pimp.

Angel Dust, surely, was not that pathetic look that his reflection was now sending back at him.

How he wanted to snort a line right now.

Anthony took another breath, tightening the fingers in his locks and closing his eyes for a moment to get himself back together before going on stage; he straightened his back, cracked his neck in a sigh and slipped with the aforementioned ease into the wet dream role that haunted anyone who visited Valentino's nightclub – the numerous posters with his face and body in various highly suggestive poses were confirmation that the main attraction, in there, was always him.

The smile in the mirror became sensual, mischievous and alluring just as Kitty knocked on the door again and looked out to call him on stage, the same moment he finished putting on the black fingerless gloves with reinforced grip, essential for holding on to duty to the pole on which he would perform shortly thereafter.

“I'm all yours, sweetie.” Anthony announced, resting the soles of his shocking pink combat boots on the floor to get up and join the girl who was meanwhile checking the lineup, on her sheets. She was interrupted by the blond's hand reaching for her left, to make her do a pirouette.

“You look fabulous Kitty, you should come on stage with me, we'd get the whole audience excited!” Anthony teased her, finishing the pirouette to gallantly pull her into his arms.

“I'm sure you're more than enough, Angel Dust.” she giggled, passing her hand free from the folder over Anthony’s chest with a hint of affection before stepping away.

She then cleared her throat as he followed Anthony down the corridor, getting closer and closer to the music of the previous number which was now coming to an end.

“Tony…”

“Mh?” He pulled his elbow behind his shoulder blades in a preparatory stretch.

“Look, in the privé on the left of the stage there is–”

Ouch.

Anthony’s hazel gaze slid further down, seeking Kitty’s dark eyes as she suddenly seemed uncomfortable as tucking a lock of hair behind her left ear. So, standing in the middle of the corridor, they both listened to the end of the song and the applause mixed with the appreciative whistles of the audience.

There was only one person who could make everyone uncomfortable when they had to talk to Anthony about it.

“…Valentino.” a statement, not a question. “Don’t worry, I hadn’t seen him yet today, I expected he would be–”

“He’s not alone.”

Anthony blinked, again, to process that information; Kitty suddenly seemed very interested in the floor, unable to look him in the eyes, as the unpleasant, familiar feeling of jealousy sank its teeth into the blond’s stomach, dragging him down. He slowly lowered his arms, unable to formulate a ready response.

He had talked about it at length with the shrinks at the center, he kept talking about it with Charlie; they had told him that Valentino was a manipulator, a pathological narcissist, who had used every means to make him dependent on him: the drugs he supplied him with were just one of the many addictions with which he had fucked up his brain.

The worst one wasn’t something chemical, oh no . It was something much, much more deep-rooted and it was the most difficult feeling to detox from: love.

Anthony swallowed dryly, his mouth suddenly full of sand and his ears not really wanting to hear Kitty explain that Valentino had come accompanied by the sugar daddy with whom he had opened the club, the one who had always been there even when he and Anthony were dating. A certain Vox, or something like that – a fifty-year-old financial shark who thrived in Wall Street, owner of a lot of technology companies but with a soft spot for red-light clubs.

It certainly wasn’t the first time he saw them together, it shouldn’t have had this effect on him.

Who knows, maybe Husk didn't ask for your number because he realized you weren’t even worth a casual fuck.

Valentino's voice, in his consciousness, came before the annoying whistle of the music accompanied by Kitty's voice asking him if everything was okay.

Anthony came back to himself, refocusing on the girl and glancing at her vaguely worried expression; the backstage, his number, Valentino and Vox in the privè.

The box in which he had locked Husk and his kindness.

“Sure!” he forced himself to say, in a tone perhaps a little more pitched than he had liked. “Everything's fine. Let’s make these horny people spend some money, hmm?” he winked at her, placing both hands on his butt in a snap and leaning forward a little as if he wanted to show off his goods.

Kitty curved a sympathetic, slightly wistful smile before nodding and motioning him toward the lighted entrance to the wings – where a voice was already announcing his arrival. Anthony greeted her with a kiss on the top of her head, considerably lower than his height; taking a slow breath to calm himself, he walked towards the crowd trying to immerse himself in the music, even though the only sound he could hear at the moment were the crazy beating of his heart and another little voice that begged him to drown all that unpleasant sensation in a chemical shot.

Pushing oblivion into his vein until he can no longer think.

Chapter Text

September 27th – present

Henry Husker had an almost endless list of moments that could be labeled as “make an ass of himself”; he could have mentioned the decidedly embarrassing day when he was caught counting cards one of the first times he was learning, or the memorable scene of the delightful magician’s assistant appearing at the door of the dressing room – who knows in which casino in Las Vegas, he surely doesn’t remember – to catch the aforementioned magician, her husband, kneeling in front of Husk and busy sucking his cock.

Special mention for his wedding toast with Lidia, because the brilliant idea of ​​giving Alastor carte blanche had quickly earned itself the top spot as one of the most embarrassing moments of his life.

Until that moment.

He had no idea that waiting outside his daughter’s elementary school, in one of the rare moments he was allowed to see her – not that Lidia had ever objected, but with the divorce still fresh and the court involved the situation was not simple – under the eyes of who-knows how many mothers who now knew perfectly well that he was Lidia Dixon’s ex-husband, could reach the profound discomfort he had felt in hearing a pleasantly tipsy Alastor proudly declaim the amount of disasters they had caused together in college before Husk went back to Vegas.

Add to this the fact that Caroline’s school, right in the Upper West Side, hosted several scions of New York high society – the Dixons paid that fee, certainly not Henry; he had tried, at the beginning, but opposing his father-in-law had always been rather difficult. And so: Caroline Husker – the last name had remained the same, Lidia seemed to care a lot about it – deserved the best.

A ‘best’ that you, her father, were never able to give her.

Henry cleared his throat to banish the nagging conscience, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and crossing his arms over his chest before leaning idly against the lamppost across the street.

Standing like this, away from the entrance, he contemplated with silent resignation the immense mess that had always been his life, ignoring the murmured chatter among the rich bored mothers who looked at him with a mixture of pity and desire.

Even though he was broke and engulfed in gambling debts, Husk apparently still had some appeal – a walking red flag, perhaps.

He had never understood women in his entire life.

For instance, he still hadn’t figured out how he’d gotten picked up by the girl he’d fucked two nights ago, after getting off his shift at Zestiel’s speakeasy; one minute he’d been pouring her her second dry martini of the night, the next he’d been stumbling into the doorway of Martha’s – or Miriam? – while she giggled and ripped open his shirt so forcefully that she ripped off the buttons.

He certainly hadn’t complained, though: Martha – or Maggie? – had been a pleasant diversion and a way to remind himself once again that he was a divorced man, that Lidia had been seeing a new person whose name he still couldn’t remember for six months, and that sex was fun. Especially when sober, when he was in control of the situation and could leave immediately afterwards, without suffering the embarrassing morning-after between two strangers.

Or at least, that was how it was most of the time.

The last morning-after, dating back at least a couple of weeks ago, had not been exactly embarrassing. Not at all.

Husk lingered casually – as he had done since that morning – in the memory of Anthony naked in that rumpled bed, in the offer he had made to him to realize something they had only tasted because he had fallen asleep like the drunken idiot he is.

Something that Husk, thinking about it in hindsight, would have really liked to make come to an end – many times – but that the signing of his failed marriage that morning had made it complicated to achieve.

It’s complicated , he had told him, and for the millionth time he sighed heavily, closing his eyes and rubbing his fingertips over his thick eyebrows, as the perfect image of deep exasperation towards himself and his enviable dickhead.

But who knows, maybe it had been for the best: asking Anthony for his number would have meant ending up in bed, and something in the way he still hardened at the alcohol-laced memory of the night – Anthony’s hands on him, that mouth sliding into a trail of kisses downwards and that freckled ass with the little heart tattoo – suggested him that just once wouldn’t be enough.

And Henry, with the new job that Alastor had gotten him and a lot of financial and “marital” problems to resolve, definitely did not have the time, nor the strength, to disappoint another partner.

The muffled sound of the school bell tore him out of his thoughts, making him reopen his amber eyes and look for his daughter in that wave of children from six to eleven years old who poured out of the glass door in more or less orderly and certainly loud groups.

After at least five minutes of the crowd thinning out and the various parents or drivers or babysitters picking up their respective spawn, there was no sign of Caroline’s black curls.

Henry frowned, untangling his arms and moving away from the streetlamp to approach the entrance and check inside – she might have been held up for some reason, but there was apparently no sign of her there either.

Lidia would have informed him if the plans had changed, right?

The horrible suspicion of having lost his daughter, dragged away by the crowd, crossed his thoughts and covered him in cold sweat.

The final nail in the coffin of your marriage, Husker.

Just before being overwhelmed by a wave of panic, with his cell phone in hand to call who-knows-who for help, he heard a familiar voice.

“Dad!”

Called by Caroline’s unmistakable voice, Henry felt relief invade him – he sighed, slowly, pocketing the cell phone that he had brought to his ear and turning towards the sound source.

“Caroline, you scared me to death, where were y–”

He never finished the sentence, because Henry’s amber eyes slipped to focus on the little girl running towards him with the backpack bouncing on her shoulders, and then continuing and locking onto another familiar-looking little girl with the same uniform worn by his daughter – perhaps he had seen her three or four times at their house, Caroline’s little friend whose name he obviously couldn’t remember.

Who knows, perhaps alcohol had specifically damaged the part of his memory that stores people’s names, otherwise it can’t be explained.

Anyway, no, it wasn’t Caroline’s – who in the meantime had reached Husk and hugged him around the waist, with the innocent enthusiasm that all children have – friend who blocked the words in his throat.

It was the person standing near the other little girl.

A tall, lanky man dressed with a teddy jacket of a very familiar fuchsia color, black Docs with equally fuchsia laces, a pair of light jeans with more rips than fabric, freckled belly left uncovered by a very tight black top and a pink bubble gum that popped, before a smile that is both amused and amazed at the same time.

“Well well well ~”

He would have recognized that golden canine even in the dark.

“I had no idea New York was so small.”

“What flavor do you want, tots?”

“Pistachio! Because it’s green.”

Anthony chuckled, delighted, and Henry couldn’t help but watch his daughter light up with joy too as the blond insisted on paying for two ice cream cups – one for Caroline and one for Anna, his daughter’s friend and apparently niece of the aforementioned man.

Niece. His niece.

The walk to Central Park – ten minutes from school, no more – had begun with general confusion and mild embarrassment on Husker’s side, as he reluctantly agreed to accompany Caroline to the park to play with Anna.

He had never been able to resist those big dark eyes, and despite the thought of having seen his daughter’s friend’s uncle in a completely different situation – lying on the bed with his bathrobe pulled aside, leaving very little to the imagination – Anthony had seemed particularly at ease upon seeing him again.

And who was he to back out?

So, along the way, Anthony had told him that Anna was the only daughter of his sister Molly, a sales assistant at Macey’s, and that every now and then she asked Anthony to pick her up and look after her.

Aside from the unexpected amount of personal information, the fact that before that afternoon they had never accidentally bumped into each other outside of school or directly in the lobby of the apartment building where Lidia still lives seemed to Husk a colossal joke of the universe.

Life really shows you a person at the exact moment in which it decides to do so, without any explanation whatsoever.

And so, without even knowing exactly how, he found himself sitting on a green bench covered in engraved writing, with a half-melted pistachio ice cream cup in his hand, talking to the young man he would never have imagined meeting again.

Certainly not under these circumstances.

“So.”

Henry blinked and stopped keeping an eye on Caroline, who was swinging upside down with Anna on the bars of the playground’s wooden castle – a crisp late September afternoon, filled with the chatter and laughter of other children. The already-started autumn had dyed some of the leaves yellow and red, around them.

He slid to look at the blond sitting next to him, arms open and stretched out lazily on the back of the bench, the heels of his Docs planted on the ground and the posture of someone who seems perfectly at ease where he is. Anna's cup of ice cream, all strawberry flavored ‘because it’s red’, resting balanced on his right knee.

“... So.” Husker repeated, encouraging him to continue – he stared at his profile, considering that Anthony wasn’t looking at him but was keeping an eye on his niece, who had her uncle’s blond hair and a lot of freckles, but blue eyes. Maybe taken from the father, who knows.

“You’re not only married, you have a daughter,” the blond commented, glancing at him sideways and raising his right eyebrow in a stroke of mischievous irony.

Henry sighed, searching again for his daughter – Caroline was saying something about the rules of an imaginary competition between her and Anna over who could spend the longest time upside down, something like this.

“I told you it’s complicated.”

“Well, explain to me better.”

It was Husk’s turn to raise his thick eyebrow, turning back to Anthony who was staring resolutely at the playground. The right hand of the same arm, stretched out on the back of the bench behind Henry, drummed the long fingers lacquered with slightly chipped pink enamel.

“What’s there to explain?”

“I get that you don’t like to talk, whiskers, but considering this–” and he gestured lazily at the two girls playing together. “It turns out our lives aren’t as far apart as they seemed. So–” he finally turned, casting a patient hazel gaze – his left eye, in the late afternoon light, was almost green – directly at Henry. “Either you explain this ‘complicated’ situation a little better, or it’s going to get even more awkward thinking about you while I jer–”

“Okay okay okay.” Husk interrupted him, in a sharp breath, a gruff brushstroke as he found himself metaphorically ruffling his fur like a cat hit where it hurts. “For fuck’s sake, we’re in a playground.”

“Oh, I didn’t notice. Anna!” He called his niece, waving the left hand in the way only someone with Italian roots can do: talk with their hands. “Ice cream pit-stop.”

The little girl trotted toward the bench, dragging Caroline with her – tawny cheeks, a shade lighter than Husk’s, flushed from the movement.

Henry smiled slightly at her, also holding out the ice cream cup.

“Did you see me, daddy? I was upside down for five seconds!” she boasted, shoving a spoonful of pistachio into her mouth.

“Good job, honey,” he praised, watching as she stabbed her spoon into the ice cream again, grabbed Anna’s sticky hand, and ran back to the wooden castle.

That faint smile remained on his lips until he felt the familiar tingling of a gaze fixed on his profile; he sighed, drawing his attention back to the man next to him, who was sporting an arched eyebrow in the universal and silent gesture of someone who was still waiting for an answer.

“I’m divorced.” Henry began.

Years and years at the gaming table had taught him that an exploratory hand is fine as long as you have something to bet on, but at this moment what did he have to lose? He might as well go all in.

“Since the morning of the day we met. I had signed the papers and drinking seemed like the best way to drown a bad day.”

The best solution to drown a lot of things, actually, but this comment from the little voice remained in the back of Husk’s mind.

Anthony listened to him silently, without commenting or tapping on the back of the bench; calm, his hazel eyes alternating between him and the playground.

“Me and my– My ex-wife.” It still felt weird to say it out loud. “We've been separated for a long time.” Since Lidia told you in tears that she wanted a divorce, eight months ago. “We made it official two weeks ago.” he concluded, but judging by Anthony’s expression he was not satisfied yet.

The blond bounced his right knee slowly, up and down, resulting in the slow swing of the ice cream cup still balanced there. He clicked his tongue a few times – the piercing flashed between his teeth for an instant.

“And what would be complicated about this?”

“Wha–”

“Are you one of those who likes to fuck men but doesn’t want to say it?”

“Hey, don’t–”

“Which for the record, it wouldn’t be anything new, do you know how many have fucked me while saying that men grossed them out but with me it was diff–”

“Anthony.”

He didn’t know if it was the tone or the use of his name, but in that moment Henry could almost physically feel the effect it had on the blond next to him: a hint of fragility in that hazel gaze – yes, if you looked closely, his left eye was actually greener – the same fragility he’d felt, more bitter, nestled in the syllables of a morning sentence.

I’m surprised you managed to remember my name.

Husk caught that sensation, again, before yet another blink made it disappear, leaving him vaguely confused: he was no longer used to paying so much attention to the emotions of those in front of him.

He cleared his throat, passing the cup from one hand to the other; he would have loved to rest it on his legs like Anthony, but since he was already dressed in his work suit – a pair of black pants, a white shirt and those embarrassing suspenders that Zestiel ​​demanded from all his male employees – it was definitely better not to tempt fate and risk arriving at the speakeasy with an ice cream stain on his knee.

“I don’t care if the person I have sex with is male or female. Or neither. Or both.” he shrugged, with extreme nonchalance. “To use a metaphor, I like the wine that is inside, I don’t look at the label.” it was his turn to click his tongue, as if to make a point.

Anthony stared at him as if he were looking at him for the first time since that morning – when they had said goodbye at the bedroom door with a lie that life had already decided wasn’t one.

Those mysterious things that go strange ways and then come back right at you.

Henry looked at his closed-mouthed smile, accompanied by a lazy bow of the head that admitted an amused touché tinged with a more languid shade – something that tugged at a thread, inside Husk, soaked with a desire still tangled in his thoughts.

Anthony had not been the only one to linger on that night.

“So, knowing your wine taste–” the blond resumed the conversation, nonchalantly, calling Anna once again for the ice cream pit-stop. She arrived accompanied by Caroline, who took two spoonfuls of the now almost completely melted pistachio before running off. “I repeat the question: what would be complicated about this?”

Yeah, Husker, what would be complicated about this?

Henry didn’t immediately answer either the little voice in the back of his mind or the other’s question – he stirred with the spoon in the now almost empty cup, gathering his thoughts and trying to make sense out of them.

Lidia and Caroline were just a part of the mess that was his life.

He certainly couldn’t tell him about the gambling, the debts, the times he drank to drown the urge to gamble away every cent he had in the bank; he couldn't tell him about the times he'd been banned from casinos for cheating, about the job as a Vegas croupier he’d been fired from, about the other not-so-clean jobs he’s still helping Alastor with.

And he certainly couldn’t tell him about the Accident.

He scratched his back instinctively, his left arm wrapped around his torso to reach between his shoulder blades.

He sighed, searching for his hazel gaze and lowering his arm again.

“Look, it’s better if we don’t–”

“Ah no, don’t start again with the better-not bullshit, I don’t want to drag you into my mess and blablablah.” Anthony mimicked him. “If you don’t want to have anything to do with me anymore because you’re not interested, just tell me and we’re good. But if as I believe you’re not totally indifferent to this –” he let his tone fade, raising his eyebrows a couple of times in a suggestive flicker at the bottom of his hazel eyes and a cheeky smile.

Henry instinctively slid to look at his mouth for a couple of moments, intent, climbing back into that gaze to find him right there, with the air of someone who had perfectly understood his thoughts.

A spider that had caught its prey, inside the web.

No, he wasn’t indifferent, not even by mistake.

Husk faltered, turning the sticky cup between his fingers, his amber eyes wandering absentmindedly around the playground – partly watching Caroline, partly focused on Anthony’s gaze firmly planted against his profile.

He was probably about to say something when the blond’s voice came to intrude into his thoughts.

“Let’s start with the phone number, hm?”

The cell phone. The one he could have asked him that morning and the one that will inevitably lead to what they had both fantasized about in different ways. The one that, Henry repeated to himself, would not be enough for him.

After at least ten seconds of silence and evaluation, tainted by the vague sense of drunk-guilt in having almost used Anthony and then left him aside without much explanation, he forced himself to sigh again; a slow, solemn breath as he took his cell phone from the pocket to unlock it and hold it out to the blond, who took it in a smile. His golden canine flashed.

“I’ll save mine and give myself a ring.”

The nail polished thumbs fiddled quickly with the screen, giggling slightly.

“What year is this thing, Husky?”

“Hey, it still works great.”

“Sure, with the crank. How the fuck do you navigate on social media so slowly?”

“I don’t.”

Anthony looked at him as if he had grown a third arm on his forehead.

“You don’t have any social accounts?”

Husk had the decency to mumble something and lower his eyes, grumpy again.

“..nder.”

“What?”

“I said, Tinder.”

The blond snickered, shaking his head as he finished saving his contact and made a call.

“So you’re so coy with me but you do like fucking.”

“Of course I like fucking, asshole.”

“Oh yeah, keep talking dirty, baby.” Anthony teased him again, ending the call and handing him the phone: the number saved as Tony, complete with a bright pink heart, appeared on the screen.

Husk stared at the nickname, curving a placid smile and raising his eyes to look for the blond – who was already staring at him with amusement.

“Tony?”

“Yup!” The blond nodded, getting up from the bench and stretching that lean and toned body.

Husk wondered if being so tall required much more stretching than usual, as he watched Anthony throw the now-melted ice cream cup into the trash can next to the bench and suck his fingers absentmindedly.

The indecent thought of that mouth busy sucking something else, along with the fact that this time he had a real number he could reach, threatened to give him a boner in a playground.

Totally inappropriate.

“Well, Husky.”

It was the other’s voice that called him back to reality.

Behave yourself Husker, how old are you, fifteen?

Anthony seemed to be programmed to screw up his hormones.

“It was really nice to see you again but I have to take my niece home. Anna!” He called the little girl. “Say goodbye to Caroline, we have to go.”

Anna ran back to them and was quickly caught by Anthony, who picked her up in his arms amid her amused giggles; a paternal sweetness, the same one he felt for Caroline – even if it was buried deep in his conscience – awoke in the pit of his stomach, as he slid down to look at his daughter still perched on the castle.

How many times had he been the one to pick her up like that? How many times, now, had Lidia’s new partner been the one who held her, who read her bedtime stories, who cut up what she couldn’t eat on her own yet?

Since when did you stop being a father, Husker?

“Bye-bye, Caroline's other dad.”

Since your daughter has another father.

The melancholy smile he gave Anna did not dampen that feeling of sweetness, merely staining it with regret for something he had perhaps lost along the way.

“Bye, Anna.”

For the umpteenth time, Anthony’s gaze flickered indecipherably – something Henry didn't want to name this time. After all, his conscience knew this all too well, right?

You’re just the same, fucking coward, Henry Husker.

“See you around, Husk.” Anthony greeted the other, giving him a flirtatious wink and curving a cheeky smile. Again. “For real this time.” and without any other words, making Anna bounce in his arms to settle her better, he set off.

He followed him with his gaze until they turned the corner, disappearing from the playground, his attention returning to Caroline – now forgetting about the last ice cream and focused on who-knows-what fantasy. He glanced at the time on the phone screen: twenty minutes or so before they said goodbye. Caroline would be back with her mother and he would be off to work.

It was a text notification – the ting! of someone who has never changed their ringtone – that drew his attention to the phone; at the top of the screen, Tony-bright-pink-heart wrote:

Tony 💖
ofc askin for ur number was all an excuse to get my tank top back

Husk chuckled softly, shaking his head and then taking another deep breath as he put his phone back in his pocket.

Life had kicked him several times but maybe, for once, he had been dealt a lucky hand.

Chapter Text

September 27th – six days earlier

Tony 💖
ofc askin for ur number was all an excuse to get my tank top back

Husk The DILF
Of course. I filed a complaint, they found my wallet.

Tony 💖
oh good! was everything still there??

Husk The DILF
There wasn’t even the laundry card.

Tony 💖
good ol nyc never disappoints ~

September 29th – four days earlier

Tony 💖
should be illegal workin on sunday

Husk The DILF
According to what rule?

Tony 💖
the i-want-to-sleep rule 

Husk The DILF
Oh, I see. I don't think it exists.

Tony 💖
it should, we’d all live better
[...]
like, rn imma walk 3 dogs cause their rich families are spendin $$ at some mexi-resort for the we

Husk The DILF
Are you a dog sitter?

Tony 💖
guilty, your honor
[...]
watcha doing?

Husk The DILF
Getting ready for work.

Tony 💖
oof u too! condolences, whiskers 💔

October 3rd – one day earlier

Tony 💖
soooo what’s ur job?

Husk The DILF
I’m a bartender.

Tony 💖
nice, where??

Husk The DILF
In a club.

Tony 💖
… idk if ya know how conversations work, sweetie, but unlike interrogations i’d ain’t to force words out of ur mouth

Husk The DILF
But I am talking.

Tony 💖
okaaay let’s play like this then
[...]
where were u last night around 10:43 pm?

Husk The DILF
Behind the Coffre counter.

Tony 💖
ah so if i treat ya like we're in an interrogation room ya do answer me
i could almost get turned on ~
[...]
hey i searched for this place but it doesn't exist
r u fuckin with me, whiskers? watch out i'll get offended

Husk The DILF
It doesn’t exist cause technically it doesn’t exist.

Tony 💖
… i’m confused

Husk The DILF
I can't talk about it.

Tony 💖
oh so we’re keepin the detective fantasy??
next time i’ll have a pinstriped suit and handcuffs
i always have my 🍆 with me

Husk The DILF
Anthony.

Tony 💖
fyi it’s detective scavo, mr. husk
[...]
srsly where do ya work? i could pop by for a drink

Nothing.

Again, no answer.

“Viewed three hours ago.” Anthony repeated, mouth half full, chewing the straw of his almost-finished strawberry and cream frappuccino, his elbows resting on one of the rickety tables of the crowded Starbucks where he and Cherri had arranged to meet that afternoon.

Cherri – Cheryl, theoretically that should have been her name but he had never heard anyone call her that – was a girl he met in rehab, who had been in the Center less than him. No overdose, just one foster home after another and a conviction for manufacturing narcotics in the basement of the rental house she’d been living in for three years.

Making it to twenty-three and paying a rent in New York City was no small feat – apparently, meth business paid off. When she started consuming the products to test them, the problems started and Cherri found herself sitting in one of the chairs in the Soft Room at Mountainside Treatment Center because the judge had kicked her there.

Oddly enough, Anthony was sitting right next to her. The rest is history.

“Oh my god Tony, how much of a pain in the ass are you from one to a-fucking-lot?”

Cherri – a mane of blonde hair with pink highlights always tied back in a long, high ponytail, right arm covered in tattoos and a strong Aussie accent – was a true princess.

Anthony glared at her, still chewing on his straw with a pout and going back to scrolling up and down the chat with the contact he had saved as ‘ Husk The DILF. ’ And after realizing that he was really a daddy, the title was never more appropriate.

“We exchanged, like, four messages in a week and I practically had to tear them out of his mouth.”

Cherri listened distractedly, drumming her fingers on the coffee table and eyeing a girl behind the counter with an interested look.

“Besides the fact that he writes like a boomer–”

“He is a boomer.”

“Details.” Anthony cut her short, waving his left hand lazily as if shooing a fly. “He’s about forty-something. Anyway, that aside, how come three weeks ago I was about to suck his cock and now he barely tells me where he works?”

At the table next to them, an older woman stirred her coffee with a slightly scandalized look.

The phrase didn’t have the same effect on Cherri, who stopped looking at the girl behind the counter and focused on her friend.

“Three weeks?” she asked, both eyebrows rising under her pink-streaked tuft. “And you haven’t gotten over it yet?”

Anthony muttered something unintelligible, without looking at her, his hazel eyes still fixed on the phone screen as if staring intently at it could bring up a reply to the message.

The repeated click of Cherri’s tongue, tasting of disappointment, made him blink and slide to look at her. He was met with a wary half-smile.

“Is it because you want to scratch that itch or is there something else there? Because frankly, Tony.” the pause did not give him hope for anything good. “Okay, listening to your words he seems like the ultimate daddy, but–” she shrugged, nodding at his phone. “Open Grindr and you’ll find as many as you want like that.”

“Yes, but–”

“So there is more?”

Anthony remained silent, opening his mouth like a fish a couple of times before closing it again.

No, there wasn’t anything else.

There was something , though, something he had wondered about several times over the course of those weeks – some kind of inexplicable connection.

Make me feel better , Husk had murmured against his ear, and those little words had dug a worm deep into his brain, into his stomach.

It had been like looking in the mirror and finding someone just as messed up on the other side. For different reasons and situations, of course, reasons Husk hadn’t even told him – not entirely, because Anthony wasn’t stupid and he knew perfectly well that ‘ divorce ’ wasn’t the only demon chewing away at the man’s conscience.

But still, despite being different, there was the same, desperate need to hold on to someone in a sea that was dragging them both adrift.

Finding themselves on the same raft hadn’t been that bad, right?

He should have analyzed with Charlie his penchant for always having crushes on complicated, emotionally unstable, walking-red-flag men.

He wrote that down somewhere in his memory.

And yet, something told him that Husk wasn’t really a red flag – not like Valentino. Certainly not like Valentino, the thought of which made him darken and frown, as he locked his phone screen and put it on the table to return to the conversation.

He hadn’t seen him at the club since the night he’d almost had a panic attack and had to perform on stage while Val was in the privè with his hand on Vox’s dick, just to make him look.

“Let's just say I don't like to leave things hanging.”

“Since when?” was the bored reply from Cherri, who in the meantime had gone back to looking at the counter in search of her prey.

“Since I tasted it, and I’d like to know at least if these weeks of practically jacking off only on him were worth it.”

The lady at the nearest table, this time, nearly choked on a sip of coffee.

Cherry sighed with exasperated fondness.

“Okay. So let’s call it more than an itch a– Matter of principle?”

“Let’s not call it anything, because this asshole doesn’t– OH GOD HE REPLIED HANG ON!”

Half Starbucks turned to look at their table, but while Cherri friendly flipped the bird to the scandalized lady next to them, who finally decided to get up and change table, Anthony dove back into the conversation.

Husk The DILF
Look for The Cave, it's in Greenwich.

Tony 💖
welcome back husky ~ d’ya know that sms ain’t letters? they’re immediate
but i forgive u, detective scavo is merciful

Husk The DILF
I don't live attached to my cell phone, kid.

Tony 💖
oh yeah i heard the place, they do live jazz
[...]
y is it called smth else??

Husk The DILF
I told you, I can't talk about it.

Tony 💖
so what if i pop by there then?
[...]
detectives investigate better on the field 🔍

“Wow, you sure are desperate.”

Anthony was belatedly aware of Cherri’s judging look; meanwhile, she had stood up and stopped to peer directly over his shoulder.

He flipped her the bird, not paying much attention, focused on the three bouncing dots writing on the other side of the chat.

For a time that was actually decidedly longer than normal.

Husk The DILF
Okay. But there is a dress code, otherwise they won't let you in.

Tony 💖
r u sayin my look doesn’t suit the place where ya work??

Husk The DILF
Exactly.

Tony 💖
judgin by how hard u got last time, u didn’t mind at all

Husk The DILF
Yeah, that’s not what I said.

Oh?

It had only taken six days of scattered and drawn-out messages to get some sort of half-flirtation out of Husk. And imagining it whispered in his ear, in that low, husky tone he remembered so well, threatened to make an innocent Thursday fall afternoon at Starbucks something quite embarrassing.

Not for him, of course: ‘Anthony’ and ‘modesty’ were two concepts almost impossible to find in the same sentence.

Tony 💖
awww ~ so ya did like it

Husk The DILF
Yes. But still, you need a tie to get in here.

Anthony repressed the bad joke and the wave of excitement that stirred his lower abdomen at that very lapidary ‘ yes ’ as he continued to write.

Tony 💖
np! so what do i do, i go to the cave and find ya there servin scotch to people chillin with jazz??

Husk The DILF
I work on Friday night. Ask the bartender behind the counter to see the Chest. Say Henry gave you the Key.

He frowned, vaguely puzzled this time. Chest? Key? Henry?

This sort of date was becoming more complex than expected – and with the fact that Husk couldn’t talk about his work place, Anthony wondered if there really wasn’t something not exactly legitimate behind it.

His thoughts ran to his family, to the money Molly used to pay Anna’s school fees and the Center. He thought of his brother’s brass knuckles falling clanking to the floor, an evening who-knows-how many years ago, when he had looked into his father’s study even though they had specifically asked him not to.

The image of the teeth of the guy papà Scavo used to have coffee with at the bar downstairs, every morning, scattered on the floor like pearls from a broken necklace hadn’t left his thoughts for a long time. Before he drowned himself up to his neck in what was truly the Famiglia , only to be kicked out not so much time later.

No Mafia Boss wants a frocio as son.

Was Husk involved in something similar too?

Tony 💖
who’s henry?

Husk The DILF
I am.

Anthony blinked and then crooked a smile at the screen.

Cherri was now farther away, at the counter, chatting with the girl she’d been ogling before. She probably hadn’t even noticed a young man in line, long black hair and a goth look, uncomfortably twirling a hat in his hands and glancing at her friend; the perfect image of a crush.

He chuckled, shaking his head and going back to writing.

Tony 💖
nice name, it suits u

Husk The DILF
Thanks. Anyway, say that and you won’t have any problems.

He played silently with the ball of his piercing, fiddling it between his teeth. Thoughtfully. He looked at Cherri’s back, at the counter, for a couple of moments.

Tony 💖
can i bring a friend of mine along??

The writing three-dot bubble remained suspended in the chat for a while longer as Anthony’s heart banged stupidly against his ribs.

You idiot. Why do you want to bring some sort of a nanny with you?

Did you see, amorcito? You don’t really want to date this guy, you’re not good enough.

Valentino’s voice disappeared the instant he read Husk’s reply.

Henry’s reply.

Husk The DILF
Sure.

That’s it, no other comments.

No retractions, no strange phrases that hinted at annoyance – and no, that period wasn’t annoyed. Anthony imagined a quiet smile deep in Henry’s amber eyes, the softness of his tone as he left the roughness aside and became the big cat that had purred at him.

A burst of hungry desire sank its teeth into his lower belly, tearing a noise from his throat that he couldn’t control.

Behave, Anthony.

Tony 💖
yayyy ~ perf! i’ll tell her too to dress hot, even if she always is

Husk The DILF
I have no doubt about it.

Tony 💖
but not too much, you'll only have eyes for me 2morro

Husk The DILF
I have no doubt about that either.

God, Husk couldn’t text but damn did he know how to flirt when he started.

Anthony cleared his throat, again, composing the last few replies.

Tony 💖
you better. cya soon whiskers 💗

His pink heart remained unanswered on display but that didn’t dampen Anthony’s even brighter-than-usual grin.

He finally stood up from the table, grabbing his empty Frappuccino to throw it in the trash can and join Cherri, who eyed him as he stopped next to her – forced to lift her chin to look him in the eye.

“Are we ready to leave? Are you done moping about your daddy ghosting you?”

The glint of his golden canine was already an eloquent answer.

“Oh yeah, tomorrow night you’ll see if I was right to insist.”

Cherri's eyelashes fluttered, taken aback.

“Tomorrow night?”

“You and me, The Cave. Do you have a dress that looks good in a jazz club?”

The girl looked at him with an eloquent, vaguely sarcastic look.

“No shit mate, can’t you tell? People who cook meth in their basement go to jazz clubs regularly.”

“Who cooked meth.”

“My closet hasn’t changed anyway.”

Anthony grinned, delighted, taking her by the shoulders and leading her out of the Starbucks.

“That’s why we’re going shopping.”

“Hey, wait a minute, that girl was about to give me her–”

“Nah, you had another suitor lined up, you could have had more play with him.”

“Huh?”

Dragging his friend away, Anthony turned to look at the goth boy who was gazing sadly at them from the window as they walked away down the sidewalk.

Sorry, buddy, next time.

October 4th – present

Anthony thought that if Francis Scott-Fitzgerald were alive, he would surely have appreciated the Coffre, which turned out to be the speakeasy attached to The Cave – after all, every cave has its treasure chest, right?

And the Coffre was exactly that: a little gem nestled in the heart of Greenwich Village, well hidden between live jazz clubs and simple, rather quiet-looking pubs. The libertine and decidedly tolerant setting of the neighborhood helped the whole atmosphere and the prohibitionism that could be felt inside the Scrigno was delightfully in tune. Perhaps prohibitionism was more of a facade than anything else, although the secrecy with which Henry had handled the matter suggested that it was something more juicy.

Cherri’s admiring whistle brought him back down to earth. He stopped to scan the environment they had just entered – going down a flight of stairs hidden behind a door that the bartender upstairs had lazily pointed towards – and focused on his friend.

“I didn't know about this place.” she commented, running her fingers through her forelock – that blonde and pink mane, for once, had been left loose on her shoulders and disciplined in a low ponytail; the sobriety of the 1920s-style pearl gray dress – lots of fringes, short to the knee, clearly rented – was undermined by the quantity of tattoos that Cherri sported on her right arm and which gave her the look of an Aussie Daisy Buchanan from the Outback.

A very fascinating contrast.

“Yeah.” Anthony agreed, sliding again to peer inside the club: a riot of dark woods – from mahogany to walnut – polished and finished, a counter positioned against the wall in front of which stood an army of perfectly lined up stools. Dim lighting, a symphony of warm tones, which concentrated in pools of light clustered around the various tables scattered in handfuls throughout the basement.

Between this almost intimate atmosphere and the green velvet-padded sofas that surrounded each table, the impression was that at the Coffre one could seek the right amount of privacy to discuss any kind of business to the jazz soundtrack provided by the musicians on stage.

Judging by the patrons who populated it that evening – several, who had all ignored the two new arrivals – the business ranged from stock market trading to matters that danced on the edge of legality, if not actually sunk into it.

Anthony loosened his dusty pink tie, knotted at the collar of a white shirt; he wouldn’t have been surprised to see, in those islands of dim light and suspended cigar smoke – because yes, smoking was permitted – one of his father’s associates or some old acquaintance.

He smoothed down his blond tuft, vaguely nervous, then cleared his throat and motioned for Cherri to proceed toward the bar.

The girl seemed perfectly at ease, despite the fact that she and Anthony usually frequented completely different types of venues; they were more ‘clubbing, neon and drugs’ than ‘jazz, soft lights and luxury alcohol’.

“So, where’s your daddy?”

Anthony slid his hazel eyes along the bar, a hint of annoyance etched between his furrowed brows, considering that the first bartender he’d lingered on didn’t look a bit like Husk.

He told you some bullshit to get rid of you, Angelito.

He ignored Valentino in his mind, continuing his investigation.

On the leftmost part of the counter, the one away from the stage on which a quartet of piano, trumpet, drums and a singer warbling sensually to a cover of All That Jazz , was Henry Husker.

He was wearing what Anthony assumed was his uniform, considering it was the same as the bartender who’d greeted him upstairs: a white shirt with black buttons, a dark red bow tie, equally black suspenders and pants. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his waves of dark, silver-streaked hair were decidedly more orderly than the last time he’d seen him in a bar. His beard and goatee were also carefully trimmed, just as salt-and-pepper and even more appetizing than the last time – the wave of pleasure tugging at his lower belly threatened to force a sound from him that he managed to mask with a thicker breath.

Jesus, the man gave him the hormones of a twelve-year-old.

“What the fuck, Tony, did you get a boner?”

Exactly. Cherri and her inimitable tact.

“I mean, did you see him?” he whispered, not even bothering to deny it, as they walked the distance to the bar – Husk, busy mixing a couple of cocktails for a pretty waitress waiting to take her order, hadn’t noticed them yet.

“I admit he’s remarkable, although he’s definitely not my type.”

“That’s better, bitch, keep your fucking hands off.”

Cherri giggled, eyeing her friend from under the blonde bangs with an eloquent expression.

Anthony clicked his pierced tongue, an amused twinkle in the depths of his hazel eyes, adjusting the jacket of the dark gray pinstriped suit he was wearing – vest included – and putting on a big smile; the golden tooth glistened in the soft lights.

“So, Henry Husker!” he began like this, stopping right in front of the counter, with his hands on his hips and the air of a detective engaged in who knows what The Untouchables-style investigation. “What’s a detective gotta do to get you answer his questions, anh?”

Husk finished pouring the last shaken cocktail into the martini glass without even looking at what he was doing, distracted by Anthony and Cherri’s arrival. His amber eyes slid to frame the girl, just behind the blond, before blinking and focusing on Tony.

That smile that couldn’t be seen on his lips – not really – but was all at the bottom of the golden gaze threatened to make Anthony’s knees melt where he stood, in spite of his bravado.

“Detective Scavo.” Henry played along, bowing his head in a calm greeting and clearing that deep, velvety voice to get the waitress’s attention who, understandably, had stopped to watch the scene with a vaguely wary air.

“Millie.”

The girl – short, with bob-cut dark curls and dark skin – shook herself and slid to look right at Henry, who signaled her to go with all the calm in the world.

“I know him, he’s fine. You can go.”

She looked one last time at Anthony – who in response politely took off his gangster fedora in a greeting – and Cherri, before snorting a half-laugh and swaying away into the room, to reach the table that had requested the order.

Anthony looked back at Henry, who in the meantime had raised his left eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. The sight of the white fabric stretched across his thick biceps threatened to distract him once again.

“Coming to a speakeasy and introducing yourself as a detective doesn’t sound like the brightest idea in the world.”

Anthony opened his mouth to retort but was interrupted by Cherri’s laughter, who had slid onto a stool right in front of Henry.

“Daddy here can cut through your bullshit, Tony, I’m officially impressed. Hey–” Cherri held out her right hand, which Husk took in a quiet, firm shake. “I’m Cherri, this douchebag’s babysitter.”

Tony’s exasperated snort preceded his plopping down on the stool next to his friend, just in time to catch Husker’s amused smirk, who now focused on Anthony and his outfit, scanning him from head to toe.

Had he dreamed it or had there really been a languid flicker in those amber eyes?

“Nice to meet you.” he replied, looking back at Cherri. “I guess I don’t need to introduce myself.”

“Oh yeah, he told me everything.” she lazily waved her left hand. “Absolutely eeeeverything .” she specified in a delighted smirk, making Henry raise both of his thick eyebrows and shot Anthony a rather gruff look.

“What?” he replied, shrugging innocently. “There was no confidentiality clause on our almost-fuck.” an exasperated sigh from Husk didn’t even interrupt him. “And anyway, other than nothing fucking happened, the clause wouldn’t apply to the best friend.”

“Relax, darling.” Cherri reassured him, leaning her elbows on the bar and leaning forward a bit on the stool to peer at the bottles lined up behind it. “So, what are we drinking here? Tony, clearly you’re the one offering.”

Anthony caught Henry’s eye again, watching him curl yet another wry smile into an unreadable flicker.

Oh, it was going to be a looong night.

*

The musicians on stage had been playing until twenty minutes ago, even accepting a couple of requests from the audience – the few people at the speakeasy who had actually gone to the place with the intention of enjoying the evening without any illicit business purposes.

Cherri, about ten minutes earlier, had slipped off the stool, stood on tiptoe and tugged Anthony – who was sitting there at the bar – a little lower to reach his cheek, leave him a goodbye kiss and a ‘be a naughty boy ’ muttered in his ear in a sneer that was nothing short of devilish.

She had also saluted Husk, index and middle finger to her forehead, before turning on her heel and leaving the place not empty-handed: during the evening, she had picked up a ride and a joyride.

Anthony, his cheek resting on the freckled knuckles of his left hand – his elbow propped up on the polished wood of the counter – lazily watched Henry dismiss the waitress; the place was closing and the man who it turned out was her husband had come to pick her up.

A pale, blond, obliging fellow in a rather elegant outfit smiled smitten at Millie, who welcomed him with a kiss and a wide smile. She said goodbye to Husker and gave Anthony a knowing wink as well, before disappearing.

The blond watched them go up the stairs of the speakeasy, reflecting in the silence of the closure while the remaining staff swept the floor and went to turn off the various lamps at the tables.

The last time he had come home early from work to surprise Valentino – who had told him he couldn’t pick him up because he was too busy – he had found him crouched in front of the armchair in the living room, busy giving a head to Vox.

The only thing his – now ex – boyfriend had been able to say was ask if he wanted to join the party.

Anthony blinked, coming back to the present.

You’ve always been a fucking simp.

He turned on the stool, watching Henry fumble behind the counter to tidy up his share.

“... Henry, anh?”

The man caught his gaze, peering at him over his left shoulder for a moment, before turning again and resuming tidying up.

“Henry.”

“So Husk–?”

“Husker. Henry Husker.”

He sounded so much like James Bond, thought Anthony, if James Bond would have had a Nevada accent.

“My last name has become Husk over the years, they’ve called me that for as long as I can remember.” he shrugged, nonchalantly. “Only my mother called me Henry. And–”

The pause and the bobbing up and down of his Adam’s apple left Anthony free to interpret that silence without too much trouble.

“And your ex-wife.”

Henry nodded, without adding anything else and placing the perfectly dried glass back with the others, in the neat row lined up behind the counter.

“So what should I call you?”

The soft thud of Henry’s bar rag into the sink after he’d finished drying everything was preceded by a sort of amused snort, the usual husky sound.

“As you want, Anthony. Or do you prefer Tony?” he replied, tilting his head slightly toward his right shoulder as if he wanted to observe him from a different angle.

Anthony thought that hearing his full name spoken in Henry’s voice was enough to make his cock stand up – and no, judging by the movements against his crotch, it wasn’t just a thought.

He swayed from side to side on the stool, adjusting the fabric between his legs.

“Just call me the fuck you like, whiskers.”

The last pool of soft light went out behind Anthony, plunging them both into the reddish semi-darkness of the counter lights; in the dark, detecting the dilated pupils in Henry’s amber eyes was surprisingly easy.

Without thinking, he reached out with his right hand, catching one of the other’s suspenders and tugging it a little toward him without much resistance – he felt Husk’s shoulder muscles against the taut suspender, the half step to lean against the bar, and that thick breath that tickled his ear last time.

Anthony also leaned on the counter with both elbows, hunched forward, not letting go of the suspender but rubbing it between his fingertips – his hazel eyes searching a path from Henry's to his mouth, undecided where to look.

He settled for a smirk and a glint of gold.

“I want you to take me to your place.”

I want, not ‘I would like’.

Usually, when Anthony Scavo wanted something, he just went for it.

Henry, who had also rested his elbows on the counter, arms partially crossed and the amused look of someone trying to figure out the other’s intentions, scratched out another low laugh from his vocal cords.

“Whatever happened to ‘you could be a serial killer’?”

“You forgot sexy.”

Husk chuckled again, shaking his head softly and reaching out with his right hand to find the wrist of the hand gripping his suspender; if his intent was to get him to let go, he failed miserably.

“Come oooon, Husky.” Anthony singsonged, half-tantrum. “We’re both sober tonight.”

The sobriety imposed by the program – by Charlie, by the NA meetings – was starting to have some positive sides.

“I’m perfectly capable of giving my consent to whatever you want to do to me.”

Anthony couldn’t say for sure if Husk’s reaction was provoked by the word ‘ consent ’ or if something else went off; he could only intercept a sort of click at the bottom of those amber eyes, which darkened pleasantly in a brushstroke of hungry, rugged pleasure.

The fingers around his wrist rubbed with rough slowness the delicate skin – Tony had already rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbows for hours, considering the temperature – of the inside of his wrist, absentmindedly tracing the bluish tangle of veins beneath.

The heart quickened its pace, like his pulse under those same fingers.

“Anything?”

Oh Henry Husker, you will drive me to an early grave.

Anthony swallowed, making his Adam’s apple bob as well, and tightened his grip around the suspender – the tendons twitching under Husk’s fingers, around his wrist.

His gaze locked on Henry’s eyes and a grin that was nothing short of sharp.

“Anything.”

I won’t even make you pay – oh yeah, Valentino really would have ripped his head off.

“It’s still the same complicated situation, kid.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

This time Husker looked for his free hand, the one not clinging to his suspender, to bring his wrist to his lips and rub them against the bluish path of veins, between the beaded bracelets. His amber gaze fixed on Tony’s who, in the meantime, was busy holding back a wave of excitement that had made him instinctively hold his breath.

He was blushing. Him. Anthony no-modesty Scavo was really blushing - he could tell by the warmness of his cheeks.

That sort of a kiss on the inside of his wrist had been the most hot and obscene thing someone has ever done to him in years.

Fuck me.

The bartender glanced around the now empty speakeasy – one remaining bouncer waiting discreetly by the door.

Something told Anthony that Henry’s silence was making a lot of noise in his head.

After some thick and low breaths, he returned to Anthony with a brush of determination.

The visceral hunger of someone who has just absolved himself.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Chapter Text

October 4th – present

They left the Coffre, saying goodbye to the last of them - the bouncer, a big guy with a scar over his left eye whom Husk had greeted as ‘Tex’, had closed the door behind them.

They had hailed a cab and, this time, they had driven all the way to Brooklyn – where Henry had his apartment – without even touching, though Anthony could feel the right side of his body sizzling and a lump of desire stirring constantly in his lower belly.

He felt like he was breathing syrup; Henry’s smell, some kind of cologne he hadn’t been wearing the other time at the Black Dot, slowed his heartbeat and at the same time made him shamefully hungry.

They climbed the six flights of stairs in silence – ‘ There is no elevator. ’ – and Anthony felt like a stupid teenager with his first crush.

If you don’t control yourself, Tony, you’ll come in three seconds.

The truth was that it had not taken any restraint, or asking permission to touch him; Henry had barely opened the front door, while Anthony was thinking about this, when the latter felt a hand grab the front of his shirt in a handful of fabric to drag him inside with a grin of amber eyes.

In the darkness of the apartment, he had found himself pressed against the door. He had searched for Husk’s mouth like a thirsty man in the desert, pushing to stick his tongue in and kiss away his breath or any other word he wanted to say.

It was more than enough consent.

Unlike last time, Henry’s hands were more careful, steadier; sober, gentle but decidedly demanding.

Anthony felt him fumbling with the button of his pants, without esitation, to slip a hand in and search for him under the fabric – the suit was male, the panties were a thong of iridescent silk, dark purple; Henry’s hungry moan, as he rubbed his fingers against the smooth fabric, made Anthony giggle languidly and, holding on to the other’s biceps, press his hips against that hand.

Shameless.

They had stumbled toward the bathroom, shedding their jackets on the way and taking off their shoes by pressing their heel on the opposite toe, concluding that sort of dance with Henry yanking down Tony’s underwear and pants – Anthony gripping the sink to keep his balance – to half-undress him.

Henry’s groan, which trailed up his bare legs in a trail of kisses and found his left cheek, nipping at his freckles – Anthony fucking mewed – before he stood up behind him, suggested to search for lube in the mirror cabinet.

Tony, his brain struggling to connect – all the blood had definitely slipped further down – opened the right door to randomly grab the bottle of lube and pass it to Henry in a low gasp: the other had just sucked his fingers to start touching him between ass cheeks.

The blond opened his legs and leaned forward, over the sink, watching Husk’s hypnotic reflection as he squeezed the liquid onto those same fingers before continuing prepping him.

He penetrated him slowly, but without hesitation. Anthony felt his cock harden even more, with each finger he added, until he moaned a ‘ just put it in, Husker ’ that sounded like a particularly growled plea.

Henry, in response, chuckled ecstatically and obeyed: he grabbed a condom from the same locker – leaned forward, over Anthony – put it on quickly and entered him in one rough thrust, slamming his hips against his ass in a low, satisfied, hungry sound.

Better than a fucking dose.

Anthony couldn’t even figure out how long that first round had lasted; according to him, definitely not that long. The orgasm ate away his mind, as if Henry had pushed a button somewhere inside him.

He regained a minimum of control, in this spiral, when he felt the other one coming too.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Henry smashed his hand against the mirror, avoiding leaning forward and crushing Anthony; his breath was short, low and full of all the languid satisfaction of the orgasm they had just had – Tony could still feel his cock pulsing inside him.

Breathe, Tony, breathe.

The blond – freckled knuckles clenched around the edge of the sink, bent over, breathing as much as short – watched Henry’s hot handprint on the mirror with a pleasantly absent expression, slowly fogging up the surface.

He was sure there was a red handprint on his ass, too, where the little heart tattoo was, and the thought of why it was there made him moan softly again and push his still-full ass back against his hips.

Husk chuckled a little – a languid, husky sound that sounded a bit like purring – and straightened up enough to run his hands over the other’s hips in a rough caress, rolling Anthony’s white shirt up higher on his back.

They hadn’t even had time to undress completely.

Tony stared at him in the mirror as he looked at his ass, without stopping to run his hands up and down his hips and sliding over his freckled cheeks to squeeze them slightly, making him giggle in return.

“Oh daddy, wasn’t that enough?”

The other one – without the red bow tie, his shirt undone by two or three buttons from which a bit of dark curly hair was peeking out, his suspenders slipped from his shoulders and his pants pulled down just enough to free his cock from his boxers – slowly slid his amber gaze to seek the reflection of Anthony’s in the mirror.

“You want more.”

Tony, hearing Husk’s low voice dripping sex, clearly felt his dick having another spasm of violent desire, even though he had just come.

Anthony, with a sigh of pleasure mixed with a half-groan, rose from the sink and stretched his arms upwards, turning between Henry and the sink; considering that the other man was shorter than him, he wrapped his arms around his neck, resting them on his shoulders and pressing himself languidly against him.

Henry’s hands automatically moved to take off the used condom, knot it, and drop it in the sink; they then settled on the small of Tony’s back in a slow breath, under the half-rolled shirt, to pull him a little more against his body.

“You didn’t even let me suck your dick, Husky.” he clicked his pierced tongue against his cheek a couple of times, rubbing his profile against the man’s stubble, fingers carved through the dark locks at the base of his neck as if he were scritching a big cat.

Judging by the low sound coming from Henry, the feline comparison was definitely apt.

“I wanted to fuck something other than your mouth.”

“Oh, so you did want to fuck me, huh?”

Henry scratched a half-snort of irony from his vocal cords – a sort of silent surrender.

“I never said otherwise.” he replied, hands venturing along his back under the fabric, getting a shiver from Anthony who searched again for his lips.

Hungry, just like the hands that moved to the buttons of Henry’s shirt as he jerked away from the sink and ‘forced’ him to walk backwards.

“Then let me do what I’ve been thinking about ever since I saved your ass from the guy with the burned face.” Anthony purred, undoing Husk’s shirt button by button and pointing at the bed.

Henry’s place wasn’t very big – not that he’d had time for a tour, but even at first glance there wasn’t much to see: a two-room apartment, the bedroom separated from the living room and kitchen only by the threshold – for some strange reason, there was no door. They walked through it, kissing, Henry’s hands still clutching Anthony’s back, who in the meantime had completely unbuttoned his shirt and was struggling to slide it down from that broad shoulders.

When he got to the point of pulling the fabric away from his back, to try to run his hands over it, Husk jumped abruptly and stopped touching him to seek out his wrists again in a rough but gentle grip.

Anthony moved away just a little to peek at him and raise his left eyebrow in a silent question, getting in return only another hungry kiss; those hands that were holding his wrists put them back around his neck.

He didn’t unpack his reluctance to be touched on the back, not now, considering that Henry had started to undo his shirt too, after loosening his tie.

“You didn’t save my ass.” Husk spoke again, his breath thick against his mouth, reaching the last of Anthony’s buttons.

“Yeah, right. If it weren’t for me, you would have ended up beaten in a Brooklyn alley–” Anthony sucked in his breath, at the sound of the silk of his tie being pulled completely off his neck in a yank. “And with no money.”

“That happened anyway.” Henry pointed out, holding the tie in his hand.

Husk’s calves hit the edge of the unmade bed in that dark room, lit only by the yellowish lights of the streetlamps outside the window – which, now that Anthony noticed, had no curtains at all.

No door, no curtains. No privacy.

He gave Henry a little push to make him sit and be able to take off his pants as well.

“Is the choice to make your room voyeur-friendly intentional?” he joked, now crouching naked at his feet. “Cause if so, I’m certainly not complaining.”

Henry metaphorically ruffled his fur and muttered something indecipherable as he watched the blond take off the remaining boxers and pants, bunched up at his ankles.

He hadn’t gotten hard yet, but the vision of Anthony kneeled naked in front of him was definitely a start.

Anthony rested his hands on Husk’s knees, to spread his legs and stare from below; he languidly rested his right cheek on his left thigh.

“Wanna do something with that tie, hm?”

Husk’s tawny cheekbones blushed – as if he had just realized that he was still holding the tie – perfectly visible even in that yellowish darkness. It was one of the most stupidly exciting things Tony had ever seen.

The man cleared his throat.

“Well I, uh, don’t know what you think about.”

Anthony chuckled, pulling the tie from his hands and reaching for the other’s wrists.

“I think pink looks good on you, whiskers.”

Anthony tied his wrists together, tight but not too tight, before sliding between his spread thighs, looking for his cock.

He peered up at him, in a mischievous smile.

"I told you I would have bring handcuffs."

Husk, probably caught off guard, looked at him with a silent hunger, a languid and fierce shade deep in his amber eyes, accompanied by a crooked smile that made Anthony chuckle a little before focusing again on his dick.

“Finally.” he sighed, with deep satisfaction.

Without waiting any longer, he ran his tongue along the entire length before taking the tip in his mouth, circling it with the little ball of the piercing and starting to suck. Slowly.

Husk moaned a low, slightly strangled sound, opening his eyes wider and sinking his fingers as best he could – his wrists still tied – into blond hair.

“Oh fuck yeah.” he breathed, instinctively raising his hips to meet him – Anthony, at that hunger, whined with pleasure, mouth full.

He worked it just enough to feel it slowly getting hard again on his tongue, alternating moments in which he sucked it thoroughly with those in which he simply traced its shape with his tongue; he let it slip out of his lips only when it became fully hard and soaked wet.

“Voilà, we don’t need lube now,” he commented lightly. “And no condom either. I’m perfectly clean, Husky, and considering that I’ve taken you in my mouth, I’ve decided that you are too.” he specified with an indecent smirk, intoxicated by Husk’s completely vanished expression: his lips slightly parted, his gaze that had gone from amber to a shade of burnished gold.

If he kept staring at him like that, and if he didn’t want to feel his cock inside him so badly again, Anthony would have gone on until he would have him cum in his throat.

He got up only to straddle Henry and, holding onto his shoulders, rock a little against his wet cock, rubbing it against his ass – other man’s wrists, still tied, around his neck.

“You still want me, Husky?”

The latter, in response, let out another guttural sound – a sort of dense and broken breath – accompanied by yet another sharp and smitten smirk.

“Whatcha think.”

The question mark was missing again, but the way he instinctively lifted his hips upwards told Tony how rhetorical, and horny, he was.

Anthony sneered.

“I think I want to look you in the face as you fuck me again.” Anthony cooed, taking Husk's cock in his hand to press the tip against the hole already quite dilated from the first round.

Henry, breathing shallow and fast, opened his lips again for another languid sound – a sort of purr of visceral, intoxicating pleasure.

“Then take it all in, baby.”

It was the first time he’d used that pet name and Anthony felt another shiver that devoured his self-control.

I’m so screwed.

Literally.

He sank onto Henry’s bare cock for the second time that night, tilting his head back when he took it all in, just as the other man had suggested.

“Mmmmilove your cock Husky—” he slurred his words, starting to move.

Husker gripped his blond hair again with possessiveness, but letting the other dictate the pace – which sent Anthony even more into ecstasy.

He looked at the man who had kissed him in an alley that night almost a month ago but had asked his permission anyway, the man who had held him and asked him to make him feel better before falling asleep drunk. The man who had just fucked him, bent over the bathroom sink, with an animal urgency and who now was looking at him languid and excited as he let himself be ridden, docile, with his wrists tied up.

Anthony thought that something strange had happened to the universe, if luck had turned on his side: if they had told him that one night, while he was working and looking for johns to make ends meet and pay his usual fee to Valentino, he would have found a–

What, Anthony? What do you think you found?

He muttered an annoyed sound, at Valentino’s voice that insinuated itself into his head again; he smashed his mouth against Henry’s in a growl to stick his tongue in and forget everything.

Kiss all my thoughts away.

Husk groaned against his lips, fingers tightening in Anthony’s hair to tug a little and get another moan.

“Oh yeah daddy, like that.”

“You like this– thing about– calling me daddy, anh?” Husker asked, short breathed, kissing the profile of his jaw and coming to rub himself against his cheek in a caress that was more animal than human.

Anthony nodded silently, opening his thighs even more to take him deeper.

“Ohffuckyesyes if– it’s ok for– you.” he replied, moaning with each thrust.

Henry, in response, captured his mouth again to suffocate a hungry sound in his throat, lifting his hips upwards to begin to meet the other’s and accelerate the pace.

Anthony felt the dick throb inside him, and grinned as he raised his right hand from Henry’s shoulders to lick his own palm – slow, soft, the cold piercing over the hot skin; then he took his cock and began stroking himself at thrusts' pace.

Husk’s amber gaze slid down to watch what he was doing, his breathing quicker than before.

Anthony grinned, delighted.

“You like to watch, Husky?” rhetorical, he lowered his hand a little towards the base to take it in his hand by the balls and show it in all its pink splendor.

He resumed jerking off, at the same pace as before.

“You want to watch me come, hm?” he teased him, with his left hand he found his salt and pepper goatee to make him lift his chin a little and look at his face for a moment.

“You want to cum in my ass while you watch me jacking off?”

“Please.” Henry’s breath was just that, a breath: a hot, pleasure-drunk breath, scratched directly from his throat and vented as a languid plea against Anthony’s mouth.

This man has no right to be so fucking sexy.

Anthony moaned again, increasing the pace and feeling the fabric of the silk tie around Henry’s wrists against the back of his neck.

“Then come, Henry. Come on, give it to me.”

The deliciously blurry line between begging and Husk’s half-growl confirmed that, if he gave him the green light, he could become a real animal.

He felt him push his hips harder, deeper, faster, until a held breath mixed with a ‘fuck’ and the familiar sensation of being filled confirmed Henry’s second orgasm of the evening; the last thrusts were even more liquid for Anthony.

He closed his eyes, intoxicated, mumbling indistinct sounds and continuing to jerk himself off – aware of Henry’s gaze fixed on his movements – until the rope of his pleasure tightened so much that it snapped taut and he came hard in a couple of spurts. Partly in his hand, partly against Husk’s belly.

Out of breath and empty-headed, Anthony slumped forward, resting his forehead on the other’s shoulder and catching his breath in a totally dazed smile.

As he slowly slipped into unconsciousness, three things occurred to him: he had to wash up and maybe he had to go home.

And above all, Henry Husker could be as grumpy as he wanted but what Tony felt vibrating all over, along with the fingers of the still tied hands that were now slowly caressing the back of his neck, were unmistakably purrs.

Where have you been hiding until now?

Chapter Text

October 5th – present

This time there was no flash, no hangover, no fuzzy memories.

This time, there was Henry Husker’s amber gaze – in boxers and a t-shirt, standing against the open, curtainless window, hips resting on the sill, a cigarette slowly smoking between his fingers – fixed on Anthony, still deep in the half-sleep of a lazy October morning.

Outside the window, Brooklyn was slowly waking up, and the questionable apartment building where he had found the apartment was already mostly up and running; he could clearly hear the latino music of the third-floor tenants coming up the fire escape nestled on the left side of the building.

He exhaled the smoke from the left corner of his lips and let the cigarette ash crumble down onto that fire escape, hanging the filter back up in his mouth as he reflected on the night he had just spent.

He knew, he knew perfectly well what would have happened if he had answered that damned message; in his defense, he had really tried to drag it out, to not indulge him, to let it go.

He’ll get tired of you, Husker, he can have whoever he wants, you’re just a silly crush.

For once, he had agreed with the little voice in his head and had acted accordingly; Anthony would have forget about him, label him as an almost-fuck and not text him again.

And instead.

Instead there had been that week of sparse messages that, apparently, had not discouraged the blond in the slightest; at that point, the flirt that Husk had tried to let go of had collided with the thought that hadn’t left him since that night he had fallen asleep drunk.

That thought he had lingered on several times – especially after seeing him again – in the bathroom. Or in bed. Or on the couch, when he contemplated all the ways he wanted to feel him again.

Taste him, kiss him, touch him.

So, he had replied. And replied again. And he had ended up with Anthony’s cheeky grin in a gangster suit that had made him rock hard right there, behind the bar.

Fuck.

He had silenced the little voice, pushed all the messes in his life into a corner and followed that desire that had been eating him alive since that night and damn it had been worth it.

He took another drag of smoke, filling his lungs, while the thought that had crossed his mind in the park when Anthony had given him the number came knocking on his conscience again.

Oh no, one time definitely wasn’t nearly enough.

He blinked and focused on the object of his musings as he turned over in the sheets – a decidedly less luxurious setting than last time – and opened his eyes again.

In the light of that Saturday morning, the left one was even greener than usual.

“Hey.”

Husk looked at that still slightly sleepy smile and something soft made his stomach churn pleasantly; he threw the now finished cigarette out the window and closed it, before moving closer to the bed again.

“Hey.”

Anthony took a breath, slowly sitting up and looking around while absentmindedly scratching his tousled blond mop. Whether from sleep or from Henry’s fingers that had repeatedly run through it, is not given to know.

The look with which he searched for Husk’s amber gaze had a hint of vague embarrassment that the man struggled to focus.

“Sorry I fell asleep here.” oh. “I usually don’t…”

The sentence trailed off, as if he didn’t know how to continue.

Henry listened to that silence – he felt again all the fragility that was in it, exactly the same one he had read on his face the previous morning – and sat on the edge of the bed.

“It’s ok.” he replied, calmly, earning from the other an initially confused look that faded into another grateful smile.

With a twinkle in his eyes that Henry was learning to recognize, Anthony stretched languidly, letting himself fall back again, sinking into the pillow and looking up at him; without makeup, those lashes were almost blonde.

“So.”

It was becoming a habit.

“... So.”

The blond chuckled, running his fingers lazily over his chest and thoughtfully playing with his nipple piercing.

“Would you show me around, while we’re at it?” he raised his left eyebrow, peering meaningfully at him and tilting his head against the pillow to stare at him from another angle.

Henry scratched a half-laugh from his vocal cords, shaking his head slightly and sliding to look at the room: a bed, a closet, a chair cluttered with clothes. Stop. He didn’t even have a nightstand.

“There’s not much to see, really.” he replied, coming back to stare at the other and lingering longer than necessary on the shape of his morning hard-on under the sheets.

When the other noticed, of course, he smirked and lowered the sheet completely.

Another thing Henry was learning: the words ‘ shame ’ and ‘ Anthony ’ couldn’t be in the same sentence.

“Oh, I think that here there’s definitely something to see.”

Husk felt his desire resurface and tug at his lower abdomen again, beneath his boxers, as he watched Anthony move to rest the head in his lap and watch him intently – heels planted on the mattress, knees bent and legs spread. The right hand holding his pink cock at the base, to show him even better, made his mouth water.

He reached out to gently brush the hair out of Anthony’s eyes, in a thick breath.

The latino music from the third floor filled the quiet and excited silence, which made Anthony giggle again – he rubbed the back of his neck against Henry’s bare leg, making him shiver as the pleasure once again invaded his brain completely and sent the blood elsewhere.

“What would you say–” he forced himself to listen to the blond’s words, who in the meantime had started to rub that hand between his legs, slowly. “If I’d make you breakfast before you show me the house?”

Henry swallowed, making his Adam's apple bob up and down and glancing right at Anthony’s cock, in a low noise of assent. In a rather sudden gesture that caused a surprised noise from the other, he rolled to lie on top of Anthony, ending propped up on elbows and tucked between his legs.

“Actually, I’m pretty hungry.”

The other’s laughter sounded crystal clear and genuinely amused in Henry's practically empty apartment – a sound so delicious to hear that it gave him butterflies in his stomach.

Just quit it, Husker.

“I was talking about coffee, Husky, I didn’t imagine you were so–” he felt a pair of hands placed directly on his ass, to push him closer and rub against his already half-hard cock. “– cheeky .”

Husk shook his head in yet another ironic snort at the sight of that smirk, intercepting the glint of the golden canine.

“Look who’s talking.” he retorted, pressing hips against his, which elicited yet another soft and languid moan from the blond.

God please, do it again.

“As if you don’t like it.” the blond teased him in a sigh.

“Fuck if I like it.”

Anthony laughed again, in that same crystalline way, and Henry thought for a moment about the last time he had felt so light, as the blond folded his arms behind his neck and brushed his lips against his bearded cheek.

“We’re really going to have breakfast later.”

“Mh-mh, later. ” Henry searched for his mouth with hunger in that response, but… The ringing of the doorbell paralyzed them both.

Tony pulled away enough to look him in the eye with furrowed eyebrows.

“Are you expecting someone?”

“No, I–”

Wait a minute.

The memory of a phone conversation from a while ago flashed in his head, accompanied by the annoying voice of the social worker telling him that the first day of inspection was the morning of… The following Saturday.

Ohssshit.

Henry went white, so much so that even Anthony seemed to be worried.

“Woah, Henry, what–”

“What day is it today.”

“You know, you should really learn to put question marks on your–”

“Tony.” he called back, getting up on his knees to let him move freely. “What day is it?”

The blond propped himself up on his elbows, looking at him with his left eyebrow now raised again.

“Saturday.”

“Shit!”

The doorbell rang again, patiently waiting, as Henry jumped up and pulled on the first pair of pants he found in the pile on the chair, trying to make himself decent; all under the confused gaze of Anthony, who was still half-lying and very naked in his bed.

“Husk, will you please explain to me what the f–”

“It’s the social worker from the court coming to see if my house is suitable for my daughter.”

Judging by Anthony’s expression, his brain had just crashed.

“The social work– Okay. Oh. Okay.”

Good, he was starting to react.

“Comin’!” Henry announced loudly enough so that he could be heard from the closed door, looking back at Tony who in the meantime had gotten out of bed, hugging the pillow.

Incredible how even in that situation he didn’t seem to know shame.

Husk thought quickly about what to do and eyed the window as the last bastion of defense from one of the most unpleasant situations of his life.

He dragged his gaze back to Anthony, scratching out a half-sigh of annoyance. Definitely not how he wanted this morning to go. 

“You have to go.”

“What, I disappear?”

The fact that Tony had added a ‘magician’ gesture with the hand not busy holding the pillow did not improve the situation at all.

Husk simply jerked his chin towards the window.

“There.”

The blond dragged a glance at the window, catching a bird fluttering on the other side. He looked back at Husk, looking rather unamused.

“Very funny.”

“What?”

“We’re on the sixth floor!”

“Yeah but there’s the fire escape.”

“And I’m fucking naked, Henry, I’m not going down six damn flo—”

The doorbell rang again.

“What do I do? ” Tony hissed. “As hilarious as it’d be for the social worker to find me naked, I don’t think it would work in your favor with your daughter’s matter.”

Husk looked around once again, ignoring the sarcasm.

Think think think.

He blinked, eyeing the door behind the other man. Of course.

“In the closet.” he ordered in a murmur, pointing to the wardrobe behind him.

“I’m out and proud since I was–”

“Cut the crap, Jesus, and get in the fucking closet!”

Anthony looked behind him, over his shoulder, and once again searched for Henry’s like he seriously couldn’t believe his words.

“Really ? Like a fourth-class lover–”

“Either in the closet or we’re about to start a bad porn. Take your pick.”

Perhaps it was the intonation of the last imperative – stern to say the least – that made Anthony sneer and obey.

“I’ve never filmed this one.” he informed, disappearing with the pillow into the closet, just an instant before Henry left him there to go open the door and silently ponder the meaning of that sentence.

Was that a joke? He decided to prudently set aside the matter for other priorities.

On the way, he picked up the other pieces of clothing that they had left scattered around the night before and silently wondered if he had thrown away the used condom left in the bathroom sink.

As he opened the door to Stella – that’s how she had introduced herself on the phone, the week before – he told himself that he would think about it at the right time.

Closing the door behind Stella, after seeing her out, Henry leaned forward to rest his forehead against the door. If anyone had to rank the worst experiences with social workers, he was relatively sure to climb at least into the Top Five of the worst impressions you could make on someone.

Where was the Henry Husker who charmed his players at the table, when he dealt the cards? Where was the one who gambled and had such a shameless poker face that he always took home the best bets? Or the one who, regardless of the consequences, smiled and looked proud and bold even if he had nothing in his hands?

They took him from you in that basement, Husker.

The little voice cruelly reminded him that the past before the Accident was just that: the past.

He should have stopped calling it an Accident and started treating it for what it was – a score settling, a punishment, the fucking karma – but the need to cling to the bottle on that Saturday morning that tickled his perception told him that was a discussion for another time.

Anthony.

The thought of the blond man locked in the closet had made that visit even more terrible: he had been on tenterhooks the whole time, while Stella wandered around that decidedly small house, clicking her heels on the ruined parquet and writing down who knows what in the folder she carried with her.

She had asked him a lot of questions, to which he had answered absentmindedly, out of terror that Anthony might come out of the closet or that Stella would think of opening the doors for some mysterious reason and finding that surprise decidedly unsuitable for a little girl.

She had asked if he had a job, if he received a regular salary, if his lifestyle could adapt to shared custody of a minor; it was Lidia’s father – adorable grandfather Dixon – who imposed himself on his daughter on asking for Caroline’s sole custody and a part of him, to be honest, didn’t even blame him.

How many times have you gambled away all your croupier tips without bringing home anything? How many times have you taken your paycheck and gone all in without thinking about the consequences?

Going back to the bedroom, looking rather gloomy, and stopping in front of the wardrobe, he told himself that maybe he really didn’t deserve to be Caroline’s father.

He knocked on the door, swallowing his resentment towards himself and thinking that next time he would make a much better impression on Stella.

“Yeeeees, who is it?”

Anthony and sarcasm were best friends that morning.

“It’s me, you idiot.”

“Ah, so I can go out now?”

Henry was sorely tempted to lock him in and leave him there, but he forced himself to take a deep breath and count to ten in his head. Maybe twenty.

“Hurry up, before I change my mind.” he muttered, opening the doors first.

Inside, he found Anthony sitting at the bottom of a practically empty closet; he had put on one of his shirts, which fit him more or less right – maybe a little short on the sleeves, given how tall he was – and had fished out a pair of boxers.

The blond caught his eyes and – with a half-annoyed, half-amused twitch – stood up, grabbing the pillow he had brought inside, and gracefully exited the closet as if it were a carriage, giving Henry a little shove. Like a true prince.

“Fuck it, I thought she would never leave, I was about to have paralysis in there.” he groaned, stretching and pulling his arms up to crack his back in a grimace. “How did it go, anyway? I couldn’t hear much locked in there.”

The silence and Henry’s rather funereal look made him suck the air between his teeth, the tip of the tongue teasing the golden canine in a rather eloquent expression.

“Ouch. I’m sorry, Husky.” From his tone, he seemed sincere. “Come on, I’ll make you breakfast, a real one this time. Let’s see what you have.”

Henry followed him toward the kitchen, a simple kitchenette in the bare living room: a half-sapped couch left there by the previous tenant dominated the middle of the room, a TV sitting directly on the floor and a small square table with a couple of chairs placed in front of the living room window, which also overlooked the fire escape.

“You know, that’s not necessary.” he began, scratching the back of his neck with a vague discomfort as he watched Anthony take all the abandoned containers of Chinese food and throw them away, carelessly, opening cabinet doors a bit randomly to try to orient himself and figure out how to put together breakfast. “I don’t want to keep you, if you have somewhere to go.”

The blond turned to stare at him, raising his left eyebrow again with a biting expression.

“You lock me in a fucking closet for an hour and now you worry about my errands?”

Good point.

Anthony clicked his pierced tongue, returning to his occupation: he opened the refrigerator to peek inside, leaning slightly on the door with indolence.

“Now you sit down and have breakfast. Then I’ll get the fuck out of here.”

Husk mumbled something, metaphorically ruffling his fur and dropping into his chair with a heavy sigh, fingers threading through his hair to support the head, elbows propped on the table.

For a while there was silence: a pleasant one, actually, the sound of a domestic morning in which Anthony muttered to himself something that Henry took to be Italian as he cobbled together an impromptu breakfast from what he had on hand; which was almost nothing.

Henry had forgotten he had eggs, or a toaster. Even milk, and considering Tony’s grimace as he sniffed the carton before throwing it in the sink, he had forgotten about it a long time ago.

In the end, the plate he found in front of him – scrambled eggs and slightly burned toast – along with a cup of coffee were the best breakfast he’d had in a week.

“Thanks.” he breathed, without even thinking, and he wasn’t just talking about breakfast.

Thank you.

Tony winked at him, with that left greener eye, and sat down in the last remaining chair, with his cup of coffee and breakfast, and began eating with gusto.

There was still the same silence, broken only by the indistinct sound of who-knows-what reels scrolling under the other’s lacquered thumb, who, while chewing his eggs, chuckled every now and then at what he saw on his phone.

It was a scene so simple and familiar – so reassuring – that the lump of worry and anger from that morning’s encounter slowly softened with each sip of coffee he took.

Over the rim of the cup, Husk peered intently at the man sitting in front of him, picking up on the thread of their previous conversation.

“Porn, huh?”

Anthony blinked a few times, yanking his attention back to him and locking the phone again before crouching a cheeky grin; one of his usual ones, in short.

“I don’t do it anymore, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“No, I was wondering how a dogsitter ended up shooting porn, actually.”

Tony shrugged nonchalantly, shoving the last forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.

“Like everyone else, I guess: the Porn Fairy Godmother showed up and said ‘ Tony, you’re going to be a star! ’” He also mimed a higher-pitched voice than usual and a very telling and explicit hand gesture, making Henry chuckle – very softly.

“And you liked it?”

“Shooting porn?” he asked rhetorically, raising his left eyebrow as if he didn’t really believe the question he was just asked.

Henry nodded, seriously.

Apparently, Anthony didn’t read any prejudice in his expression, after having fixed him with a narrowed gaze, because he went back to his coffee and leaned relaxed back in the chair, resting his right ankle on the left knee of those very long legs.

“.. It was fun, at first,” he replied, after a brief hesitation. “When I could choose what to do and who to do it with. Then the requests became more and more and nothing to my taste. Val–”

Anthony stopped abruptly, breaking a syllable in half.

Henry stared at him and it was his turn to raise his thick eyebrow, silently perplexed.

The other didn’t return the look, observing without really seeing it the plate full of toasted bread crumbs, silently connecting who knows what pattern of thoughts.

Thoughts that, once again, showed the vulnerability that Henry had only glimpsed.

He returned to look at his amber gaze after a couple of moments in a smirk, as if nothing had happened.

“Let’s say that my career as a pornstar ended when I found myself with five dicks in hands and a spreader. I only have two holes to fill, you can imagine what happened.”

Husk was torn between excitement and disapproval; he decided that no, he didn’t want to imagine it and took another sip of coffee instead.

Anthony’s phone vibrated, on the table, but he didn’t even bother to unlock it – he just glanced at it, for a second, looking back at Henry.

“This whole– Court thing.” he began, cautiously, only getting a sort of grunt from the other. “How does that work? I mean.” he stood up, to take his and Henry’s empty plates directly to the sink. “The social worker is checking on you because you can’t be with your daughter?”

The question, posed with the respect and calm of someone who is also prepared to not have an answer, didn’t bring back the lump of anger but scratched a little against the melancholy that never completely went away.

He sighed, resigned.

“Not exactly.” he corrected. “My… My ex-wife has requested sole custody. Which means I can’t see my daughter except once a week, and she can’t stay here to sleep until the social worker decrees that my house is suitable.”

Even though Lidia told you that you could see Caroline whenever you wanted and you never do? Even if she’s always the one asking you to pick her up from school, just as an excuse to not make your father-in-law suspicious?

According to that little voice, the only one who wasn’t making an effort to improve the situation was Henry.

Always and only him.

Anthony, meanwhile, had disappeared into the bedroom for an instant; he peeked at him while he rummaged through Husk’s pants pockets – exactly as he had done in the hotel – to search for cigarettes and a lighter and return to the living room with furrowed brows.

“Mh.” he muttered, making a silent gesture to ask if he could light one, to which Henry responded by waving his left hand lazily. The click of the lighter preceded the rest of his sentence. “And if she gets custody, what happens to you?”

“That I will only be able to see my daughter during supervised meetings once a month.”

Saying it out loud hurt even more.

Suddenly, the urge to spike that coffee with the whiskey he kept in the pantry above the stove came back to bite his stomach.

Tony – who had opened the window to let the smoke out, before settling back into his chair – watched him in silence, tapping the filter of his cigarette and dropping the ash into the now empty cup.

“That’s so shit.”

Husk just nodded, finishing his coffee and getting up to take the cup to the sink.

They sat in silence for a while longer, the sound of the water from the sink and Anthony’s cell phone that continued to vibrate every now and then, still ignored by its owner who, after a few moments, cleared his throat.

“I know what you said and that things are still complicated and all that–” and even without the pause, Henry knew exactly what was coming next. “But would you like to, I don't know, go out with me?”

He turned off the water and dried his hands directly on his shirt – having a rag it’s not even contemplated, of course – turning just in time to see the blond finish his cigarette and drop it into the remaining coffee, where it went out with a sizzle.

“Haven’t we been on a date before?”

“If you count my heroic rescue and last night, when I practically picked you up from work, as dates, you’ve had some really shitty dates in your life.”

Henry rolled his eyes, begging for patience from anyone who might listen. Or maybe Hell would listen more than the Heaven above, who knows.

“Tony–”

“Hey.” Anthony had stood up, to join him in front of the sink and interlace the arms behind his head to be able to look him straight in the eyes, although he had to lower his gaze a little given the height difference.

Husk found himself, unconsciously, placing hands on his hips.

“How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t fucking care about your messes, Henry?” He sighed, patiently. “Do you think you’re the only one with problems?” he scratched a half laugh directly from his vocal cords, particularly bitter. “Fuck, we could sit here all day talking about my messes, and there wouldn’t be enough time.”

Husk stayed silent, looking somewhere between his freckles like he would put them together to create a drawing.

“If you want to get away from the shit that is your life and you want to do something–” he ran his left index finger over Henry’s throat, sliding over Adam's apple and down to the round collar of his shirt in a naughty smile. “Something other than just fucking, I mean.” Husker looked him in the eyes again, Anthony’s index finger still hooked on his collar. “Date me.”

Henry scrunched the shirt fabric against Anthony’s hips, running through all the possible answers and opting for another question instead.

“Why?”

Why do you want me, when you can have anyone? Why do you want an old drunk who hasn't even been able to keep a wife, let alone be a father?

Anthony chuckled again, soft and crystalline – a softer version of the laugh that had previously made something flutter in the pit of his stomach; now, the outcome was exactly the same.

“Because I like you, whiskers.” The simplicity of the answer made him blink a couple of times. “I thought you got the idea, huh? I chased you for like a week, after practically begging you for your number.”

Henry was silent again, savoring the sensation and feeling vaguely dizzy.

Anthony’s hazel and green eyes, when he looked for them, were still there, watching him.

“Losers stick together, right?”

It was that rhetorical question chuckled by the blond, probably as a joke, that made something click in Henry’s brain again. Something pleasant that made him smile, a flicker at the bottom of his amber eyes as he slid his hands to his hips under the fabric of the shirt.

“Right. Okay.”

Anthony clicked his pierced tongue again, satisfied, transforming that hand hooked to the collar of the shirt into a more substantial grip on the fabric as he started walking backwards, aiming for the bathroom and dragging Henry along with him.

“Then we’ll talk about it.”

“Next weekend I should see Carol–”

“Shshsh, easy.” Tony cut him off, practically talking over him. “I said, then . Now, like a good host, you should show me the shower.”

Henry raised his left eyebrow again in a hungry smirk.

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah, Husky, good manners dictate it.”

“Then who am I to neglect good manners.”

“There. Good boy.”

Anthony reclaimed his mouth for a kiss, leaning with his back against the bathroom door and putting an end to that conversation.

On the living room table, Tony’s cell phone vibrated again.

Chapter Text

October 19th – present

The following weeks were a kaleidoscope of acid trips: the job as a bartender that he couldn’t afford to fail and the odd jobs that Zestiel had started assigning him in parallel; the attempt to make the house a livable place for an eight-year-old girl; the attempt – failed several times – to not gamble his salary in the first available betting shop, which always ended up making him open a new bottle.

The final blow was a dinner that Alastor had organized together with Zestiel to ‘celebrate his first month in the new workplace’. A dinner that had ended up being a sort of meeting between various Wall Street tycoons that were up to their elbows in Zestiel’s affairs.

One of them was a certain Vox; Husk wasn’t sure how to link him with Alastor, considering that his friend had always been rather hostile to any relationship or sexual approach from anyone.

And he could speak from personal experience, considering that in that crazy semester spent in college without taking exams but busy with the underground poker circle, one night when they had both been drinking a lot, Henry had clumsily tried to stick his tongue in Alastor’s mouth, earning him a headbutt back.

Luckily they had never spoken about that night again.

Anyway, that dinner with the Wall Street sharks had turned out to be also some sort of internal poker tournament in which Henry had, in order: lost more than he could afford, drank a bad whiskey sour, listened to Alastor coldly complain about how Vox had been staring at him all night and physically kept the aforementioned Vox away, who had tried to smear himself on top of his friend who – regardless of the collateral damage – had used him as a human shield.

The delirious list of those two weeks could have gone on and on, but the constant that had kept Henry from going crazy was the ding! of his cell phone that every now and then notified him of a new message; the only one who was writing to him, aside from various service messages, was Anthony.

They were stupid texts, no big deal: comments about the day, photos of dogs he took for walks – there were several of a white chihuahua stuffed into a collection of clothes larger than Henry’s closet – selfies at Starbucks, some even together to the girl who had introduced herself as Cherri the other time. They were songs, memes, shared moments that embroidered a thread of thoughts and had made Husk feel like he hadn’t felt in a long time: seen.

He had never doubted Lidia’s love, never, not even in the darkest moments; but since the Accident had happened, it wasn’t just him who broke. Their entire relationship had crumbled, slowly, and with a four-year-old child and a hasty move to the other side of the country, his wife’s attention had been focused on their daughter. Holding together the pieces that he himself had helped create.

No one teaches you about guilt but damn, how it hurts.

The fact that there was someone interested in him – someone who spontaneously asked him how work had gone or informed him that he had bought a supply of Cheetos at the market down the street because they were on sale – was a decidedly pleasant novelty.

They had never touched the divorce thing again, or the fact that Anthony’s life was a mess too – who ends up making porn movies and then stops abruptly? – and that was fine like this.

It was even better when a certain type of photo arrived and the moments before going to work or after coming home practically at dawn, Henry spent jerking off to the image that Anthony – fucking tease – had sent him with the utmost nonchalance and a simple ‘ have fun, tiger ’.

Between one message and another, they had agreed to meet the following Saturday – after asking Zestiel for a hard-earned day off – at a place Henry had never heard of.

Tony 💖
*location sent*

Husk The DILF
What place is this?

Tony 💖
a club, handsome, so put on smth appropriate

Husk The DILF
Are you mocking me, Tony?

Tony 💖
noooo what makes ya think that ~
you're always sexy husky, nw xxx
cya there 💗

Henry stared at the glowing heart for the umpteenth time, before looking up at the blue and pink neon sign that towered over the entrance to what looked like a disco or a strip club: The Vees, in the heart of Midtown.

He looked at the queue to get in, after Anthony’s last text telling him to come in ‘ no problem ’, that he’d be there and that they’d meet inside.

“No problem, huh?” he muttered, getting in line behind a very young couple and feeling incredibly old to frequent such a place.

When he got to the front, the bouncer – a guy with a pierced eyebrow and not very friendly looking – asked him boredly if he had a table reserved, and Henry cleared his throat.

“No clue. But a guy named Anthony told me that–”

He didn’t even have time to finish his sentence before the bouncer lifted the red cord, unhooking it, and waved him through, barely looking at him.

Husk frowned, vaguely puzzled, and stepped through the door of The Vees to be hit by the music and the atmosphere.

The place was much more like a Vegas club than the speakeasy, and part of him felt almost like he had come home: spending his winnings in the clubs outside the casino – glitter, sequins and strobe lights – was a bit of a tradition for the young Henry Husker, who used to squeeze Sin City to the core.

Falling in love with one of the club dancers – who also performed in his own casino, from time to time – had been a different story entirely; a story that ended with a marriage, a daughter and a divorce.

He shook his head, coming back from memory lane and looking around for Anthony; in all that blue and pink lights, the crowd and the loud music, finding his mop of blond hair proved to be a difficult task.

He pushed through the crowd to the bar, a sort of blue structure with a decidedly modern design, and perched himself on a stool to gather his thoughts. He fished his phone out of the pocket of the dark jeans he’d been wearing, along with a simple, dark red long-sleeved Henley shirt and a new leather jacket; more suited to a pub or rock concert than a club, but his closet had offered no other options. And most of all, he wasn’t the club type.

Husk The DILF
Where the fuck are you.

Straight to the point.

He waited, turning to stare at a sort of raised stage on which various male and female dancers were rubbing themselves sinuously around the poles. Some had started out dressed and ended up essentially naked.

He also eyed the various privè placed right in front of the stage, small alcoves occupied by those who wanted to enjoy the show in the front row; he thought once again Anthony's choice of the place in question, which, considering the behavior of the bouncer at the entrance, had probably been calculated.

Either he wants me to know his world, or he has something in mind.

“What can I get you, man?”

Husk stiffened reflexively, turning back to the counter and eyeing the bartender who had asked him: an Asian man, perhaps Japanese, with a very well-groomed goatee and a bunch of tattoos on his arms – various intertwining snakes, dragons and various reptiles – perfectly visible, given the black short-sleeved shirt.

If he wasn’t a bartender, he could easily have been a Yakuza hitman.

“Whiskey neat.”

The guy nodded, without batting an eyelid, disappearing for a few moments to pour his favorite poison.

Henry took off his jacket, balling it up but, this time, taking care not to abandon it on the stool next to him; he looked at his phone screen again, waiting for a notification that wasn’t there.

He ditched you, Husker.

He stifled that little voice by swallowing only a vague sense of unease and running his fingers through his silver-streaked tuft, thanking the bartender in a nod and taking out a bill to pay.

As he took his first sip, amidst the applause that greeted the dance troupe that had just finished, a presenter came on stage – dressed as a playboy bunny – to announce something.

“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Get your bills ready and don’t be shy, ladies and gents, because he most certainly is not! Give your horniest welcome to the wet dream that The Vees is always happy to offer: Angel Dust!”

Henry watched idly as the crowd clapped or wolf whistled like they’re in the most infamous strip club in Queens, which made him chuckle a little.

Who the hell could be this Ang–

The thought choked in his head as the sip of whiskey threatened to suffocate him, sending him to see the Creator before his time and for an alcohol-related reason that was not an alcoholic coma. A nice change, there's no denying it.

He coughed a lot, under the implacable gaze of the tattooed bartender and a few other customers at the counter, before recovering the use of his lungs and returning to focus on the dancer on stage who was greeting the audience by blowing kisses and winks here and there.

What the fuck was Anthony doing on stage dressed like that?

The little voice didn’t even bother answering that decidedly superfluous question.

He felt a lot of things, observing Angel Dust more carefully: he had a sort of black shrug made of intertwined chains and small armor-style plates sleeves on the shoulders, that left his entire back and chest uncovered, in a riot of freckles and glitter; the right sleeve was connected to the left through a chain choker. Black leather shorts that left very little to the imagination and a pair of knee-high, square-heeled boots, also black.

The touches of color that he sported – apart from blond hair, in which he had traced various shades of glittery pink – were all in the makeup: a sort of pink and purple smokey eyes, enriched by three fuchsia rhinestones applied along the line of the cheekbones under both eyes. To complete the look, a pink heart silhouette painted on the bare skin, starting from the chest, surrounding the nipples and running in a brushstroke down his torso, passing by the belly button and continuing suggestively under the shorts.

Henry, who in his life had never been particularly attracted by the physical appearance of people but by what they managed to transmit to him – their vibes, whether they were from males or females did not matter much – that evening felt one of the cornerstones of his sexuality dangerously waver.

Anthony – Angel Dust – was truly an erotic dream on two legs.

Legs that were miles long, straddling him while he fucked him, his wrists tied behind his neck and a spectacular view of his—

The thought was interrupted again, when the music started.

Contrary to what Husk had thought, given the tenor of the place, a sort of rock song started sung by a voice dirty enough to make Angel’s moves even more indecent; a pretty slow rhythm at the beginning, punctuated by the drums and the scratching of the guitar.

The moment of the chorus – which the audience probably also knew well – was a fierce grip of desire straight to Henry’s gut: to the excited cheers of the crowd, above the singer’s now more shouted voice, Anthony had fallen to his knees on the edge of the stage, his thighs spread and his arms raised above the head, clinging to the pole from which he had just slipped and busy moving his hips towards the audience in a decidedly explicit wave in time to the music.

The wave of lewd thoughts that washed over Husker at that moment was probably so obvious that even the tattooed Yakuza noticed: he chuckled lightly, passing right behind him to serve other customers at the counter.

He found himself draining what was left of glass in one gulp, setting it back down on the bar with more emphasis than necessary, and nodding to the bartender to catch his attention.

“Another one.”

He poured him the second whiskey without batting an eyelid while glancing at Angel as he continued his act, hanging from the pole to lean forward towards the crowd and tease the loyal fans in the front row, who in the meantime were stuffing bills into his shorts.

“He’s good, isn’t he?”

“Mh?” Henry jumped slightly, tearing his amber gaze from the stage: he had just caught a glance from Anthony, directed right at him with a wink attached, and he found himself smiling like an idiot. He stared at the Asian bartender, hoping that in the bluish darkness the blush that he felt had pinched his cheeks could not be seen.

“I said, he’s good right?”

“ Oh . Yes.” he blinked, pulling out another bill to pay for his second round. “He dances well.”

“I don’t think the people at The Vees come here to see his dance moves.” the other pointed out, with a rather knowing and ironic half-smile, as he pocketed his tip; he rapped the bar once with his knuckle, satisfied, called away by yet another order and leaving Henry alone with his arousal and the finale of Angel’s number, which garnered applause and horny whistles from the crowd – as well as a fair amount of cash.

Husk kept his eyes on him as he walked out of the wings; he turned back to the bar, as the place filled up again with loud music, probably the background dance music between numbers.

So Anthony was a dogsitter, a former porn star and a performer; Henry – swirling his glass idly – ​​began to put the pieces together, one after the other, to create a more precise picture of the blond who he had met by chance one evening in a bar and had turned his life upside down.

“Heeey, whiskers ~ ”

The singsong and very suggestive tone reached him even before Anthony’s arms, which slid over his shoulders and over his neck to embrace him from behind and rest the chest against his back.

Despite the pleasant contact – the smell of the other mixed with sweat and a sugary, fruity scent he couldn’t immediately pinpoint – a scorching flash of the Accident slithered through his head.

Husk reacted, purely on instinct: he stiffened and shook off the man, who in response immediately released his grip and raised his hands in the universal gesture of surrender.

“Woah woah, Henry.” He turned just to see Anthony’s slightly puzzled smile and wary expression as he stood before him with his hands still slightly raised. “Sorry, I thought you recognized me.”

I’m a fucking idiot .

“No, I–” he replied with some urgency, before sighing heavily and pressing a pair of metaphorical ears against her head. “You caught me off guard. Of course I–” he cleared his throat, turning fully on the stool so he could look at him properly. “I recognized you.”

And judging from what had happened during his dance number, his dick had also recognized him enthusiastically.

Anthony stared at him for another couple of moments, lowering his hands and searching his face as if trying to fully understand his expression and his words, as if he was expecting something after that sentence.

Rejection , a thought suggested to him somewhere; his stomach tightened, tucking that piece into the picture as well.

Anthony’s vulnerability, underneath all the bravado and raw hyper-sexuality, that Husk had only glimpsed from time to time.

Apparently, however, Tony liked what he saw; he smiled again, a mischievous and amused twinkle in the depths of his hazel eyes – the glint of his golden tooth confirmed that he was his usual self again.

“Did you like the surprise? Rei.” he intercepted the tattooed bartender as he passed by. “I’ll have my usual, thanks sugar.” He looked back at Henry, taking a couple of cautious steps forward to get closer to him again.

This time, he opened his legs – still sitting on the stool – to give him space and held out a hand, palm up, in an inviting gesture: it was his silent positive answer to the question about the surprise.

Anthony, smirking, didn’t need to be told twice: he took his hand and slipped in right there, leaning on his thigh as if he were more or less sitting in the other’s lap – under the envious glances of the other customers in the place, which made Husk’s thick eyebrow raise a little.

“I’m still working, baby, so for now you’re a nice break in my shift.” he informed him, purring in his ear. “Just ignore them.”

Henry muttered something grumpily, resting his free hand on the small of his bare back to steady him.

“Such a gentleman, Husky. Thank you.” The last words were for Rei, who had meanwhile placed Anthony’s glass right there in front of him.

Husk silently considered the drink, comparing it to all the others: not that he remembered the first night precisely, to be fair, but even at the speakeasy the blond hadn’t ordered alcohol. He had never seen him drink a drop of booze since they had met.

Another ‘ why ’ that he silently asked himself, absentmindedly stroking Tony’s back.

“You’ll get all the glitter on you, whiskers,” he muttered, mouth still on the rim of the glass as he finished his fruit juice. Sugar rush incoming.

Henry looked at his palm: oops .

He snorted a half-laugh, in his throat, putting the hand right back where it was before.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Mmm, yeah?” Tony commented, rearranging himself in his lap after placing the empty glass on the bar and pressing the tip of his index finger on Henry’s nose to make it slide further down in a gesture very similar to the one from last morning: he ran the index over his lips, his salt-and-pepper goatee, his throat, reaching the three buttons of the shirt in a scorching touch.

Or maybe it was his sharp and languid smile that suddenly made Henry feel very hot.

“If you want, I can leave them everywhere afterwards.” Angel continued, gazing at him from under his lashes.

With that pink smokey eye and the three rhinestones under the eyes, the green in his left eye was again very evident.

Who knows if anyone had ever told him that his eyes had two different colors.

“Angel.”

Henry, before he could even respond, jerked his gaze in sync with Anthony's to stare at a girl who had just appeared: dark eyes, dressed like a sexy and rather revealing version of a jester.

“Kitty, darling,” Tony greeted her, not flinching but straightening up for a moment. “What is it?”

As if something in the girl’s almost shy tone had warned him.

“You’re–” Husk saw her searching for the most appropriate term to use, considering that she peeked at him as well for a moment before returning to the blond. “Requested elsewhere.”

Angel looked instinctively in the direction of Kitty’s gaze, peering somewhere towards the stage – where the fans had been – before sighing theatrically and standing up.

“Time’s up. Comin’.”

Kitty nodded quickly, disappearing back into the crowd as Anthony put on an artfully constructed pout and looked at Husk.

“You wait for me, right tiger?”

Something in the blond's behavior suggested to Husk again that he wasn’t totally quite himself that night; he compared the image of the Tony tucked into his shirt, at the breakfast table – busy giggling at his cell phone in a lazy silence of an ordinary morning – to the sexy Angel Dust pouting at him and flirting a lot more than usual.

‘ Do you think you’re the only one with problems? ’

The memory of Anthony’s tone that morning made him blink a couple of times.

He nodded, slowly.

“Sure.” he confirmed. “You came while I was working too and waited for me.”

Something about that clarification made Anthony’s expression melt into a sort of held breath, a suffused happiness that made him curl a genuine smile.

He placed the right hand on his cheek, scratching his salt-and-pepper beard a little, and leaned over to leave a kiss right on the corner of his lips.

“See you later, Henry.” he cooed, getting up and disappearing into the crowd, drawn back into the chaotic club.

As Husk absentmindedly rubbed the thumb to remove the lip gloss – another stupid smile that he couldn’t suppress – he couldn’t help but feel the familiar tingling sensation of being watched.

He turned in that direction, looking up at the balconies that ran around the entire perimeter of the place: up high, in the dim light mixed with neon lights, the embers of a cigarette with a strange reddish smoke looked back at him for a couple of moments before disappearing.

It was three o’clock when the bouncer with the eyebrow piercing came to tap him on the shoulder, announcing that he had to get out of the way.

He had been eyeing Angel Dust all evening, watching him wander through the crowd and stop here and there where he was required to chat with the customers – mostly in the privès.

When he happened to pass by his area, with the utmost nonchalance he would run his fingers on the back of Husk’s neck in an absent-minded caress, something that had made him shiver and had attracted his gaze until he saw him disappear again in the club.

The weirdest, most exciting first date he'd ever had.

The Vees had slowly emptied and the lights had come back on: the blue and pink neon lights, which had immersed the place in an almost surreal and certainly sensual atmosphere, had given way to reality.

The remaining dancers were having fun, laughing and chatting among themselves, some sitting at the tables previously occupied by customers and others right at the bar for the stirrup cup; Anthony, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Rei, noticing the bouncer's gesture, intervened.

“Hey, he’s cool Jason. He’s waiting for Angel.”

The man shrugged, leaving him alone and joining the others.

Henry rose from the stool he had colonized all evening and cracked his neck in a heavy breath, putting his jacket back on.

“Thanks, but–” he looked around, vaguely puzzled. “Do you know where I can find him, by the way?”

“Probably still in the dressing room.” Rei shrugged, not looking at him and continuing to tidy up. “Try going to look for him, they’re over there.” he jerked his thumb toward a door to the right of the counter that said STAFF ONLY.

Henry nodded, heading off.

“It’s been a pleasure, Rei.”

“Same for me, Husk.”

Reflecting on the fact that in one way or another he always ended up making ‘friends’ with potentially lethal people – no one would ever get the idea out of his head that Rei was a former Yakuza – he opened the door towards the dressing rooms and closed it behind him.

The back hallway of The Vees was decidedly less polished than the interior, a perfect representation of any nightclub, and once again he felt transported back to Vegas’ past.

The neon lights flickered, turning on as he passed door after door in search of Angel Dust’s dressing room; he passed the changing room for the waiters, bartenders and bouncers, a break room and what looked like a storage room of some sort before reaching the dancer’s dressing rooms.

In the almost deafening silence, compared to the volume of the music he had heard all evening, Henry’s ears caught at least two muffled voices speaking from behind a door not too far from where he stood.

Or to say it better: they were arguing furiously.

Henry frowned, not being able to catch any of the words precisely, but he recognized one of the two voices: Anthony.

The other was a voice with a thick Spanish accent, which occasionally rose higher as Husk slowed his pace to stop just around the corner of what he had now deduced was Angel’s dressing room.

Unsure what to do, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and waited, although that sort of fight made his fur metaphorically bristle; he didn’t like it, not one bit.

He caught just a snippet from Anthony, something that sounded a lot like ‘go fuck yourself and your Wall Street Prince’ before a couple of noises: something breaking, falling to the ground, and some sort of dense, more impactful sound.

A slap?

Henry stiffened abruptly and marched toward the dressing room just as the door swung open to let out a figure whose back he could only glimpse; a decidedly tall man, taller than Anthony, with a lean, sinewy build, wearing a long red coat with butterfly wings drawn on the back, the cuffs and collar trimmed with white zebra fur.

Cursing in Spanish, he disappeared down the opposite hallway without noticing Husker, who nevertheless took note of another detail that tickled a recent memory: a trail of reddish smoke that snaked behind him.

He watched him vanish around the corner, a flicker of anger in the depths of his amber eyes, before clicking the tongue a couple of times in a low growl.

Calm down, Husk. Breathe.

He reached the door of Angel Dust’s dressing room, which had been left ajar, to knock with his knuckles and open it a little more, asking for permission.

“Hey, Tony, is everything–” okay?

He never finished the question: his gaze fell on Anthony, wrapped in a cyclamen-colored dressing gown very similar to the coat of the guy who had just left, leaning against the wall with his right hand pressed against the same red cheek, his makeup a little smudged and the eyes of someone who had just cried.

In front of him, the shards of a vase and a bunch of roses scattered on the ground.

Meeting Angel’s gaze – a mixture of fear, shame and surprise – Henry answered himself.

Chapter Text

October 20th – twenty minutes earlier

Angel Dust rested his cheek against the backstage doorframe, peering with amusement and fascination at Henry, still perched on a stool at the counter, occasionally talking to Rei.

He had spent the evening secretly observing him as he worked – in and out of the privè or small rooms where he was called by the higher-paying clients, usually friends of Valentino.

Valentino. He hadn’t crossed paths with him all evening, even though he had felt his gaze on him especially when he approached Henry.

Did you invite him on purpose to make him jealous?

He mentally silenced the annoying little voice, taking a deeper breath to release the tension and returning to look at Henry’s profile, who was currently finishing his last round of drinks.

The place was closing now and the last stragglers were promptly directed towards the exit by the bouncers.

“Angie, baby, are you taking a drink with us?”

Anthony turned to intercept one of his colleagues – a rather striking girl, with long blonde hair, caramel skin and a red heart tattooed on her right arm with her ex’s name crossed out by a very telling x.

She had told him that story who knows how many times.

“Thanks, sugar, but I’ll get ready right away. I have someone waiting for me.” he replied, with an eloquent smile, tilting his chin towards the room and pointing out Henry to the other girl, who in the meantime was lazily watching Rei tidy up.

The blonde scanned Husk up and down a couple of times, before looking back at Angel with a naughty smirk.

“Did you find yourself a nice daddy, anh?”

Anthony chuckled slightly, amused, running a hand through his blond tuft with deliberate nonchalance and ending up scattering glitter everywhere.

“When you know how to do it, baby.” he concluded the gesture with the unmistakable sign of a handjob, making the dancer and some other colleagues laugh as they passed by on their way to the bar.

“As you wish, honey. See you on Monday!”

Angel saluted her with a flying kiss, following her with his gaze for a couple of moments before leaving and heading towards his dressing room.

The evening had been less worse than he had predicted: Husk seemed to have taken to his job as performer better than expected, Valentino hadn’t shown up – neither he nor his irritating Wall Street boyfriend – and the johns who had requested his ‘services’ had only been a couple of the regulars. Travis, for one, who just needed a properly done blowjob to last two minutes.

As he opened the door to his dressing room and began to take off his stage costume, he thought that perhaps he should have tell to Husk that in that club he didn’t just dance , but if being a performer could be a fun and intriguing surprise, working as a hooker was perhaps not so easy to explain.

The truth is that he didn’t want to explain it, considering that this would inevitably lead to many other questions that he wasn’t sure he wanted to answer.

Or maybe, he didn’t know how to answer.

“Next time.” he muttered to himself, stepping over the shorts piled on the floor and slipping on his cyclamen-colored dressing gown with fur-lined sleeves – the one Valentino had given him one of the many times he wanted to make amends for something.

A ‘next time’ he hadn’t figured out ‘when’ yet, but revealing the guy you just started seeing that you’re a hooker and that your ex, the owner of the club, still takes a percentage of your sex work would probably be a bit much for a first date.

First date.

Anthony looked at himself in the vanity mirror, a silly smile lit up by the pink lights that ran along the frame.

He no longer knew whether it was the feeling of a first date or Husk himself that was making something flutter in the pit of his stomach.

A part of him, as he soaked the cotton ball in makeup remover, decided that it didn’t matter.

The knock knock!’s sound made his eyebrows rise as he turned toward the entrance.

It was a little too early for Husker, he had given Rei other instructions.

“It’s me, amorcito, may I come in?”

Valentino’s voice – warm and velvety, marked by a clear latino accent – ​​sent a shiver down his spine.

He could never define the shivers Valentino gave him, whether they were fear, awe, or excitement. Maybe all three of them, as Charlie had speculated in their endless therapy sessions.

However, they had never reached a proper answer.

“Come on in.”

And as always, Angel was incapable of leaving him out – of his door or of his life, it was just the same, fucking old story.

The one who entered the door was a latino man much taller than Anthony with an athletic build and black, almost blue hair, tied in many thin braids that reached more or less under his ears. A very well-groomed goatee and a pair of almost drawn-on mustaches. Glasses with red lenses, heart-shaped, and a sort of coat of the same color with a fur-lined zebra collar. An open black shirt to show off his mulatto pectorals, several chains and rings and nipple piercings all gold – like the canine that mirrored Angel’s – and… A decidedly bulky bouquet of red roses.

That made Anthony’s heart skip a beat, a sensation he recognized with great guilt and a little bit of shame: pleasure.

Valentino’s spell over him had never been broken, even though somewhere he heard Charlie’s voice explaining that all the attitude Val had towards him was a symptom of the toxicity of their relationship: exaggerated gifts, tons of messages, overwhelming compliments. Everything according to love-bombing script.

And yet.

Valentino smiled at him, languidly.

“A special gift for my special star, to celebrate tonight.” he began, closing the door and moving into the dressing room to find a vase to place them in. “You were divine, Angel.”

The latter cleared his throat, closing the gown over his chest and remaining seated at the vanity, trying to remain lucid.

“Thanks Val, but I was only doing my job.”

“Bullshit.” he cut short, placing the red roses in the vase – which he had just filled with a bottle found in the dressing room – one by one. “There are those who just do their job and those who put their heart and soul into it. You, cariño, are a natural.” he complimented, peeking over his shoulder.

Anthony met his dark eyes in the reflection of the mirror and smiled almost shyly, while the little voice inside his head insulted him again.

He started removing the makeup, in the silence of the dressing room punctuated by the rustling of the roses being arranged in the vase by Valentino – he kept an eye on him in the reflection, carefully, just in time to meet his gaze again as he stood behind him and placed both hands on his shoulders.

He couldn’t help but flinch, again, in that heady mix of fear and excitement.

That was the real drug Val had made him addicted to: an intoxicating poison that had entered his bloodstream and that the months of rehab had not managed to completely remove from his mind. He might not have taken drugs for almost a year – a very long year of which he even counted the days – but it was Valentino, the real substance from which he could not detox from.

He closed his eyes in a soft breath, feeling the man’s thumbs caress him over the fabric of his dressing gown in a sort of slow massage.

“Who’s that old timer you were hanging around tonight, hm?” he asked in his ear, leaning forward a little and pressing his fingers harder into his shoulders. It didn’t hurt, not yet , but it was a warning that made Anthony re-open his eyes and regain his alertness.

Did you invite him on purpose to make him jealous?

No, I invited him specifically to see how different he is from Valentino. 

He blinked a few times and stared in the mirror into his ex’s dark eyes, which weren’t exactly friendly at the moment.

He cleared his throat.

“A friend.” At least that’s what he could call him. “I invited him out.”

“So now that’s how it works.” Val continued smoothly, not letting go of his shoulders and starting to squeeze harder; Anthony winced slightly in pain, but still didn’t move. “Giving freebies to the first guy you meet? If you feel lonely, Angelito, you know you can always come to me.”

Anthony scratched a half-laugh from his vocal cords, without a hint of joy. 

“To you and Vox, you mean.”

“Oh you know baby, Vox ain’t the jealous type. And–”

Val’s right hand slid down from his shoulder to push aside the hems of his gown and slide right there on Angel’s still-glittered chest; he held his breath as he felt that touch smudge a little on the pink heart painted on his skin.

He shivered again, in that strange mix of feelings that went straight to his head.

“–we could have a lot of fun, us three.”

Anthony took another ragged breath before shaking off Valentino’s hands and rising from the stool, away from the vanity and the man. He stepped back without turning his back to him, closing his gown and straightening his posture to do one of the hardest things in the world: say no to Valentino.

He stared at him, seriously.

“I’ve told you many times that we’re over, Val.”

“And I told you that I don’t give a shit about what you want, Angie.”

“I’m clean now, I don’t–”

“Yeah yeah, no more drugs, okay.” Val raised his hands, dramatically, in surrender. “Be my guest to no longer having fun in your fucking life. But you know you love me, baby.”

“That’s not the point.”

“So what is it, huh?”

The tone was getting louder. It was probably also due to his latino attitude. Valentino was like a match: he set everything on fire, without stopping.

“Have you forgotten who you work for?” Val moved, closing the distance between them in a couple of steps that made Angel retreat further until he bumped against the small table on which the vase of roses was sitting.

“Have you forgotten who you give the money you make when you get fucked like the pathetic slut you are? Have you forgotten who owns you?!”

Anthony watched Val’s face grow redder and redder with rage as he yelled at him; while part of him just wanted to curl up and agree with him – the part that the other had spent years shaping and conditioning – the other part, the part that had always been there, lifted his chin proudly and looked at his abuser.

“You may be my boss, Val, but you don’t own me anymore for months,” he replied. “And now, go fuck yourself and your Wall Street Prince.”

He barely had time to finish the sentence when Valentino’s backhanded slap hit him on his right cheek; the rings hurt more than usual and the impact made him lose his balance just enough to hit the table again and knock the vase and all the roses to the floor.

Water, shards, angry tears and a hand on his throbbing cheek, Anthony watched his furious ex march out of the dressing room as he lit a red-smoked cigarette and disappeared down the hallway, cursing in Spanish.

Just like a drug, what remained after Valentino was a down that threatened to devour him.

Every. Fucking. Time.

“Hey, Tony, is everything–”

Confused and still slightly shocked, what he didn’t expect to see – his eyes still a little swollen with tears – was Henry’s amber gaze staring at him from the door that had just opened under his knock.

No, he definitely didn’t need an answer.

October 20th – present

He had finished removing his makeup and getting ready to leave in silence; Henry hadn’t spoken, or asked any questions. He had sat down in one of the dressing room chairs, pushing aside a bulky, shocking pink ostrich feather boa and checking that there wasn’t too much glitter – but not paying much attention to it, really. He had waited calmly, without rushing him.

He had ignored his sniffling and the spare tears, meeting his gaze in the mirror in a soft, welcoming silence, tinged with a gloomy anger that Anthony sensed perfectly well was not directed at him.

When Tony had slipped into an oversized lilac hoodie, a pair of black leggings and his usual black Docs with fuchsia laces, having also retrieved that unlikely teddy jacket, equally fuchsia, Husk had preceded him out of the dressing room and they had exited through the back entrance.

They had waited for a taxi and, with Anthony still silent, Henry had spoken for him, asking the driver to drop them off at a 24/7 diner in Brooklyn.

So it was four in the morning when Anthony found himself faced with a full menu – cheeseburger, greasy fries and strawberry milkshake – that Husk himself had placed under his nose, before sitting down in front of him and taking a bite of his burger.

“Eat.” the man muttered, mouth full, staring at him eloquently.

Anthony sighed, trying to untangle the knot in his stomach and picking at a few fries, which did the trick: he slowly began to relax, while a jukebox in the background played a series of corny songs chosen by a small group of drunks in the corner of the diner.

They remained quiet for a few more moments. Husk was the first to break the silence game.

“I thought you only picked up dog shit.” he said lighty, looking up at him a little with amusement.

Either he was taking a long way around it, or he was trying not to directly address what happened. Either way, Anthony found himself chuckling a little, shoveling more fries into his mouth.

“Yeah.” he followed the trail of that conversation. “You know, I could have told you when I was sucking you off but—” a knowingly mischievous wink. “Surprises are more fun.”

Husk, the picture of nonchalance, deliberately ignored the provocation; Anthony swore to himself that no one, no one had ever had such an effect on him.

What kind of man remains unmoved when there are sex-jokes involved?

Certainly not the same one who had fucked him from behind, standing against the sink, because they even hadn’t had time to–

“... doing this?”

“Anh?” Anthony blinked a couple of times, coming back to earth. He met Henry’s amber eyes again, who was looking at him calmly as before.

“I said, how long have you been doing this?”

He's showing interest in you only out of courtesy, Anthony, don't get your hopes up.

Valentino’s voice always had a stinging comment, whenever someone addressed Angel in a certain way. And now, thanks to that adorable bitch of his sister – she had saved his life by grabbing him by the hair, but god how she could still get on his fucking nerves – he didn’t even have the drugs to keep that voice quiet, drowning her in a sea of ​​white dust.

He went back to eating his fries.

“Five years, give or take.” he explained, picking one up and dipping it into his milkshake under Husker’s perplexed gaze. “I used to dance in another club, then one night Valent–”

Again, the thought got stuck in his throat.

His now purple cheek – a bruise where the ring had caught it, which had caught the cashier’s eye – throbbed again, and suddenly Angel seemed to forget how to articulate a sentence.

He swallowed dryly, looking away and silently going back to eating his fries.

“Valentino.”

It was Husk’s voice who finished the name out loud, before taking another bite of his now almost finished burger.

Angel instinctively sunk his head into his shoulders, sinking a little into the white wool scarf that he had wrapped around his neck as he left the club and that he had not yet taken off. Maybe the courage to look Henry in the face was in there, who could say.

Above all, the hilarious thing was that Anthony would never have foreseen that the embarrassment of the evening was not due to the surprise of his work as a performer but for something else entirely.

“He’s my boss. And my ex.”

A small syllable that didn’t even begin to capture all that Valentino meant to Angel: the reason he had started taking drugs, filming porn and working as a hooker. The reason that had made him addicted, weak and in love. The reason he had injected himself with a dose he knew would kill him, ‘cause it was the only act of rebellion he could have come out with.

He had never confessed it to anyone; even talking about it openly with Charlie was difficult, let alone telling the man he had asked out after an almost-fuck and a night of wonderful sex.

So much for avoiding the ‘ex’ talk on the first date.

In fact, he munched on his pierced tongue and stayed silent.

Husk’s heavy sigh after a few moments caught his attention and he looked back at him.

“Look, kid,” he began, crumpling up the burger wrapper. “I’m no one to tell you what you should do, but relationships of this–”

“We’re not together anymore.” he specified, cutting him off and straightening his chin to look at him.

Henry rubbed his salt‘n’pepper muzzle, as if searching for the right words.

“Relationships of this kind–” he continued, “–don’t end just because someone said ‘okay that’s enough’. It’s a bit more complicated, huh?”

The rhetorical question clearly implied that Husker imagined how Anthony felt and what kind of cobweb he had gotten himself tangled in.

A part of him felt a kind of immediate relief, as if the knot in his stomach had loosened even more. He reached for the fries again, to eat them a little more hungrily as Husk continued his speech.

“I’m still having a relationship with my wife, despite the divorce. And so are you with this–” he seemed to be searching his brain for something that perhaps wasn’t too offensive, but given his grimace, the venture was a total failure.

“Asshole?” Anthony suggested, dipping another fry into his milkshake.

“I’d have said ‘piece of shit’, but I guess ‘asshole’ would work too. Will you please stop with that crap?” the last part of the sentence was decidedly disconnected from the rest and stopped Angel from yet another dip in the milkshake.

He blinked, looking innocent.

“What?”

“How the fuck can you eat them like that?”

Anthony looked down at the fry half-submerged in the pink foam of strawberry milkshake, before looking up to meet Husker’s amber eyes in an amused smirk.

“You should try it.”

“Not a fucking chance.”

“Come ooooon whiskers ~” he sing-songed, holding the fry out under Henry’s nose and jiggling it a little, a mischievous smirk on his lips. “Trust me, huh?”

The other narrowed his gaze, looking at him with a deeply skeptical expression, before giving an exasperated snort; he opened his mouth and allowed Anthony to pop the fry into his mouth. The blond lingered with his thumb on his lower lip a moment or two too long, perhaps, before letting him chew.

“So?”

Henry swallowed, silently considered the verdict before metaphorically ruffling his fur and muttering an assent, which made Anthony wiggle his brows with a knowing look.

“See? You can’t judge a book by its cover.”

“That’s for sure.”

Judging by the way he was now staring at him, Angel was no longer sure that the conversation was about the bizarre combination of milkshake and fries.

Was it flush what he felt burning on his cheeks?

He decided he didn’t want an answer as he grabbed the cheeseburger.

“Anyway.” Henry continued. “Relationships like this always suck. It’s all fun and games at first, and then you wonder how the fuck you ended up letting your partner control everything you do.”

“Speaking from experience, Husky?” Anthony retorted, rather scathingly, chewing on his sandwich.

The other stared at him, raising his thick left eyebrow.

“Yeah.”

Oh.

“So your wife–”

“Ex wife.”

Anthony waved his free hand in a very Italian way, dismissing the clarification but reiterating the question, which made Henry shake his head.

“No, Lidia– Her name’s Lidia.” he clarified, as if it wasn’t already clear enough. “Lidia is not to blame for the failure of our marriage. No.” he shook his head, without elaborating further on this detail that Anthony noted somewhere, with a curiosity he would hardly forget. “I had other relationships before Lidia. And the Vegas environment is… One of a kind.”

The amount of personal information Henry was reeling off was even juicier than the cheeseburger. Other relationships? Las Vegas?

Who are you, Henry Husker?

But before he could delve further into this, the other spoke again.

“I was saying that I’m no one to give you advice on what to do, but working as an employee in your ex’s club doesn’t seem like the best thing in life.”

Anthony muttered a sarcastic sound, his mouth full, accompanied by a look that seemed to say ‘yeah, no shit ’, earning another vaguely exasperated sigh from Henry.

“You’re good.” Angel watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed, and he smirked languidly. “I bet Angel Dust could get a job anywhere.”

“Sure thing.” The blond commented, shoving the last bite of the burger into his mouth. “If you’re really from Vegas, you know how the showbiz works. You think someone would risk stepping on Valentino’s toes by hiring me?”

Husk mulled it over, leaning back in his chair with a frown.

He had probably answered himself.

“And working only as a dog sitter?”

“Not enough. Shit, do you really live in Manhattan or are you just pretending?”

“I live in Brooklyn.”

“Ok Mr. Wiseass, you lived in Manhattan, so you know how fucking expensive it is.”

Husk glanced unimpressed at the last fry that Anthony pointed at him, like an accusing finger.

“You must have some other interests besides rubbing yourself on poles and giving boners to those who watch you.”

“Mmmh like yours, babycakes?”

“Anthony.”

The latter sighed heavily, watching Henry’s expression become more serious than before.

He looked away again, fidgeting with the empty paper from the fries basket.

“... Photography.”

“What?”

“I studied photography for a while, in college. I never finished it, but–” he shrugged.

Here’s yet another story he never told anyone: the failure of his college career, which lasted just long enough to take a couple of exams and end up screwing the professor’s assistant in the faculty bathroom.

His father hadn’t liked that one bit.

Come to think about it, his troubles had all started from there.

Henry looked at him, interested.

“Nice.” an ordinary comment, perhaps, but in the man’s low, calm tone it sounded to Anthony like the greatest of compliments.

Not that he didn’t like his job, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was called ‘Valentino’ and until he could get away, his career as a sex worker would always be conditioned by him.

“You could combine it with the things you like: dogs and sex.”

Angel looked at Henry as if a third arm had grown out of his forehead and that arm was waving at him in a friendly way.

Which potential partner would not take advantage of such a speech to dissuade the other person from pursuing a certain type of career but would instead support him or her without prejudice?

The same one who apparently doesn’t get my sex jokes.

Anthony Scavo stared at Husk as something inside him moved, unstoppable: a sort of marble that began to slowly roll downwards, on an inclined plane. Something he hadn’t really fully realized, because if he had stopped to think about it he would have been terrified.

And screwed.

Instead, he smiled at him; slow, soft, sweet. A smile that implied a ‘thank you’, to which Henry responded by bowing his head slightly in a placid and amused nod.

“Maybe not both things at the same time.”

Angel burst out laughing, heartily, shaking his head and rubbing his cheek with his palm before propping his elbow on the table.

“You’re an idiot, whiskers.”

“So I’m told.”

The group of drunks had left their seats at the jukebox, staggering out of the diner as the last song selected came on – or maybe it was a random choice, who could say.

As the words of ‘Lonely Dancers’ echoed through the empty venue – save for a very bored waitress playing with her cell phone – and the yellow lights of Brooklyn confirmed that New York truly never sleeps, Henry stood up before Anthony’s eyes.

He stared at the outstretched hand, blinking a couple of times.

“Every first date must have a dance, right?”

The blond tilted his head slightly to his right shoulder, to stare at him flirtatiously.

“Who taught you how to court someone, Husky, the Fifties?”

“You danced for me, at the club,” he replied. “So now shut the fuck up and dance with me.”

Anthony didn’t know what else to say. He swallowed the ready answer in a sharp, smug smile, staring at that hand for another moment before taking it and rising to his feet.

He intertwined his long fingers with the man’s, taking a half step forward to press himself against him and rub his uninjured cheek against his forehead – given the height difference – for a languid and fond caress. His other hand rested on his back, and more than a dance it was a sort of hug.

He breathed in Henry’s scent: the same cologne he wore to work mixed with smoke, the leather of his jacket and something much more personal.

“Let’s see what you can do,” he murmured, with a hint of amusement, leaving him to lead the dance.

Husk gave a playful cocky snort, placing his hand on the small of the blond’s back – a gentleman, just like at the club – and began to sway completely randomly to the tune of a song that sang about forgetting the boy who didn’t love you, that everything would be okay, and that that night he would belong to the man who held him in his arms.

Even if it was just for one night, Anthony thought, please let this be real.

Chapter Text

October 24th – three days earlier

This time, there were no obnoxious lollipop-stealing kids in the waiting room of the Mountainside Treatment Center. Anthony had been able to stick his hand in the glass jar at the reception, barely looked at by Loona who went back to her TikTok videos as if nothing had happened, and fish out a red one.

This was strawberry and cream – not his favorite, but it’ll do.

While sucking the sugar ball, stuck in his left cheek like a hamster, Angel looked at his phone for the umpteenth time, absentmindedly scrolling through the chat with Husk, still saved under that unlikely name.

He couldn’t help but smile, silently, rereading a conversation that – after the Saturday night in which he had, in order, revealed himself as a performer, cried in his dressing room and danced to the tune of a corny jukebox song in a random diner in Brooklyn – had become much more relaxed.

It flowed, like everything else.

As irremediably boomer as Henry was, with texting, there were no longer the awkward silences of the first time they had started talking; there was a rather dense exchange, back and forth on the most disparate issues: from the anecdotes of the day to stories about work, from the eight hundred different photos that Anthony regularly sent him – selfies and not-selfies – to more personal questions that Henry dodged with the skill of someone who knows perfectly well how to cheat at a game.

He had more or less told him this just a couple of days ago, when Anthony had written him back to ask for more information about Vegas, out of curiosity at half past two in the morning after he had finished his shift at The Vees. Considering Henry’s work schedule, he had found him awake.

He hadn’t said much, though, just that before New York he’d lived in Las Vegas and was a croupier, and a gambler. When Anthony joked about counting cards, Henry had responded with a winking emoji – and for him, using an emoji was a momentous event, so he’d assumed he’d nailed the cheating thing and hadn’t pressed further.

However, if before that evening it was mainly him who wrote to Henry, after the diner and the jukebox – if it hadn’t been such a lovely night, he would have considered it absolutely cringe – something had also been unlocked in Husker; he hadn’t gotten to the point of sending him photos yet, and perhaps he never would, but Angel considered it a huge step forward.

That dance had been almost more intimate than the Fabulous Fuck – with capital F – of twenty-ish days ago, even though Anthony’s thoughts had been fixed on this for a couple of days.

Since when Monday night he had sent Henry a photo of his ass in the mirror, where the little stylized heart was tattooed, writing that he was really missing the imprint of his spanking and the other had replied exactly what he was now reading, scrolling through the messages:

Husk The DILF
I wanna do it again.

This had had a double effect on Anthony: first of all, the desire to drop everything and go to Henry; secondly, since that wasn’t possible, he had jerked off thinking about his hands on him, also to get out of his head the feeling of the last john who had touched him. Usually it was quite pleasant – after all, he enjoyed sex quite a lot regardless of who he was having it with – but Valentino’s closest friends always gave him an odd sensation.

He rolled the lollipop around in his mouth, running the ball of his piercing over it to trace its outline and thinking about something else entirely.

He and Husk had seen each other again, of course: a quick coffee before both their shifts, a walk with the dogs in Central Park. Both times had ended with Henry’s tongue in his mouth and his short – hungry – breath reminding him, nuzzling his nose against his cheek, that they didn't have enough time.

Anthony, after much negotiation, had obtained to meet the following Sunday afternoon, fitting in commitments, work shifts and the day Henry saw his daughter.

Yet another topic that the other dodged with the skill of a gambler.

The click of Charlie’s office door opening and the subsequent chatter jolted him out of his thoughts, causing him to blink and watch as the psychiatrist greeted the patient before him and then turned to Angel with her usual dimpled Disney princess smile.

Today she seemed happier than usual, if it’s even possible.

“Anthony, come on in!”

She led the way into the study, which the other knew as if it were his home; he took off his fuchsia teddy and dropped it and himself onto the usual chocolate-colored leather sofa, resting his long legs in a pair of ripped jeans on the armrest and crossing his Docs.

He took the finished lollipop stick out of his mouth and watched as she closed the door and took a seat on the couch across from him, as usual.

“How are you tod— What happened to your cheek?”

The bruise from Valentino’s backhand slap was almost healed now, a dark purple and yellowish hue around the edges; Anthony shrugged, fiddling with his cell phone.

“I bumped into a pole at work.”

Charlie looked at him and Tony could tell, without much difficulty, that she didn’t believe him. She sighed and moved on.

“How’s it going with NA?”

The cheek issue was put aside and Anthony loosened up a little more, hinting at a half smile.

“Oh, very well!” Charlie chirped, happily, writing something down in the notebook where she usually took her notes. “And how’s your job, poles aside?”

“Work’s fine, too.” he replied automatically, ignoring the various thoughts that were nibbling at his conscience.

A friend of Valentino hurt you and didn’t respect the safe word.

Anthony ignored the usual little voice, watching the psychiatrist’s patient expression.

“Have you looked for any other club?”

“Not yet.”

Charlie sighed again, jotting down more thoughts.

“I believe that one of the cruxes of your addiction, Anthony, is that you can’t quite let go of the past. We should work on that, huh?”

But Tony had stopped listening to her the moment his phone vibrated in his hands and the notification with Henry’s name flashed on the screen; he had unlocked it automatically and a spontaneous little smile had curved his lips as he read a ‘ Morning, you wanna grab a coffee today? ’ just like that, out of nowhere.

He quickly typed an affirmative response, complete with emojis, and when he realized Charlie was silent he blinked back at her.

She and her pleasantly amused face.

“Who makes you smile like that?”

Anthony cleared his throat like nothing happened, putting the phone away and resting the back of his neck on his arms crossed behind his head.

“Nah, no one. Cherri.”

“No one or Cherri?”

Neither of them, actually.

He listened to the ticking clock Charlie had on her bookshelf, letting his hazel eyes wander over the books, the plants that were always a bit thirsty, and that photo of her and her girlfriend.

He wondered, instinctively, if the smile Charlie had in the photo was anything like the one he got when he thought of Henry.

“... I met someone.”

The psychiatrist’s silence prompted him to continue, still without looking at her.

“I’m not sure what we are yet, or if we actually are anything, but—” he took a breath, a small pause in his speech. “I like him.”

One of the various little voices inside him, the one that usually had Valentino’s voice, curled his lip into a grimace while murmuring a not-so-subtle ‘ cringe ’ to him; but the other part, the one that felt good, made him curve his lips again in a half-smile.

“And it’s not like we just fuck, doc,” he continued, spontaneously, as Charlie listened without interrupting. “We’ve only fucked a couple of times. And a half ,” he clarified, clicking his pierced tongue in mild disappointment before shrugging. “I like him because he’s not so interested in sex. Sure, he has a gorgeous dick, so thick, and he made me co—”

“ Oookay , I think I get the idea.” Charlie interrupted him this time, with a vague urgency; he glanced at the psychiatrist, and grinned slyly, arching his back languidly where he was lounging.

“You’re so shy even with your girlfriend, huh?” he teased her and, as usual, the blonde didn’t get the provocation at all and simply wrote something down in her notebook. Angel knew exactly what was written: ‘ hyper-sexualized behaviors to compensate for insecurity and abuse ’.

“Anyway,” he continued, sitting up and putting his soles on the sandy-colored carpet. “We’re not really dating, so I don’t want to define this .” he shrugged.

“It’s a good start, though. Have you told him about your addiction?”

Anthony stared at Charlie, flat and vaguely annoyed.

“Yeah right, ‘cause it’s a great first date topic.”

“Honesty is one of the NA’s rules, Anthony,” the psychiatrist said, calm but firm. “If you don’t respect it, the process will be ineffective.”

“I didn’t lie,” he said, a little pouty. “It’s just— I still didn’t have the chance to tell him.”

Like you didn’t tell him that you’re a hooker. And like you didn’t tell Charlie either, that you’re still working as one.

“I’ll tell him. Promise.”

I don’t know how or when, but who cares.

Charlie sighed, patiently, writing something else in her notebook. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her left ear, and Anthony’s hazel gaze caught something that usually wasn’t there.

His eyes went wide.

“Doc!”

She gasped, stopping her writing and watching confusedly at Angel's big smile as he, in response, raised his left hand with the back facing her and wiggled his fingers eloquently.

“Since when?”

Charlie and that diamond ring on her left finger, where legend has it there is a vein connected directly to the heart.

The doctor blushed a little, stammering something unidentifiable about the unexpected proposal and various details that Anthony listened to, glancing smugly at the clock that confirmed that there were only fifteen minutes left until the end of that session.

“Oh, I almost forgot!”

Tony returned his attention to Charlie, who got up from the sofa to reach her desk and rummage in the top drawer; he rested his head against the back of the sofa and looked at her upside down, lazy and distracted, until he saw her pick up something and walk back towards him, who straightened up.

“For you, Anthony. Congratulations.”

In her outstretched palm was a wooden token that looked like a casino chip; the Mountainside Treatment Center logo was on the back, and a large 1 was carved into the front.

One year of sobriety.

“I know the year ends on October 31st, but since we won’t see each other until after Halloween, I thought I’d give it to you now.”

His brain hadn’t associated the amount of themed and very orange decorations that had invaded New York with what had happened on October 31st.

A year since the Halloween party where he had hit rock bottom and had started digging six feet underground.

Anthony swallowed, mouth suddenly dry and the weight of three hundred and sixty-five days without touching drugs or alcohol fell upon him, making him feel great and awful at the same time.

What was he supposed to think if in a year the desire to get high hadn’t changed a bit?

No, that was not entirely true.

His pocket vibrated again, reminding him who had made that desire vanish, at least for a little while.

“Thanks, doc.” he smiled at Charlie and squeezed the token tightly between his fingers.

October 27th – present

Anthony glanced at his phone screen for the umpteenth time, praying that the time he had designated to meet Henry would come soon, only to find that only seven fucking minutes had passed since the last time he checked.

Seven, endless minutes in which Nicholas and Daniel – Molly’s husband – had talked about the Yankees’ last game with inexplicable passion.

Take me now Lord, please.

The one time Anthony had actually gone to Yankee Stadium to watch baseball, it had been incredibly boring, except for the players and their very tight pants; it had been during a date with a baseball-fan john, who had brought him along on their way to the hotel.

Tony would have gladly skipped the ‘foreplay’, but at least he had paid him for the extra time.

Like almost every Sunday, at the Scavo house – Molly’s, considering that their father had disinherited his, disowned him, kicked him out of the house with a very loudly italian curse that sounded like ‘I don’t wanna have anything to do with you anymore’ – there was a lunch considered sacred, as every self-respecting Italian teaches.

Anthony was always invited, of course, though the times he did show up were not entirely voluntary; he would rather have stayed in bed and slept late than sit at the table and listen to Nicholas’s pompous chatter, but saying ‘no’ to Molly was a nearly impossible challenge.

Among other things, if their father had known that Nico was still hanging out with him – in very rare and rather annoying moments – he probably would have had something to say; but considering that Molly was involved, all was forgiven.

It was easy to figure out who was the favorite child.

“After the third inning I thought they were fucking done for.”

Nicholas Scavo was the eldest of the three brothers – but he and Molly, being twins, were worth almost one – and he was also the one most involved in the family’s illicit affairs. Their father, now close to retirement, had already begun to pass the reins to him and introduce him deeper into the Mafia underworld, and it seemed that everyone at that table was quietly aware of the source of the Scavos’ money.

The house where Molly, Daniel, and Anna lived was a townhouse in one of Manhattan’s nicest neighborhoods, practically across from Central Park; considering that Daniel worked as an accountant for Scavo Senior and she worked as a sales assistant at Macey’s because ‘it’s fun!’, doing the math wasn’t too hard.

Let’s add to this the numerous donations to Anna’s private school.

“Tony, vuoi un caffè?”

Molly’s voice brought him out from his thoughts; he blinked and stared at his sister, standing in the kitchen doorway as Daniel and Nicholas continued their discussion.

He sighed, standing up.

“Ti do una mano.”

Everything to get the fuck away from here.

Passing behind Nico, he took the opportunity to give him a slap on the back of the neck, to which the other responded with a nice ‘vaffanculo’, before going back to talking to Daniel.

Molly’s kitchen had a pretty window that looked out directly onto the backyard; owning your own patch of green in Manhattan was practically a privilege. In the aforementioned backyard, Anna was happily playing with the leaves that had fallen from the tree, collecting them in little piles sorted by color on the table. There was also a half-carved pumpkin on that very table, probably a job they still had to finish for the upcoming Halloween.

Yeah.

Anthony slipped his left hand into the back pocket of his black shorts – those, along with the fishnet stockings tucked into his usual Docs, had been looked at with some disapproval by Nico – to squeeze the sobriety token.

He looked at his sister and a flash of the night of October 31st of last year came to his mind.

He had never seen her cry like that.

“Sugar?”

Molly’s question broke the placid silence, broken only by the babbling sound of the moka pot and the muffled chatter of the other two, who remained in the dining room.

He nodded, personally opening the cupboard above the sink to get the sugar jar and place it on the kitchen island counter, while Molly took the moka pot off the stove and began pouring coffee into four cups already laid out.

He watched her again as she disappeared into the dining room for a moment, carrying two coffees, while he loaded his espresso with two teaspoons of sugar; he stirred in silence, fishing his cell phone out of his pocket again and opening the chat with Henry.

The last message, from him, dated back to 2:00 PM; considering that it was already 3:30 PM, he felt authorized to write to him again.

Tony 💖
what time can i come 💦 to ur place??

He put it away in a smirk, blowing on the coffee to cool it, distracted by a small hand tugging at the hem of the oversized purple sweater that practically served as his dress, considering how short were his shorts.

He lowered his hazel gaze to meet Anna’s, so different from Molly’s – and his own, in fact – and smiled at her, a glimmer of his golden canine.

“What’s up, sugar?”

“Come play with me and Froggy?”

Froggy was a sort of puppet with extendable limbs, dressed like a jester, who, if pressed in certain places, croaked a ribbit very similar to an actual frog; it had added himself to the vast collection of frogs that populated Anna’s room and of which he knew every single name.

Froggy – who was actually called Fizzarollie, at least according to the packaging – was a sort of exception to the army of amphibians, but for some reason he was one of his niece’s favorites.

Anthony chuckled, ruffling her dark blonde hair a bit.

“Later, honey. Let zio drink his coffee first, hmm?”

Anna put on a very pretty-princess-pout, clutching Froggy tighter to her chest and marching back out into the garden to resume her work of cataloging fallen leaves.

As he watched her play, he felt a wave of tenderness invade him; he took a picture of her from the window, sending it to Henry immediately afterwards – who in the meantime had not yet responded.

Tony 💖
if u don’t htfu i still have a lovely date

“What time do you have to go, Tony?”

Molly had returned; she leaned her hips against the kitchen island to finally sip her coffee and look at her brother with a silent question: where do you have to go.

Anthony had been very silent about this, but he glanced at his phone anyway to check.

“I’m still waiting, but I think soon.”

“And where are you going?”

In the end, the question hadn’t been silent for too long; it had simply skipped lunch.

“I’ll meet a friend at his place.”

“A friend.”

“Yeah, Molly, as odd as it sounds I have friends too, you know?” Angel joked, finishing his coffee and avoiding his sister’s gaze to approach the sink and leave the empty cup there.

“He’s Anna’s friend’s father, his name is Husk.”

“Mh.”

Molly’s grumbling earned an almost annoyed sigh from her brother.

“What.”

“It’s just— You usually hang out with Cherri, when you talk about male friends it’s not—”

“Molly.”

Tony didn’t bother to even look at her; leaning against the sink, which looked directly out onto the garden window, his back to her, he could almost feel her jump at his tone: firm and sharp. Something he never used with her, or at least he did very rarely.

There was no need to say anything else; he heard her sigh, though, and move closer to the sink to gently place a hand on his back.

“I worry about you.”

Another memory – Molly crying, screaming something indistinct, words he couldn’t quite make out because his head was on the floor and there’s puke in his nose – clouded his consciousness for a moment, before Tony sent it back down. Where it belonged.

It was all Halloween’s fault if he started thinking about that night again.

He forced himself to smile and leaned his head sideways toward her, giving her a soft head-butt.

“I know. Thanks, but you don’t have to worry.” he reassured her, fishing the cell phone out of his pocket, which had just vibrated. “This time it won’t–”

He didn’t finish the sentence, because he didn’t even need to open the notification on his screen to read what Henry had just written to him.

Husk The DILF
I cannot make it today, I’m sorry.

Stop, just that: no justification or explanation, no details. Not even a fucking lie. There was not even a hint of re-scheduling their appointment another day.

He had been systematically ignoring his messages, more or less since late morning, and by almost four in the afternoon when they had agreed to meet, he was getting only this in return? Not even a fucking phone call?

Suddenly, the coffee he had just drunk returned to his mouth with a bitter taste, something that tightened his stomach in a feeling he had promised himself he would never feel again.

See, Angelito? In the end, he ditched you like everyone in your life.

“Tony?”

Molly’s voice called back to him and he struggled for a couple of moments to look at her again, while he locked the screen again and put the phone back in his pocket.

“Is everything alright? You went pale all of—”

“I’m fine,” he interrupted quickly. “Can I use the bathroom for a moment?”

Molly frowned at the request – since when Anthony asks for permission? – nodding and not having time to stop him as the other rushed out of the kitchen to reach the stairs that led to the bathroom upstairs.

Calm down, Tony , he said to himself, walking into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. He might have had a setback, right? These things happen all the time. You can ask him why.

Angel forced himself to breathe slowly, typing a couple of question marks on the chat – he couldn’t articulate anything else at the moment – and placed the phone on the sink.

He leaned on that too, swallowing down the bitter taste and reminding himself once again that he had to breathe; he looked at his reflection in the mirror, while the late October afternoon light – already orange with sunset – illuminated him from behind, filtering through the window curtains.

“He didn’t reject you,” he muttered to himself in the mirror. “Calm down. Don’t do that again.”

He hadn’t had a panic attack in months, but the unsettling sensation of shortness of breath and the blackout that threatened to shut down his brain in a spiral of anxiety crept along the edges of his control.

Calm down calm down calm down calm down.

He repeated it to himself, or perhaps he hadn’t even spoken out loud; his reflection in the mirror hadn’t moved his lips, but was looking at him with a hollow smirk, much like the way Valentino looked at him when he wanted to make him feel that way.

Like no one in the world could actually want him.

He checked his phone again, hand shaking: the message had been seen, but there had been no response.

Maybe it would have been better if he had never even read it.

Panic began to bloom behind his sternum, wrapping around his lungs like poison ivy and making everything quick and hazy: his pulse, his breathing, his thoughts. This time, his control cracked a little bit more and he found himself clenching his knuckles until they paled against the ceramic sink.

The Anthony in the mirror continued to stare at him impassively, while the Anthony in the bathroom was covered in cold sweat and having the beginnings of a full-blown panic attack.

The rational part of him told him that no, the panic attack wasn’t Henry’s fault; it was all his fault.

It was Halloween memories that, from the moment Charlie had given him the token, had begun to haunt his memory again; it was everything that a year of therapy had taught him to recognize but that he had not yet accepted, not completely.

Anthony Scavo was not weak, he never had been.

And yet, when Molly had saved him from the overdose, he was sure that a part of him had remained on that floor – paralyzed, terrified, broken – leaving much more space for the fragile Angelito that Valentino had worked so hard to create, over the years of their relationship, dismantling piece by piece all his certainties and giving him something to hold on to: drugs.

Which one, it doesn’t matter.

Tony’s gaze slid feverishly to the cabinet over the sink.

He opened it, with the urgency of a junkie looking for his fix; Daniel had hurt himself in the gym last month, they had given him oxycodone. He knew, because every drug addict always knows when new drugs enter the houses he frequents, even if he doesn’t use them.

The little orange bottle, with three pills left at the bottom, looked back at him as he reached out to grab it and shake it; it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

Do you really want to make it all go down the drain?

He didn’t really know who that little voice belonged to, but it came to him from somewhere.

Anthony rubbed his thumb over the knurled cap of the little bottle, scratching his nail against it, torn between opening it or not; he looked at the still silent phone, as if it was silently asking for an answer.

A flash of awareness crossed his brain: there was a drug that wouldn’t cause him to break the sobriety token still pressed into his pocket.

He absentmindedly touched his now almost completely healed cheek – only a yellowish halo remained in the center near the healed cut – with the same hand that held the pills.

Screw all this.

He picked up his phone and opened his contacts, choosing between the blocked ones a very familiar number. He put the phone to his ear and didn’t have to wait long: a spanish accent answered on the second ring.

Anthony swallowed all the bitterness that tightened his throat, putting the pills back on the shelf and closing the cabinet.

“Take me out.”

Chapter Text

October 27th – twenty-four hours earlier

Coward. You've always been a coward, Henry Husker.

When his little voice started addressing him by his first name and surname, things were getting serious.

He struggled to focus – the alcohol had blurred his vision considerably – on the question marks on the chat screen with Anthony, and a part of him told himself for the umpteenth time that there was no point in answering.

Bless the autocorrect, which had allowed him to send that laconic message without any obvious errors; it had taken him at least three minutes to write it, between second thoughts and attempts to hit the right letters, and the moment he sent it he realized he had run out of whiskey.

Fuck.

He couldn’t even continue to pathetically drown himself in alcohol, because dragging himself out to buy some more of his poison at the 24/7 store in the next block was out of the question.

He simply locked his phone again, for the fourth time in which an unidentified impulse suggested him to answer Tony and explain how things were, to take it all back and have him come over; setting the phone down on the arm of the sagging couch proved harder than expected – Husk could swear it had moved, the asshole.

The thud of the thing falling onto the ruined parquet elicited a sort of frustrated, very, very drunk half-growl from him.

“Fuuuuck!”

No, this time it hadn’t been just a thought.

He sighed, sinking further into the couch and ending up half lying down with his ass out of the seat and only his back resting on the slightly ruined fabric. Even the strength to get up from there was gone along with the desire to go out and buy new whiskey; they’d probably gone together somewhere far less pathetic than his empty apartment, on a Sunday afternoon that should have gone very differently.

He only turned his neck to peek into the bedroom and the vision of the warm light of an October morning overlapped with that of the sunset, along with the ghost sound of Anthony’s crystalline laughter and his pale figure moving barefoot around the apartment to prepare breakfast, with all the naturalness in the world.

If you’re like this after just one morning, Husker, we’re in deep shit.

“Shut up, for fuck’s sake, shut the fuck up.” he slurred, trying to get up but only managing to slide completely to the floor; lying like that, he leaned his head heavily on the parquet and banged it against the woodfloor a couple of times, trying to compose himself. Or to punish himself, who knows.

Coward coward coward coward —

A mantra that rang in his head, a thousand voices mixed together repeating the same words – a cacophony of sounds that left him even more dizzy than before. Henry’s stomach chose that moment to threaten to show its contents again soon if the room didn’t stop spinning.

The truth is that he would have really wanted that date with Anthony.

He would have wanted that lazy and hot Sunday sex – in his head, all Sunday fucks were like that – in that golden hour that was quickly tinged with autumn darkness.

He would have wanted to stay in bed afterwards, with the blond still naked laid on top, talking about everything and nothing exactly like they had done in those days; he would have wanted to ask him directly all the things he still wanted to know about him: if he had a middle name, why he liked dogs, how the fuck he thought getting a golden canine was a good idea.

And he still had so many, many more questions.

He had prepared himself for that date.

He had ignored the mean little voice that told him he was exaggerating, that he had only known him for a month and half and that the other man had just a silly crush that would soon pass. He had ignored the whisper that suggested it was only a sex thing, ‘cause the feelings that had started to bloom were very, very different.

Yeah. So fucking different.

Henry had not understood exactly when that switch inside him had been clicked, but somewhere that sort of fog from which he had found himself surrounded after the Accident – after his marriage had begun to slowly sink – had begun to clear. As if he were slowly waking up from a long anesthesia made of alcohol and confused memories of evenings spent throwing down one glass after another.

He had spent months entangled in a sort of continuous loop between deep unhappiness and the thought that however it was not enough to just end it; not for good, ‘cause the truth is he no longer felt anything. Like his body was there, in the room, but he was not really there.

Months.

Then Anthony had arrived by chance and something had changed. Slowly, but still.

Maybe it had happened when he realized what it was, that sweetish scent that he hadn’t been able to recognize right away but that had clung to the sheets: cherries. Something that normally would have made him nauseous, being so sugary, but combined with Angel’s skin it had fucked up his brain chemistry.

Or maybe it had been after the jukebox night, after he found out about his job – his ex. After they had danced to that song, swaying, as if they were alone in that diner and had shut out the world for at least one night. After he had walked him home and earned his smile in return – bruised cheek, golden tooth, glimmer eyes – and his heart had done a stupid flip.

No, he hadn’t isolated the exact moment yet, but maybe it wasn’t there.

Maybe they were many small moments that had slowly crept inside him.

So yeah, he wanted that date – damn if he wanted it.

But.

The phone call from the social worker, informing him of a new visit scheduled for Tuesday, had frozen his blood in his veins; he had taken all his plans and crumpled them up, buried them in the nagging, all-consuming feeling he had felt during the first visit.

You are not good enough. You are not a good father. You are worthless, just a pathetic drunk. A failure.

And that same feeling had swallowed him up completely.

Downing one drink after another had been the only way to numb the emptiness, instead of filling it with yet another round of poker that would have ended with him begging Zestiel to advance him his salary to pay Lidia’s child support; and he couldn’t afford that.

He could afford to get drunk on that sagging couch instead, and he could certainly afford to ditch Anthony so as not to drag him down.

He doesn’t deserve this shit.

Husk lay there staring at the ceiling for who-knows how long; all he knew was that outside the window it had gone dark and he hadn’t still moved from there. The phone had remained silent, after those question marks, forgotten somewhere on that same floor, exactly like him.

Coward. Coward. Coward.

Coward—

October 28th – present

Henry looked once again at the door of the room where Alastor had disappeared about forty minutes ago, while an unpleasant feeling sank its teeth into his stomach.

Or maybe it was still the hangover, which after the throbbing headache that had lasted all day - from waking up on the same floor he had fallen asleep on Sunday until arriving at work on Monday evening - had given way to a heartburn that reminded him that he was now over forty and his liver was saying goodbye.

He heard the sizzle of an aspirin being dropped into a glass of water and starting to dissolve, then pushed towards him by Rosie's perfectly manicured hands.

"Here, Husker," she murmured, shielding her lips from any prying eyes with a conspiratorial air. “I think you might need it.”

The bartender wondered, silently, how could someone as kind as Rosie hang out with a cold, narcissistic asshole like Alastor; then he remembered that she was the widow of three husbands, who had died in rather mysterious circumstances, leaving her rich financial funds in the Cayman Islands and two houses in the Hamptons and on Fifth Avenue, and he remembered why he had stopped wondering.

He looked a little warily at the glass in which the aspirin was dissolving, then raised his amber eyes at Rosie's amused but contained laughter.

"It's just a simple aspirin, my dear. Don't worry." She even gave him a wink, to reinforce the point.

Husk sighed, mentally calling himself stupid for thinking it could poison him - at least in that place - and took the glass.

"Thanks, Rosie. Al is taking a long time, isn't it?" he commented, before downing the contents of the glass with a grimace of not exactly delight.

The woman – about Husk’s age, with a blonde bob perfectly in keeping with the speakeasy twenties and deep black eyes – fanned herself gracefully, rustling the feathers of her elaborate fan and adjusting the skirt of her dress that also matched the dress code of the place. Perched on a stool in front of the mahogany bar and turned three-quarters toward the private room where Alastor had retreated with Zestiel and three other people, she glanced absently at the stage where a pianist was playing something jazzy.

An average Monday, at the Coffre.

“I guess it’s a more complex issue than expected.” she cut short, closing her fan with a gesture and then smiling at Henry. “Since when do you worry about Alastor?”

The sarcastic sound that escaped from Husk’s mouth, who was meanwhile washing his freshly used glass, was enough of an answer. At least for Rosie, who smiled again like a cat who had eaten a mouse and didn’t elaborate further.

“It’s just, I don’t think it’s a good idea to bring along—” he trailed off, unsure how to continue and sliding down to stare at Alastor’s second companion for the evening.

Away from the counter, sitting alone at one of the tables closest to the stage, was a young woman no older than twenty-five – although Husk knew she was at least a couple years younger. Dressed in a black twenties dress, full of fringe and little diamonds that sparkled in the pool of soft light from the table lamp; long black gloves, on which she rested her chin in contemplation of the musician. A long bob of red hair, clearly dyed, and Asian features, even though Nancy wasn’t entirely Japanese; more importantly, no one ever called her like that.

Rosie began to fan herself lazily again, immediately realizing who Henry was referring to.

“Niffty can take care of herself.”

“Yeah, when she’s not herself.” he pointed out, raising his left eyebrow in an ironic look and earning yet another soft laugh from the woman.

“You’re always so funny, Husk.” Coming from her, not Alastor, the comment sounded genuine. “I can see why Alastor is so fond of you, even if he’s not able to admit it.”

Another thing Henry had never understood was the type of relationship between Al and Rosie; well aware of the other’s disinterest in sex or any form of physical contact, he had never asked for details about it. Nonetheless, he had known Rosie for at least one year and Alastor had introduced her to him as a dear friend.

The fact that she was somehow involved in the underground world in which Alastor and Zestiel were moving had ceased to be a mystery when Husk realized that it was her who had ‘introduced’ Al to certain not-so-legal circuits; consequently, Henry had also been dragged into it with both feet because “I share everything with my friends, Husker.”

The fact that Alastor saw him more as a sort of pet rather than as someone on his level was a detail that pissed him off every time, but Rosie’s comment – ​​he’s not able to admit it – reminded him again that Al simply ticks differently.

Niffty, on the other hand, was a question he had never had the courage to ask.

He had met her one of the first days Henry had moved to New York, where Alastor had been hired a couple of months earlier as a medical examiner at Lennox Hill.

During a practically forced lunch break, he had found himself sitting in the hospital cafeteria – his back still bandaged – in front of a terrible lunch, looking confused from the painkillers and the eternal smile of Al who introduced Niffty to him as ‘his niece’.

The resemblance was absolutely non-existent: Al, a mulatto man and only child, what could he possibly have in common with a half-Japanese girl? Adoptions aside.

But, again, Alastor seemed to have a truly father-like fondness – in his own way – for Niffty, who in response openly called him uncle.

Henry had chosen to ignore the day he had collapsed drunk on Al’s couch – before the official divorce from his wife, it had become a bit of a rule – and had overheard in his half-sleep a late night conversation in which Alastor had taken mop and bucket from the woman’s hands, firmly, pointing out that the floor was clean. That her husband’s blood was gone. That she was safe now.

Maybe he had just imagined all of that in fumes of cheap booze.

“Husk, can you make another two for them?”

Millie’s voice brought him back to the present, as the waitress set the tray down on the counter and pointed to one of the tables not far from Niffty, where a couple of already decidedly tipsy men had started to ogle the young woman and nudge each other.

Henry frowned slightly, looking back at Millie meaningfully, who sighed in response.

“I know, they did it to me too. But they’re two tycoons from London, guests of Big Z himself.” she rolled her eyes. Rosie turned around to stare at the scene, still fanning herself graciously as Husk simply filled two more glasses of scotch.

“You men are so rude sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Henry grumbled, giving Millie the two glasses and keeping an eye on her as she approached the table in question to serve the tycoons; they ignored her completely, too interested in Niffty at the moment.

Alastor chose that moment to end his meeting, following Zestiel and the other three ‘guests’ out of one of the Coffre’s business rooms; the gangster shook Alastor’s hand, in thanks, before motioning for the men to follow him upstairs for who-knows-what other phase of the meeting.

Al, straightening his black bow tie with a pompous air of satisfaction, joined Henry and Rosie at the bar, his usual smile plastered on his face.

“I hope Husker didn’t bore you too much, ma chére.” He took Rosie’s hand in a gallant kiss of the proper kind, that is, without even touching her gloved knuckles. “He’s in an even more grumpy mood than usual tonight. And what dark circles, Husker, did you look at yourself in the mirror?”

Henry’s murderous gaze slid over the doctor like fresh water; he ignored him completely.

Rosie hid an amused half-smile behind her fan.

“Oh no, not at all. Husk is always a pleasant company. Have you sorted out the matter with Zestiel, darling?”

“All sorted. Perfectly, I dare say. The next shipment should pass without a hitch.” He sat down on the stool next to Rosie, rapping his knuckles on the counter in a silent request to Henry, who began to pour his usual: rye whiskey. “Zestiel knows that to make advantageous deals, my presence is always a guarantee.” He grabbed the glass, raising it in a silent toast and an indecipherable smirk. For whom that toast was, it was not entirely clear.

Husk had a flash of one of the first times Alastor had dragged him on one of his ‘errands’, as he liked to call them.

The spray of blood that had hit his face, when Al had asked him to extract some information from a rather reticent guy, had been the ferocious brush stroke that had sealed their agreement forever, probably.

Alastor had playfully run his fingers over that red streak – to remove it or spread it better, he hadn’t figured out – before tapping his chin with the knuckles a couple of times and making him look up in his dark eyes.

Smile like you mean it, Husker. It’s your most valuable tool.

“Where’s Niffty?” Alastor asked, looking around and spotting a bob of fiery red hair right there, near the stage. “Oh, there she is. Husker, you’re keeping an eye on her for me, right?” he pointed out, returning to search for the bartender’s amber gaze with a sharper smile.

“Don’t always be so protective of her, Alastor,” Rosie soothed. “You know Niffty can handle herself perfectly well.”

“Oh, I know for sure. Still.” He paused, still looking at Husk. “I would appreciate it if your personal issues did not affect your work, Husker. Work which I have so generously provided for you and for which I have vouched for you.” The interview he had had with Zestiel had indeed been a mere pro forma.

Henry metaphorically ruffled his fur, returning the doctor’s gaze.

“My job is to be a bartender, not a goddamn babysitter.”

“Your job is to do what I tell you,” Alastor shot back, without hesitation. “Regardless of what engaging radio drama you and your new bedroom pastime have decided to enact today.”

“I don’t think radio dramas exist anymore, Alastor.” Rosie pointed out lightly.

“What a pity, my dear. What a pity indeed.”

Henry took the comment, darkening a little more.

It’s not a pastime, said the little voice, immediately silenced by Husk’s bitterness: after ditching him up on Sunday, Anthony had probably felt exactly like that. He had no right to prove Alastor wrong.

A dull, liquid noise – something being poured over someone with a certain verve – interrupted their conversation and made the pianist stop playing as well.

Niffty, who in fact knew how to take care of herself perfectly, had just thrown her midori-green cocktail in the face of one of the two London tycoons, with a smile that walked perfectly on the edge between madness and lucid decision.

She had gotten up from her seat, in the meantime, and had sat directly over the table of the two men. The one who took the unexpected shower cursed a lot, rubbing his eyes under the astonished gaze of his colleague who seemed incapable of reacting at the moment.

“That’ll teach you to stare at me like that,” Niffty scolded him, putting her glass down and crossing her legs with a satisfied expression, dangling her little foot in a black Loubotin. The sole was red like blood. “Bad boys need to be punished.” she added, tilting her head towards the right shoulder in an almost flirtatious way.

Henry thought back to that conversation he had overheard one night and it was not difficult for him to believe that it was all true.

“You, useless whore!”

“Oh dear.” Rosie said, fanning herself again, staring at Alastor and the dark flicker that crept into his dark eyes; in the corner of the perpetual smile, Husk almost thought he could see a low growl. He was distracted when the other cleared his throat with apparent nonchalance.

“Husker, if you please, go get her and take her home.”

“Isn’t it better if—”

“I asked you. That’s the second time you’ve questioned what I’m asking you to do.” He dragged a sharp look at him and a shiver ran down Henry’s spine at the sight of that empty smile. “Do you really want to see what happens if you do this again?”

Henry sighed resignedly, walking around the counter as the customers began a rather agitated buzz and the pianist remained silent.

“Fine. If Zestiel pisses me off ‘cause—”

“I’ll talk to Zestiel, you don’t have to worry about that.” the doctor cut him off. “Just take darling Niffty home safe.”

At that point, Husker raised his hands in the universal sign of surrender.

He walked toward the tables under the stage, planting himself next to the one where one of the two tycoons – the one who could still see – had stood up and was menacingly shouting various threats at Niffty, held at bay by a bouncer who nevertheless did not dare throw him out.

In the Coffre, there was a golden rule: never do anything against the guests, unless expressly authorized by Zestiel.

Alastor had said he would speak to him, right?

You’ll get yourself fired again, Husky.

For once, the little voice made him sneer, an indecipherable flicker at the bottom of his amber eyes; maybe it would have been the right punishment for his constant failures.

“Hey, asshole.”

Besides, Henry liked to go all in when he could; why hold back.

Three pairs of eyes turned in his direction: one very red, one very angry, and one almond-shaped – which smiled at him, he knew before even looking at Niffty’s mouth.

“Husk!” she hopped down gracefully from the table, straightening her skirt and approaching the bartender – she was considerably shorter than him. “This place is soooo boring, Uncle Al said that we—”

“I’ll take you home, Niff.” Henry replied, without losing sight of the two guys – the bouncer, meanwhile, had slipped away; the buzz had never stopped, but the pianist had prudently started playing again to bring back a more serene atmosphere.

Not very successful, to be fair.

Niffty chirped a very happy noise, hanging onto Husker’s arm and already starting to yank him away.

“Shall we stop by for some frozen yogurt before we go home? I want some froz—”

“You’re not going anywhere!” the tycoon who could still see, in his thick English accent, reached out to roughly grab one of Niffty’s wrists. “You just blinded my colleague, the least you can do is suck him off so we don’t report you.”

The sentence made Husk’s hair metaphorically ruffle, in a mixture of anger and disgust.

Rosie’s comment about rude men had been far too kind.

He jerked an amber gaze towards Alastor’s dark one, at the counter; he already knew he would find him there, fixed on him. He asked him a silent question, or rather: he silently asked for his permission, which was granted with a nod.

He and Alastor might have a lot of friction, debts, and unfinished business, and Husk might have a little trouble understanding where was the line between hating him and considering him his best friend, but there was a sort of deep respect and kinship of thought on some matters. This was one of them.

Without further ado, clicking his tongue, Husk simply acted: he pushed Niffty away from his arm, managing to remove her partially from the tycoon’s grip; the latter broke away completely when a well-placed punch hit him right on the jaw, sending him to the floor and agitating the speakeasy’s customers even more.

The pianist stopped playing altogether and walked out of the wings, deciding that it was too much even for him.

Niffty giggled, clapping her gloved hands at Husker.

“You’re always hot when you’re a bad boy, Husky.”

He shook off the hand that had hit the man’s face, a little sore, snorting a half laugh at the young woman’s comment.

“Thanks. Now, let’s—”

He didn’t finish his sentence, for the umpteenth time that night. The guy’s buddy who had just been knocked out, now more or less able to see, hit him back in kind – distracted by Niffty, he hadn’t seen him.

A punch hit him square in the left cheekbone, turning his face the other way and knocking him off balance enough to trip over the legs of the guy on the ground and fall down himself.

Holy shit, that was a blow.

From there on, events became a confused kaleidoscope.

As he lay on the floor trying to figure out why that was moving too, he saw a lot of feet intervene in the situation: Alastor’s shiny two-tone shoes, Millie’s, Zestiel’s, and the bouncer’s who was finally authorized to take out the two men, who – as he heard the gangster’s voice specify – were no longer welcome in there.

Rosie’s face above him, asking if he was okay, and Niffty’s, smiling delightedly, telling him that the black eye would make him look even hotter.

Black eye. The visit from the social worker tomorrow.

Shit.

Henry, overwhelmed and still a little woozy, snorted a laugh in his throat, sarcastic and bitter, in what he recognized as the beginning of a mental breakdown.

He put an arm across his eyes, continuing to laugh like that: for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he found himself lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, unable to get up.

Chapter Text

October 30th – present

Anthony Scavo tossed and turned in bed for the hundredth time that day, feeling like the mattress was stuffed with nails. A feeling he’d had since about last Sunday, when Henry had rejected him. No, not exactly: dumped him.

Dumped. Him.

Now, to theoretically get dumped you first had to have some kind of established relationship, right? A couple of spectacular fucks – plus an almost-blowjob – didn’t make a relationship.

As his eyes followed a dusty shaft of sunlight filtering through the curtains, Anthony thought with a bitter laugh that he and Henry had done everything backwards: sex first, dating second. To be honest, they hadn’t even gotten to that point, because apparently the night at the diner had been one big, beautiful hallucination.

What kind of person says those kinds of things and then simply disappears?

Anthony had spent the next three days, after being practically ghosted, systematically killing the butterflies in his stomach.

Lying half naked in bed with the feral desire to have a joint and a wank, not necessarily in that order, he was torn between considering the discomfort in his stomach as hunger pangs – he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten – or the result of the bloody battle he’d waged against those damned butterflies.

He had used the big guns.

In hindsight, calling Valentino and asking him out had been a terrible, terrible idea; for so many different reasons, the same ones that had led him to hide this impulsive Sunday afternoon choice from Charlie during their session on Tuesday.

He certainly couldn’t tell her that Valentino had picked him up – a block away from Molly’s house, who would surely have looked at him in that judging way – to take him out.

He couldn’t tell her that he had got fucked in the back of a tacky white limo – “It’s Vox’s, see?” – or that he had sucked Val’s dick imagining with all his heart it was Henry’s. To be fair, Husk would never have thrust like that, nor would he have purposely cut off his breath by squeezing his throat while he fucked him from behind – breathless, ass up, cheek pressed against the window.

Anthony absentmindedly rubbed his neck, where he had covered a necklace of fairly faded bruises with a scarf; in October he had been perfectly normal, even though Charlie had stared at him in a patient sigh and had written something in her damn notebook.

Sometimes he just wanted to take it and tear out all the pages to make rolling papers out of them.

The creeping feeling of having flushed his sobriety token gnawed at his conscience, even though he had technically done nothing.

… Right?

Keep telling yourself that, Tony.

Anthony pressed the pillow to his face, growling an exasperated sigh into it and stomping his feet on the mattress.

Damn Henry Husker, his cock, his eyes, his hands.

Damn his kindness, his smile, his gruff calmness.

Damn the fucking butterflies.

The blond remained like that, lying on his back with the pillow pressed to his face, listening to the New York afternoon swarming outside the windows.

The phone buzzing – not a call but the alarm telling him it was almost 4pm – made him whine yet another annoyed sound, muffled by the pillow still pressed to his face.

With immense maturity, he blindly reached out with his left hand to turn off said alarm and roll over onto his side, determined to ignore what he was supposed to do: get up, make himself decent, and go to work.

The mere thought of getting in the shower – Henry’s hand pressed against the wet glass, the other gripping his ass as he fucked him again that morning, bent over, and their reflection in the fogged-up mirror of Husk’s tiny bathroom – made him sigh yet again.

“When will you stop being a fucking drama queen?”

He wasn’t sure it had just been a thought.

The phone buzzed again, buried in the sheets. Still on his back, Anthony twisted the neck to rest the cheek on the mattress and peer at what was now definitely a call.

He swallowed down the stupid spark of hope that it could be Henry when he saw Molly’s name on the screen – which, truth be told, made him growl again in the perfect picture of exasperation.

He sat up in a swoop, hugging the pillow, pressing the phone to his ear and answering the call with a very unfriendly “What.”

The initial silence on the other end of the call made him feel guilty.

“… Guess I’m bothering you, Tony?”

“Sorry, Molls, I’ve had— ” he tried to find the best way to keep it vague. “Some really awful days.”

“The date didn’t go well?”

Oh yeah, there was this tiny detail: he hadn’t exactly told Molly that Husk had apparently dumped him, ghosted him for sure. He couldn’t stand the pity in his sister’s eyes, not for the umpteenth time that Anthony had a crush on someone and that the mentioned someone ended up being just another asshole.

“No, it was good.” Lying came so easily to him. “It’s the job that could be better.”

His sister’s sigh had him lying back down on the bed, sinking softly into the mattress as he listened to her repeat what Charlie told him all the time: that he had to find a new job, that he couldn’t keep taking orders from Valentino, etc. etc.

“Besides, wouldn’t you rather just focus on Fat Nuggets and the other dogs?” Molly pointed out, in his ear. “Since you gave him away, his family has always said they would be happy to give him back to you when you were feeling better.”

Fat Nuggets was another chapter of his life that Valentino had taken, forced into their narrative and then forgotten as if it were yet another accessory he had grown tired of; the little chihuahua had been part of Valentino’s love bombing strategy, a special gift after they had had a very special fight.

One of the first times Val had really hurt him.

The next day, on the set of the movie that Anthony had finally agreed to shoot after the aforementioned fight, in a shoebox Tony had found this long-haired, cream-colored ball of fluff, no bigger than his hand, with a pink bow around his neck and a handwritten note from Valentino himself telling him how much he loved him and that this was another way to be a family.

A family.

Anthony’s breath hitched every time he thought about that possibility and that conversation, partly with relief because it had never actually happened, partly with all the bitterness and shame of someone who in that moment, choosing the puppy’s name, had truly believed that.

Fat Nuggets had quickly become an ancillary presence for Valentino, who tolerated him around Anthony without paying him much attention; he even found it annoying when he witnessed the fights between them – Nuggsie never liked hearing people scream.

On the day of the Halloween party where he had overdosed, Molly had gone to pick Fat Nuggets up from Tony’s apartment and had looked after him for a few days, even though she couldn’t really keep him.

During his time in rehab, Anthony had made the painful decision to foster him with a family that could look after him much better than he ever had.

That was how he had started dog-sitting: with his own dog.

“Yeah I know Molly, you’re right.” One of the ways to get her sister to stop talking was to agree with her. “I should.”

The conversation with Husk in that diner, the cheesy jukebox music they’d danced to, the first time he’d actually considered taking up photography again in years.

“Look, I’ve to get to work.” He tried to ignore the fluttering in the pit of his stomach, returning to his conversation with his sister and sitting back up again.

Damn the fucking butterflies.

“Can we come with you? Anna gets out of school in twenty minutes and I’m off work today.”

And a fucking farewell to his plan to call Fat Nuggets’ family and call in sick.

“… Sure.”

Anna’s new favorite game was bouncing pebbles off the surface of the Central Park South pond, the one from which ducks had started disappearing to begin their migration to warmer countries. By the time it would freeze over and the pond would become a skating rink, they would have already been far away.

Now, on Halloween’s eve, there were only a few lazy latecomers and some nests full of feathers hidden here and there in the reeds on the bank; the same bank where he, Molly, Anna and the three dogs he had to take care of that afternoon – Fat Nuggets included – were.

Anthony adjusted his purple wool scarf around his neck, more for the need to hide the bruises than for actual cold, taking another sip of his Pumpkin Spice Latte in tune with the spooky theme of the upcoming party the next day. Party that he, unlike last year, would spend with Anna trick-or-treating.

No excess, if you didn’t count the amount of sugar he would have ingested.

“One day you’ll explain to me where you get all these dog clothes.”

He smiled in his Latte and stopped looking at Anna to slide down to stare at Molly, who was crouched on the ground and busy scratching Fat Nuggets’ ears; tucked into an orange and black dress, with a skirt, also perfectly suited to Halloween.

“Lovely, isn’t he?”

Molly giggled softly, standing up and letting go of the chihuahua, who went back to sniffing around with the other two walking companions: today, a red Pomeranian and a black poodle.

“He definitely stands out.” she commented, taking back her coffee and thanking her brother with a nod. Unlike him, Molly had always remained much more ‘Italian’ in terms of taste, and she considered those sugary drinks a sort of blasphemy.

Anthony snorted a half laugh, which became a puff of smoke in the late afternoon air – the sun was now almost setting, behind the canopies of the trees of Central Park.

“Sour grapes much, hm?”

“Probably, yeah.”

Molly’s smile made him feel a little better.

After a shower, the subway ride and the appointment with Molly outside Anna’s school, he felt much better. Starbucks and Fat Nuggets had also contributed, of course.

He crouched down too to pet the chihuahua, who happily put his front paws on his black over-the-knee stockings and started wagging his tail, rustling the tulle skirt of the dress.

“We’ll buy Auntie Molly a dress like yours, right Nuggsie?”

“Caroline’s other dad!”

Anthony nearly choked on his own saliva as Anna’s naive, adorable little voice informed him, Molly, and pretty much everyone else on the bank that the last person he wanted to see was coming.

At that moment, under those circumstances, in that particular situation.

He yanked his hazel eyes in that direction to focus on the silhouette of a man who was probably thinking the exact same thing.

Ohsshit.

“Oh, so that’s Husk?”

Molly’s equally naive question was the cherry on top that reminded him that technically he and Henry hadn’t spoken since last Sunday because he’d been ghosted without explanation. Having a terrified expression didn’t help fuel his beautiful, ribbon-wrapped lie of a date gone well.

There was only one way to get out of this unscathed.

Anthony plastered a smile on his face, slipping into Angel Dust’s shoes – the sfw version, given the context – and getting back on his feet.

“Yep, that’s him!” maybe his tone had come out a little higher than expected. “I’ll go say hello and then I’ll introduce you to him, wait for me.”

Let’s say that the way he placed the leashes in his sister’s hand, finished his Latte in one gulp and marched towards Husk – who in the meantime had stopped dead in his tracks, still with the phone glued to his ear and looking like a deer dazzled by the headlights of a car – perhaps it could have pass for enthusiasm.

Maybe, with a little imagination.

Ok, a lot of imagination.

Anthony waited until he was practically in front of Henry to look him up and down – the height difference was still the same, even considering the usual Docs with the fuchsia laces – and crook a smirk that dripped with venom.

“So, apparently your phone works, asshole.”

How to not start a friendly conversation, volume one.

Henry had the decency to blush a little on his ears, as he hung up the phone without even saying ‘goodbye’ to whoever was on the other end and scratched the back of his neck in the universal gesture of embarrassment.

If he hadn’t been so pissed, Anthony would have found him ador—

Wait a minute.

He narrowed his gaze, looking more intently at him.

“Is that a black eye?”

The question caught the other off guard, as the hand that had been on the back of his neck moved to his cheekbone and the bruise on it.

“Oh, right.” as if he’d forgotten.

“Right.” Anthony repeated, letting out a half-laugh that sounded more like hissing than anything else. “What, you stood me up ’cause you got into a fight on Sunday and were in the hospital?”

“I don’t—”

“Think carefully, I’m really tempted to give you another one.”

Henry quickly closed his mouth, then slid a little to stare over Anthony’s shoulder.

“… There’s your niece coming over with a woman who looks just like you who I assume is your sister.”

Great.

Anthony – or rather, Angel Dust – plastered yet another smile on his face, empty but definitely believable.

“Play along and then you can tell me your pathetic excuse.”

“Play al—”

Husk never finished that question because the blond grabbed the collar of his coat with both hands – black, wool, rather dapper looking and so fucking sexy – and tugged him a little closer, to hiss another threat.

“We had a wonderful Sunday afternoon, okay?”

Henry blinked a couple of times, an indecipherable flicker that crept into the depths of his amber eyes and that Tony chose to interpret as guilt; he felt that taste directly on the pierced tongue.

He let him go in what looked more like a caress than a sort of tug, putting on that absolutely empty smile and turning towards Molly and Anna who had now arrived.

“So you’re the father of Anna’s friend,” the twin greeted him, with a big smile, holding out her hand. “I’m Molly, nice to meet you! Tony told me about you.”

Anthony prayed to whoever could listen to him to produce a trap door in which he could have sunk to disappear in that very moment.

Husk glanced at him, sideways, before turning back to the blonde and smiling at her in that barely-there way that made him want to kiss him.

Damn the fucking butterflies.

“Pleasure.”

“I would have offered you a coffee last Sunday, but Tony said you’d rather pick him up somewhere else.”

Oh no.

“Yeah, well—” he barged in, placing an arm across Henry’s shoulders and accentuating that absolutely fake smile. “Husky was already on his way elsewhere, I told him not to take the long way around.”

Henry remained silent, still staring at him from below – there was a question that made a lot of noise, in that amber gaze, but he remained faithful to the threat: he played along and simply nodded vaguely, returning to look at Molly, who nodded too.

“Sure, next time then.”

“Can Caroline come trick-or-treating tomorrow?”

Now was Anna’s turn to make things even more embarrassing.

Molly smiled, caressing her daughter’s blonde head and seeking Henry’s gaze.

“I bet the girls would both be very happy if you guys went with them.” he proposed, while Anthony felt the ground giving way under his feet. “Tony has already offered to escort Anna, you know?” this clarification was all made in the Scavo Family.

Not really rhetorical, most threatening.

Anthony cleared his throat, with studied nonchalance, taking his arm from the other’s shoulders.

“Molls, I’m sure Henry has better things to do on Hall—”

“Sure.”

Wait another fucking minute.

As Molly smiled again and thanked Henry – urging Anna to do the same – Anthony couldn’t help but stare at the man’s profile and try to associate that word with the feeling that once again made a bunch of butterflies bloom in his stomach.

It didn’t matter how many he had killed.

That amber gaze that had slipped to look at him with a silent nod and a slightly melancholy smile was enough; it was enough his greeting, his ‘I really have to go now’ and another look in which Anthony could have shouted a lot of insults and instead he had only been able to mutter a rather confused ‘see you tomorrow’ while watching him walk away headed who knows where.

Molly’s elbow right in the ribs was enough too.

“You didn’t tell me he's so hot.”

Angel Dust disappeared from his smile in a butterfly’s flutter.

Tony 💖
hey. if u don't feel like coming 2morrow i get it, nw

Husk The DILF
When I said ‘sure’, I meant it.

Tony 💖
y?

Husk The DILF
‘Cause I want to make up for acting like an ass.

Tony 💖
oh so cause ya feel guilty??

Husk The DILF
I'm doing it because I want to see you.

Tony 💖
and ya didn't feel like it on sun?

Husk The DILF
Sunday was a bad day.

Tony 💖
um. i’m gonna need a little more details
[…]
like wtf is that black eye

Husk The DILF
We'll talk about it tomorrow. Promise.

Tony 💖
kay.
[...]
find a nice costume husky, i’ll start forgiving ya with that ~
cya 2morrow

Husk The DILF
See ya. Goodnight, Tony.

Chapter Text

October 31st – New York City, one year ago

The thud of the bathroom door, the key turning and locking out techno music that was really loud for an apartment. The background chatter fading away, swallowed up by the apparent quiet of the place and Anthony Scavo’s rapid breathing as he stared at himself in the small mirror above the sink.

Angel Dust’s cheeky, amused smile disappeared the moment he realized he was alone and no longer had to pretend to be okay. That everything was going great, that he hadn’t argued with Valentino yet, that the purple marks around his left wrist were just the result of their kinky games between the sheets.

The mirror image sent him back a sexy nurse – who knows why Halloween costumes are an excuse to dress like in the cheapest porn – looking definitely wasted: tiny pupils in hazel irises, a pair of dark circles that testified that he hadn’t slept in weeks, a thinness that was becoming excessive even for someone as naturally skinny as him.

The smudged lipstick on his chin reminded him why he had locked himself in the toilet: a friend of Valentino’s who was a bit too pushy, whom Anthony had invited to that party only to try to make Val jealous and then find out that he wouldn’t even come.

Vox had demanded his presence that night.

The truth was that jealousy was eating him alive, not Valentino.

A repeated knock on the door made him growl and grip the edge of the sink harder.

“Fuck off!”

The rumor stopped after a couple more knocks and an unspecified curse, leaving Anthony alone with what threatened to be a panic attack.

No, it’s just jealousy, just turn it off.

Tony reached under his white latex miniskirt to reach a secret pocket and pull out a small bag containing his entire world, especially the last two months; he dumped the contents onto the counter next to the sink, scattering the various drugs with shaking hands and chewing more curses between his teeth.

“Where the fuck is it.”

Among colored pills, white powder, and pre-rolled cigs that definitely didn’t contain just tobacco, Tony grabbed a bag of caramel-colored powder. He opened it, sprinkled a teaspoon with a dose – a little more, just a little more – and clicked a lighter to dissolve the aforementioned powder.

His breathing, meanwhile, was getting faster and faster.

It was the coke, he’d taken too much – you just have to balance it out, you know? Turn it off.

Valentino had taught him that.

That way you don’t get too high too soon, amorcito. See? You’ll feel better right away. Good boy, like this, niiiice and slow.

He had never been able to stop.

He picked up the syringe from the same bag he’d taken earlier, along with a tourniquet that he tied one-handed above his elbow, tightening it with his teeth as he clenched his fist to make the vein stand out.

The vivid memory – so sweet so dirty so cruel – of the first time he had done heroin gripped his consciousness and threatened to make that panic attack explode. Valentino’s hands showing him how to do it, the gentleness of the needle piercing the white skin, the immediate relaxation that had slowed his heartbeat and loosened his muscles.

Val’s tongue removing the last traces of blood from the inside of his elbow and his distant, velvety voice – now come here, baby, let’s make love.

Love.

Anthony blinked twice, three times, and looking up in the mirror he realized he was crying.

Glitter and mascara, purple and black.

One way or another, the marks that Valentino had been leaving on him for a few months now were only those colors, whether they were bruises or tears.

Since when did I let myself become like this?

At that moment, a crazy idea of ​​rebellion – when Anthony Scavo wants something he just takes it – made him consider the most suitable way to get back at Valentino and stop feeling bad.

Turn. Everything. Off.

While the bass of the music outside made the wood of the closed door vibrate, Tony looked down at the dose ready and already in the syringe.

If only—

What drives someone to think that there are no more ways out of situations is anyone’s guess; not even Anthony, to be honest, could explain precisely what had driven him to take that dose all at once. And to swallow three colored pills. And to dip his fingers messily into the coke bag to take some on his fingertips and snort.

He only knew – while he felt his heart twist in his chest to accelerate abruptly and make him dizzy, while his muscles began to scream and the room to visibly expand under his gaze – that it was the only satisfaction he could get.

Looking at himself in the mirror, in those pupils so dilated that they had swallowed all the color as if they were black holes, he savored in a crazy smile the last, visceral payback before losing consciousness in an infinite fall towards nothingness.

If Valentino wanted him out, he would have obliged.

In his own way.

October 31st – Las Vegas, four years ago

“Another one!”

Henry Husker’s fake-tipsy voice came with the clink of half-melted ice in his gin-and-tonic-without-gin glass – at least the third since he’d sat down at that Black Jack table – shaken towards one of the pretty waitresses in vampire costumes buzzing around the gaming tables like sexy bats.

Rule number one, boy. Stay focused.

There was a little voice inside his head that suggested that maybe he shouldn’t overdo it tonight; he’d promised Caroline he’d take her trick-or-treating – in a Las Vegas that was dyed orange for Halloween and, in some areas, much more kid-friendly. Lidia had smiled softly at him, in a spark of hope that this time he would really keep his promise.

I still got time.

One of the waitresses picked up his empty glass, clicking her tongue a couple of times flirtatiously and fluttering her eyelashes.

“You’re not working today, Husker?”

“Nah, today is fun day.” he replied, clinking the chips on the green table as the pair of chairs next to him emptied and refilled. “A couple more lucky spins and I’ll take my princess trick-or-treating.”

“And your wife?”

Henry’s cocky grin matched the flirtatious look the waitress gave him; he felt her gaze linger on him, sliding from his mouth to the pair of undone buttons on the white shirt, a small tuft of dark hair peeking out.

He shrugged, the picture of innocence.

“My wife’s going to have fun tonight, too.”

The girl pouted somewhat, before sighing theatrically and waddling away on a pair of heels only a Vampire could balance on, muttering a complaint.

Husk chuckled again, returning his gaze to the dealer who had changed decks in the meantime.

Shit.

Easy, he told himself, easy. First bet low and let the deck swell, then pick up the thread.

He cleared his throat nonchalantly, settling back into his chair and eyeing the other two people at the table betting to start the game. He did the same, unruffled.

The game resumed.

One card after another, Henry began to count just like the one who claimed to be his father had taught him. That evening – the Night of the Witches, in which legend has it that anything can happen – it wasn’t just luck on his side.

He kept his amber eyes glued to the cards, to the hands of the dealer – a new guy he’d said hello to last month and who he thought was called Jerry, or maybe Johnny. Honestly, he’d forgotten the name the moment he’d shaken the hand and felt it sweaty and tense.

Those weren’t croupier hands.

He watched as the player to his right bet half his chips – too high, too fast; the deck wasn’t warm yet, too many numbers and too few face cards.

Rule number two: don’t rush. Counting cards is like fucking a beautiful woman, first you have to make her come and only then can you come too.

He thanked the returning waitress with his fake gin and tonic in a silent nod, grabbing the glass with a wink and receiving in return a playful drumming of the fingers on the back of his neck in a sort of complicit caress.

The fact that he was now married and had a four-year-old daughter was a detail that the waitresses and dancers – or croupiers or bouncers – of the casino didn’t seem to care much about. Not that Husk had ever done anything after putting a wedding ring on his finger – his days of screwing magicians in dressing rooms were over – but the constant flirting was exciting.

A lot.

Henry was madly in love with Lidia, but the idea of ​​being able to have anyone he wanted was intoxicating. It gave him the same delicious feeling as the rush of adrenaline that pumped through his veins when he waited to see the cards reveal themselves on the poker table, or to follow with his eyes the white roulette ball as it skipped across the red and black segments.

The same intoxicating power that he had when he was on the other side of the table dealing the cards – judge, jury and executioner of those who bet a part of themselves together with the chips they put into play.

He actually played with a chip, making it spin vertically like a top on the table, his fingers rough and thick, steady and attentive like his gaze on the game that was taking place.

Plus twelve.

The player to his left folded and gave up betting again, while the player to his right frowned as if pondering what to do.

Henry cracked his neck with a satisfied breath; he took a large sip from his glass – the illusion that he was tipsy was like a magician's trick, drawing the cameras' attention to something that wasn't actually happening – before setting it down and adding more chips to his bet.

He didn’t need to look at the cards again to know that the dealer was going to bust on the next card. He grinned.

Black Jack.

The small group of people gathered around the table cheered in polite applause, watching Henry collect his winnings and chuckle with satisfaction.

His eye fell on the watch on his left wrist: it was definitely late.

Caroline. Trick or Treat. Lidia.

His promise.

He sighed, ignoring the call of gambling adrenaline that murmured in his ear languidly like a lover ‘just one more bet, Husk, you can win a lot more’ to push a tip chip towards the dealer and get up from the table.

"Thanks Johnny, I’m out."

"My name is Jimmy."

Oh well.

Husker slid his jacket back on in one fluid motion, smoothing his sleeves and stuffing the winnings into his pockets; he took his leave in a lighthearted parody of a military salute and turned away from the table, swallowed up by the partly masked crowd that swarmed the casino.

Perhaps it was because of the crowd that he didn’t see a man slightly shorter than him – white hair, mustache, a cowboy hat and a toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth – approach the table and inspect his glass.

The ringing of the phone – a bizarre western melody – made him put down the glass and fish the phone out of the back pocket of what looked like a full cowboy uniform.

“Striker.” he dryly picked up, in a thick southern accent.

The question on the other end made him nod.

“Aye, he did it again. Should I follow him?”

Judging by the silent nod and the call ending, the answer was yes.

“Yo, sir.” called Jimmy’s attention, who jumped slightly. “Do you know where Husker went?”

“I guess to cash in. He said he was having a night with his princess…?” The dealer looked a little confused as to who this ‘princess’ was supposed to be, but not Striker.

He curved a slow, menacing smile, the toothpick bending upwards exactly like the corner of his mouth.

A dark flicker deep in his pale eyes.

“Perfect.”

Without another word, Jimmy watched Striker slip away, following Henry. The last thing he saw was his cowboy hat outside the slots room door.

He had slithered away like a rattlesnake.

October 31st – New York City, one year ago

There was someone sitting on top of him, compressing his lungs.

A dirty sofa in a Village club, that broken pole that he asked Bob to fix he doesn’t even remember how many fucking times and the sprained ankle.

No, it wasn’t his lungs; those weren’t working the way they were supposed to. It was his sternum, someone repeatedly pounding his sternum. Yes, that had to be it.

The reddish smoke of a cigarette – there wasn’t just tobacco in there – and a smile that was glistening with gold, languid and sweet like the aftertaste of that first drag he’d offered him. ‘It hurts less this way, amorcito.’

A thud. Another punch to the sternum.

Was he Spanish? Maybe Latino, definitely not from the old continent.

His lungs swelled with a sudden intake of breath, a cough. He rolled onto his side and vomited bile onto a floor already as dirty as his ridiculous sexy nurse costume.

He had massaged his ankle, unzipping his high boot with a slowness that had made Anthony shiver with a soft, intoxicating pleasure. He knew right away that those fingers could break his ankle entirely, or they could bring him relief.

Confused voices poured into his ears in a cacophony of sound, threatening to make him vomit again. With the voices came a searing pain in his head.

Those fingers could have been heaven or hell, salvation or damnation.

Someone was crying and a part of him – the part that refused to pass out again – wanted to tell them to stop, that they were only making it worse; that his head hurt, that he had puke in his nose and that he had probably pissed himself. That he was the one who should be crying.

The massage had become a caress. Up up up up along his knee to the hem of his thong. The bills stuffed inside had rustled like autumn leaves – they crushed under the shoes just as the dirty sofa under them.

The someone who was crying was a woman who probably knew him, because he heard her crying his name repeatedly in a continuous litany.

Anthony Anthony Anthony Anth–

Anthony. Anthony. Anthony. Valentino growled his name, between one thrust and another, reciting it like he was reeling off beads of a rosary. Poetry and curse, a delicious blasphemy that crucified him against the wall of his dressing room.

“Anthony!”

Legs wide open, arms against the wall, Valentino pounding in his ass.

“Anthony, wake up!”

Legs wide open, arms around his neck. Valentino making love to him.

When he opened his eyes – blinking once twice one more time – the confused sounds and the excruciating pain in his head were joined by the blurry vision of a forest of faces bent over him. Or maybe it was just a couple of people, he wasn’t sure he could see straight. Breathe, said someone. No, I’m not breathing, I’m swallowing poisonous air and the remains of my vomit.

A starry blue sky, the roof of a SoHo apartment. Two arms that hold him in an embrace, from behind, and murmur words in his ear, sweet little Spanish nothing.

Anthony wanted to turn off the light and go back to not breathing, because the awareness of still being lying on the floor of a bathroom that he had helped make filthy had started to sink its teeth into him and it hurt like hell.

A plate crashed against the wall, Valentino shouting in a jealous outburst that had made Anthony's legs tremble as he held his cheek red from a slap.

“Make room, take the stretcher.”

A line two three four lines of white perdition snorted in a club toilet. Valentino’s tongue on the neck, his perfume on him, inside him. Every-fucking-where. The inebriated smile of someone who feels loved. You’re mine, Anthony.

The world began to spin again, in a violent jolt, the moment he felt himself lifted from that floor and placed on another surface a little softer, but unstable. The faces above him disappeared, replaced by a pair of eyes exactly like his.

His reflection in the SoHo bathroom, one eye swollen-closed from a punch, a split lip and a cut on his forehead where Valentino’s ring had ended up. He didn’t do it on purpose, it was me. I’m the one who made him angry, I’m the one who looked at that waiter, I’m the one who smiled at him.

A new wave of headache mixed with the desire to sleep made him close his eyes again, while someone pushed a sort of mask over his nose and mouth. Oxygen and vomit, a disgusting taste.

The bitterness he had felt on his tongue, when he had come home and found Valentino busy sucking another man’s cock. The same Valentino who had never taken his in his mouth, because Anthony was the one who gave. He gave, he gave, he gave, he gave everything of himself.

“Anthony, why did you do it.”

He didn’t know if the sobbing was a question, if it was his thoughts, if he had imagined it all.

Why did you do it? I love you, Val. I love you so much it makes me wanna die.

Above him, the ceiling began to slide and became sky; a dark, starless sky, lit by what were maybe streetlights or maybe that too was all a hallucination.

Please don’t leave me.

Someone had turned off the music and all that was left were indistinct voices, a high-pitched noise that made his head throb every now and then, the sirens of an ambulance.

Oh Angie, baby, you know I love you too.

A blue light that painted the Halloween masks around him, in a disturbing picture perfectly in tune with how he felt at that moment: dead.

So stop throwing a tantrum, you know what happens when you make me angry.

The truth is that perhaps dying would have hurt less. It would have hurt less to close his eyes and just keep falling, choking on his own vomit while the drugs devoured his heart.

Your heart belongs to me, Anthony. I am the only one who can devour it.

He started to cry, or maybe it was still the sobs of the one he had now understood was his sister, as they loaded him into the ambulance.

The image of Valentino standing in front of him, curled up on the ground against the wall, with a belt in his hand and a blood-red smile for that one time he had dared to fight back.

The thud of the door closing, the sirens starting to wail, a wave of nausea that threatened to make him vomit into his oxygen mask again.

I am. The only one. Who can kill you.

Killing himself would have really hurt less. He had failed at that, too.

October 31st – Las Vegas, four years ago

“Husker?”

He’d never heard that voice before – and he knew everyone around here.

Henry frowned in mild perplexity, turning away from watching the cashier change his chips into cash to focus on the cowboy who’d just spoken to him.

“Henry Husker?”

“That’s me, yeah. And you are?”

The smile that came to him a few moments later gave him the inexplicable feeling of being in danger; a cat cornered by a venomous snake.

“Striker. Can I borrow you?”

Husk was called back by the cashier, who pushed the money towards him; he thanked him with a nod, taking the wads to put them directly in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“I’m in a hurry, actually, so if it’s a—”

“I think you’d better listen to me, hm?”

Henry’s amber gaze slid down to Striker’s pulled-back jacket, discreetly revealing a gun tucked into his shoulder holster.

The unpleasant sensation of being in danger was suddenly no longer just a sensation.

He swallowed the last of his saliva in a dry mouth, as Striker let go of the jacket and looked at him as if nothing had happened – a waiting smile.

“Okay. All right,” he muttered, cracking his neck again to try to stay calm. “What do you want?”

Striker clicked the tongue, as if calling a horse – there was a golden flash, of a tooth he might have lost and had been replaced.

“Not here. Boss wants to talk to you in person.”

“Boss?”

Henry frowned again, confused, before regaining control and exhaling in annoyance. He made to pass the cowboy, taking advantage of still being in public.

“Look, if this is some shitty Halloween prank—”

A hand grabbed his wrist. Hard.

“The sooner you talk to him, the sooner you can get back to your daughter and wife. Or do you want me to pick them up and bring them here?”

Striker’s blunt but elegant threat – murmured in his ear in a low, gravel tone – made him stiffen abruptly. He took a deep, slow breath and yanked his wrist out of Striker’s grip.

“Fine. Just leave them out of whatever this bullshit is, okay?”

The cowboy grinned again, pleased; that was his only response.

Henry nodded again, following him towards the exit – not the front one, no. The one on the back.

The moment he saw a limo and a couple of other goons, dressed in black, waiting for him and the cowboy outside the casino, he knew he was in serious trouble.

“Where are we going?” he asked, putting on his poker face and praying that Striker didn’t feel his heart pounding against his ribs as he climbed into the car.

“Oh, don’t worry, we’ll be there in ten minutes.”

The thud of the door, the sound of the engine starting.

Sitting sandwiched between two men, Henry glanced at Striker, seated across from him.

“Who’s your boss?”

A shadow of suspicion began to creep into the back of his mind, but hearing it directly was a different story.

“Crimson.”

The owner of the casino. The same casino he regularly played at. The same casino he regularly cheated at.

Holy shit.

“And what does Crimson want with me?”

Striker looked at him with the bored expression of someone who has lived this scene who knows how many times.

“Let me put it this way, Husker. Crimson doesn’t like to be fucked.”

No, I am the fucked one.

As the car drove through the crowded streets of Vegas, Henry thought about his promise: he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be back in time to keep it.

Chapter Text

October 31st – two hours earlier

Apparently, the ‘next shipment’ hadn’t gone by without a hitch.

And judging by the state of the guy tied to the chair, placed in the middle of the room of the closed speakeasy for a ‘private meeting’, he was the culprit.

Husk finished drying yet another glass – he had lost count and probably didn’t even matter, but it was a way like any other to keep his hands busy - while Tex’s knuckles adorned with brass knuckles fell in a dull crack on the aforementioned guy’s jaw, making him spit out another tooth on the floor and let out a gasp of pain that sounded a lot like “stop please stop”.

Zestiel’s dark eyes, standing in front of the scene – a pool of soft light like a theatrical spotlight – shone in the dim light like the ember of the cigar he had just taken a drag from.

Sitting at the bar a couple of stools away from Henry, Alastor drummed his long fingers idly on the polished wood surface, the perfect image of someone waiting his turn.

Husk took a slow breath, forcing himself to swallow the all-too-vivid memory of his Accident that made his back tingle.

The casino basement. A chair in a pool of light. His blood on the floor.

Stop please stop— hold him the fuck down, just hold him—

As much as he hated to think about it, it had happened some Halloweens ago. 

Gruesome coincidences.

“Have you got your memory back?”

Zestiel had moved closer to the guy in question, bending on his knees so he could look him in the eyes, even though the other guy didn’t look like he could even hold his head straight at the moment.

Who knows if he too had been such a pitiful sight that time.

“I d-don’t—” the gurgling breath of someone who clearly has too much blood in their lungs came after a few moments. “I don’t k-know ‘nythin'els— I s-swear.”

“Are you really sure that’s the right answer?” Zestiel inquired, removing the cigar from his lips and tapping it to let the ashes fall directly on the man’s knee. “Considering I was told you were at the dock the night the cops came to pry, that seems a quite odd coincidence.”

The guy started to cry as if he’d run out of excuses. Husk watched Tex wrinkle his nose in disgust, before dragging his amber gaze back to the man and realizing why: the stain on his crotch suggested he’d just pissed himself.

Stop please stop.

The itch on his back had started to become unbearable and, absentmindedly, he found himself scratching between his shoulder blades.

Zestiel clicked his tongue a couple of times, sighing and getting back up.

“Such a disappointment, Frank.” he put the cigar back between his teeth and snapped his fingers at Tex, who nodded and headed towards the stairs that led to the gangster’s mezzanine office.

He blinked a couple of times, focusing on the now lifeless form of Frank slumping completely into the chair, a hole in his forehead where the barrel of Zestiel’s gun had put a bullet in his head to show him exactly how much he had disappointed in him.

The gangster put the gun back in the shoulder holster hidden under his tailored suit, before sighing again with an annoyed expression.

“This filthy traitor even soiled my sleeve.”

It seems that Frank’s sins were not over yet.

On that past Halloween night, when he had dragged himself home, they had to simply throw away his clothes. Or at least, that’s what Lidia had told him, between sobs, because he couldn’t remember a fucking thing about how and when he had arrived at the hospital.

The pain, however, he remembered that all too well.

Hold him the fuck down, just hold him down.

“Don’t worry Zestiel.” Alastor’s nonchalant tone, as if they hadn’t just witnessed torture and subsequent execution, brought him back from his memories.

He stopped scratching his back.

“I can ask Rosie to send you one of her lovely girls and measure you for a new suit today.”

Zestiel smiled softly at the doctor, joining them both at the bar to put out his cigar in the first available ashtray – one that Husk promptly took care to place in front of him.

“Thank you Alastor, but I have to meet Carmilla soon.” he informed him, eyeing Henry and gesturing vaguely towards the glass that Alastor himself had in front of him.

Husker silently filled a new tumblr with two fingers of rye whiskey, neat, pushing it towards the gangster.

“This unpleasant hassle with Frank and the seized cargo was not needed. It risks compromising my business with Miss Carmine as well and it frankly would bother me a lot .” he continued, in a low tone, taking the glass and thanking Husk with a nod.

On the chair, Frank’s corpse was still dripping blood onto the floor in a rather disturbing rhythmic noise. Halloween coded, after all.

The iron smell of his own blood had continued to torment him for months, after the Accident. They had left him there, in that basement, until they decided he had learned his lesson. He had only realized how much time had passed when Lidia told him that he hadn’t been home for three days.

“I see, ol’ pal. Sounds like an urgent discussion. I’ll talk to Rosie about your new suit anyway, I’m having dinner at her place tonight.” Alastor concluded, before sliding off the stool and starting rolling up his shirt sleeves above his elbows. In the meantime, Tex was returning from Zestiel’s office: a large doctor's bag in one hand and a roll of black plastic bags in the other.

Husker discreetly looked at his watch: seven thirty.

An embarrassing costume, trick or treating, and some sort of date.

He cleared his throat, to get attention.

Zestiel’s black gaze brought him placidly into focus; much less patient was Alastor’s, who in the meantime had put on a pair of gloves taken from the bag now open on one of the round tables. Tex was spreading the plastic bags on the floor, all around poor Frank.

“Do you need anything else or can I go?”

“Are you in a hurry, Husker?” Alastor’s question sounded more threatening than the musical tone suggested.

“I have to pick up my daughter,” he replied sharply. When he looked at Zestiel, his tone was decidedly more subdued. “I promised her we’d go trick-or-treating.”

“Oh, of course.” The gangster smiled slowly, showing a few too many teeth. Husk instinctively thought of a large black crocodile, floating under the Mississippi’s murky waters. “Alastor told me about your divorce, Husker. Hell forbid if I take away time from the already few moments you have with your daughter— Caroline, right?”

There was no intimidation in those words. However, the idea that Zestiel knew his daughter’s name sent a silent shiver down his spine.

“… Right.”

“Wonderful. Sure, you can go.” he dismissed him.

“Go, Husk.” Alastor intervened, taking out various instruments from his bag; the same ones he used to perform autopsies in a morgue that was decidedly more professional than a speakeasy. “We’ll be in touch in the next few days. I may have a job for you.” he warned him lightly, with a meaningful glance over the rim of his glasses.

Henry sighed, nodding with placid resignation.

As much as he worked as a bartender for Zestiel, Alastor was still Alastor.

Having as a friend a medical examiner involved with gangsters and with a lot of odd jobs intertwined with the criminal underworld of New York was definitely challenging.

Henry decided that no, this was not the right time to wonder about his friendships.

Alastor, on the other hand, seemed satisfied; he greeted him with a wink, finishing laying out all the instruments on the table. He began to whistle an unknown tune while Zestiel sipped his whiskey and checked his work emails on the phone.

Husker went up the stairs of the speakeasy, without looking back, before the sound of the saw added to the notes hummed by Alastor.

Stop please stop.

October 31st – present

If it weren’t for the unbearable itch of his wig, Henry Husker might have considered it a perfect night.

“Thank you so much, ma’am! Say hello to your husband for me, your decorations are the perfect kind of spooky.”

Sure, they could have spent less than ten minutes per door, but apparently Anthony’s ability to chat with anyone was at least as overflowing as the amount of candy they had managed to collect thanks to his silver tongue gift.

“Daddy, daddy!” the enthusiastic tug of a small unicorn – mind you, ‘not to be confused with a fairy, because some unicorns have wings too’ Caroline had warned – with a huge happy smile and a bag full of sweets caught his attention, further down.

“Can you keep this for me?”

Without really waiting for an answer, Unicorn Caroline dropped the second, now-full pumpkin basket into his hand to join Anna, who was dressed as a bat. Wearing a rainbow tulle skirt just like Caroline’s. Apparently, she was a Magical Bat.

Henry had long ago given up on understanding the creativity of eight-year-old creatures; when he was eight, after all, the only magic tricks he was interested in were the ones with cards. Or the ones where the magician’s cute assistants disappeared into a box.

“Having fun, whiskers?”

Husk blinked a couple of times, taking the elbow Anthony gave him in the ribs – not very gently, to be fair – to get his attention.

He found himself staring into the mismatched hazel eyes, heavily made up in black, of the blond in question for the hundredth time that night; and for the hundredth time, his thoughts deviated again along with his gaze as he observed the black leather cat-suit he was wearing, so tight that Husk wondered how he could breathe.

“Yeah.”

Anthony curved a mischievous half-smile, passing by him and reaching the two little girls who in the meantime had found another door to beg for trick or treat, in that Manhattan all decorated for the Night of the Witches, among pumpkins, skeletons and an autumn that was increasingly dyeing the island in red, yellow and orange.

Observing that cat tail – and that practically perfect ass – he also asked himself a large series of thoughts that were definitely not suitable for the ears of the two adorable little girls they were accompanying that evening.

So, apart from a couple of details, he was quite convinced: perfect night.

He had picked up Caroline, as promised; he had greeted Lidia’s new partner and purposely ignored his father-in-law’s look of disapproval for his black eye, lurking behind the door. Lidia, on the other hand, had appreciated his costume: he had watched her laugh softly, softly, and the flash of their improvised wedding in Las Vegas chapel with a celebrant dressed as Elvis had made him vaguely melancholic.

Mr and Mrs Dixon had then wanted a proper ceremony for their daughter, but that crazy night full of love had been one of the most beautiful of his life.

In any case, an Elvis Presley dressed in white and a Caroline Unicorn had promised to return soon, before picking up Anna the Magic Bat and the male version of Cat Woman.

He’d had to try really, really hard to suppress the hard-on at seeing Anthony dressed like that – cat ears included – and something in the blond’s challenging smirk suggested to him that he had done it on purpose.

Guess I deserved that.

For a while, Tony had practically ignored him – and who could blame him, after all, he had been the first one to ghost his messages without giving explanations.

Husk had limited himself to following that unlikely trio from house to house, holding the bags of sweets and staying aside while Anthony worked his magic and got the two girls enough sweets to last until next Halloween. But between smiles and coaxing, chatter and compliments, the blond had slowly relaxed with him too.

Henry had smiled at him slightly, a moment in which he had approached to pick some orange confetti from his jacket, casually dusting the lapel and ending up by running his fingers over the dark hair that was peeking out from the very unbuttoned shirt, more or less up to his navel.

Elvis style, after all.

Anthony had observed that smile and had probably read the right thing in it: I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore you, I’m glad to be here with you tonight.

In fact, he had smiled back at him, a little crookedly, before leaving a scratch under his chin – as if Husk were the cat – and going back to hunting for sweets.

There would have been time to talk.

Speaking of, Husker looked at the time, before eyeing the returning trio.

“Caroline, hun, I have to take you home.”

Caroline pouted adorably, clutching onto Henry’s jacket.

“Just two more houses, pleeeeease~ ”

Anthony chuckled amusedly, watching the scene.

“Come on princess, first we’ll walk Anna home and then on the way back we’ll stop a couple more times.

“That’s not fair uncle, I want to stop again too!”

“I’ll leave you my candies too, hmm?”

Henry watched Anthony’s outstretched hand – his nails painted black this time – towards his niece, who narrowed her pale eyes to consider the offer; with, it must be said, an incredibly professional look. Then she sighed and shook that hand.

“Fine, Uncle Nico will bring me more anyway.”

A great dealmaker.

Anthony let her run ahead on the sidewalk, along with Caroline, towards the road home, clicking his pierced tongue a couple of times.

“Knowing my brother, he must have stolen them from some poor kid.” he commented sarcastically, starting after them and walking next to Husk, who peeked at his profile.

“So you don’t just have a twin.”

The blond shook his head slowly, not looking at him but keeping an eye on the two girls, in a scene very similar to the first time they had seen each other after That Night .

Two strangers sitting on a park bench, with a half-melted ice cream in their hands.

“My brother Nicholas is the older one.”

Husk was silent, waiting for more information that never came.

Either he was still angry, or it was a topic he didn’t want to delve into.

They remained silent for a while, listening to the chatter of children swarming along the sidewalks of the Upper East Side bathed in streetlights and the flickering lights of the many carved pumpkins left lying around.

It wasn’t the same relaxed silence as the morning-after in his apartment. There were a lot of questions, embedded in the way Anthony carefully avoided his gaze and smirked at the stares of strangers who lingered to stare at him.

Henry cleared his throat.

“Look.”

How the fuck was it hard to start a conversation and how the fuck was he bad with words.

“I’m sorry about last Sunday.”

Anthony just looked at him sideways, snorting wryly and looking straight ahead again.

“It was a bad day. I mean, I—”

How do I tell him I couldn’t get up off the floor? How do I tell him I drank everything in the house because I didn’t want to think about the spectacular failure that is my life?

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

One of the simplest and stupidest things in the world to say, but the main feeling that drove Henry was sincerity: the last thing he wanted was to hurt him.

Tony turned to stare at him, this time, looking at him from top to bottom – given the height difference – and narrowing those almost-mismatched eyes slightly.

“Why?”

“Why what.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me you were having a shitty day, instead of ghosting me?”

Husk opened his mouth to reply but realized he had no idea what to say. He opted for silence.

“I would have understood, Henry. I’m blond, not stupid.” Anthony joked and the slightly bitter and slightly mischievous smile seemed to him very much like Angel Dust’s constructed one.

Husk shrugged, again, sliding to look for the silhouette of his daughter who was walking hand in hand with Anna a few meters in front of them, busy comparing their sweet treasure.

“I don’t think you’re stupid.” he replied grumpily after a few moments of silence.

Anthony chuckled again, an ironic snort more than anything, and gave him a friendly shove that made him skid just a little.

“Then don’t treat me like that anymore, asshole.”

Henry’s amber eyes flickered at him at that last sentence.

A lump of fragility hidden there, somewhere, under the black makeup.

“Okay.”

“Good. And what about the black eye? If you did it to turn me on, know that it works a lot , Husky.”

Henry chuckled a little, absentmindedly rubbing the cheekbone under his still purple eye.

“A disagreement with a client,” he summed up. “The least funny thing is that I had it when the social worker came in Tuesday morning.”

Anthony looked at him, blinking a couple of times as if he’d realized something.

“And when did you find out about the visit?”

“… Sunday morning.”

Saying it out loud and realizing Anthony had made the connection without even trying made him feel like a complete fool.

He metaphorically ruffled his fur as the blond sighed heavily and shoved him again – a gentler one this time – in silent support.

“You owe me a proper blowjob, Husker.”

Henry realized he was blushing only at Tony’s laugh – soft, crystalline – and suddenly even the itch from his Elvis wig faded into the background.

“You blush like a virgin and yet you’re a fucking animal in bed, what is this magic?”

“Pointing out that I’m blushing doesn’t make it any better.”

“Oh, and who says I want you to stop?”

Anthony’s devilish grin – golden tooth in full view, half sunk into his lower lip with a decidedly mischievous look – told Husk’s spine-beads like a rosary and sent his control straight to Hell.

The blond’s hazel-green gaze slipped to peek at his crotch, raising the eyebrows a couple of times with a satisfied look.

Henry returned the shove, shaking off his embarrassment and getting another half-laugh in return – a cleansing of the stormy sky that had hovered between them until that moment.

That feeling of lightness, warm and pleasant in the pit of his stomach, he felt for the rest of the way to Anna’s house; he greeted the little girl with a half smile and also nodded to Molly, who waved at the door and invited them both to get something – Anthony quickly dismissed her, giving her a hug and the promise of a coffee for the next time.

They started back on the road – with the promised two stops for trick or treating – to what a few months ago was also Husk’s apartment.

As they went up in the elevator, he suddenly felt very nervous about showing up to bring Caroline back accompanied by Tony, who was holding the little girl’s hand while she was ranking his favorite Disney princesses.

The scene seemed so normal to him that a wave of pure panic gripped his stomach.

Get your shit together, Husker.

The ding! of the doors opening, the soft thump of Caroline’s ballet flats as she ran across the carpeted hallway, and the laughter when Steven – Lidia’s new partner – picked her up and spun her around.

Anthony’s hand, silently, slid to find Henry’s to brush his fingers before moving first toward the door.

“We brought her back safe and sound, see?” Tony commented, with a friendly and cheeky smile as usual. “Don’t forget your candies, princess.” and he turned to look for Henry’s gaze, considering he had the loot.

Candies. Right.

He cleared his throat, also reaching the door and holding out the bags.

“Did she behave?” Steven asked, adjusting her better in his arms. “You know better than me that when she eats too much sugar she becomes a pest.”

I know that very well without you pointing it out, dickhead.

That perfect evening, thanks to the omnipresent little voice in his head, threatened to crumble.

He forced a smile, but it was Anthony who replied and saved him again.

“She was lovely, like my niece. I’m Anthony, by the way.” He held out his hand to Steven, who shook it in a calm smile.

“Are you a friend of Henry’s?”

Husk wished with all his heart that a trap door would open under him and swallow him up right then.

Before the blond could respond in any way, Lidia’s appearance behind Steven made the ‘embarrassing’ situation even worse, if that was possible.

Obviously on Henry’s part, Anthony didn’t bat an eyelid. In fact, he smiled at Lidia and held out his hand to her too, with an almost professional look.

“Good evening ma’am, I’m Anthony, the uncle of Caroline’s friend.”

Lidia squeezed his hand and looked back at Husk with a silent question in her eyes and a hint of a smile. He recognized perfectly the twinkle in the back of his ex-wife’s dark eyes: after all, Lidia had known him since he was just a young boy who wandered around Las Vegas chasing dancers’ skirts. And not only that.

“It’s a pleasure, Anthony, I’m happy to meet you.”

Henry felt a hint of sweetness in those words, and the lump of anger that was squeezing his stomach slowly loosened. He found himself staring at her in silence, while Anthony chatted with Steven, and when Lidia’s gaze pointed to the blond in a silent and hopeful question, time seemed to expand for an infinite and very short moment.

The image, foolishly happy, of what his life could have been from that moment on.

There was the constant beating of his heart that echoed in his ears, since they had left Lidia’s apartment and taken a cab to Anthony’s house, in the Village. While he absentmindedly caressed Anthony’s thigh sitting next to him, he had tried to put his thoughts in order, repressing that voice that kept telling him that it was useless, that he would disappoint someone else, that he should let it go immediately before that something became something else.

Henry’s emotions had the habit of becoming like weeds, grown in an uncultivated garden: invasive and incredibly resistant.

Tony’s long fingers that passed with fingertips over the knuckles of the hand that was on his knee were feathery touches that medicated his thoughts, even though the blond was just as thoughtful as he was.

He had been looking out the window the whole time, and on the way to his apartment – “Let’s stop here, I want to go for a walk” – he had been pretty quiet, sucking on a cherry lollipop that Caroline had left him as a thank you for the evening.

Husk had a cola one tucked into his pocket.

“Home sweet home.”

Anthony’s announcement jolted him from his thoughts again; he blinked a couple of times, realizing that they had indeed climbed the three steps of a nice building in Greenwich, not far from The Cave.

He looked back at the blond, after a quick look around.

“Now I see how you knew the place.”

“Yeah. So, are you going to keep up the small talk or you’re taking me to bed?”

Saying that Anthony always goes straight to the point would be a joke. And yet.

Husk cleared his throat.

“So Sunday’s thing is resolved? We’re good?”

Tony crossed his arms, leaning his weight on his right hip and tilting his head the other way, looking both patient and exasperated.

“Just because you were a dick, Husky, doesn’t mean I’m going to sulk at you forever. I’m a tough guy.” He clicked the pierced tongue against his teeth and Husk had no trouble believing it.

He had seen it, in the dressing room at The Vees.

He thought about himself, about his desire to take refuge in alcohol every time that damned little voice whispered in his ear, and he felt even more of an idiot.

“We’re good.” Anthony said. “Like I told you, I don’t care about your messes.” his smile became mischievous and sharp, as he untangled his arms and took a step to get closer.

He took off Husk’s wig and he let him do it, half closing his eyes in a satisfied breath when he felt those fingers running through his hair.

“I care that you make me cum properly tonight to make up for it. And tomorrow morning too, I’d say.” Anthony illustrated the interesting program, grinning in a mischievous flash and hooking his index finger on the open buttons of his shirt. “It’s not every day you get to fuck Elvis Presley, hm?”

Husk crooked a half-smile, amused, before sighing again.

“It’s just—”

I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t want to treat you like that asshole of an ex of yours, I don’t want to ruin everything again, I don’t want you to hate me, I don’t want you to—

“I don’t want you to feel used.” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand in the classic expression of someone very, very uncomfortable.

And sex wasn’t the problem. It was all of what goes with it, damn it.

It was the crystalline laughter that had gotten into his head and wouldn’t go away, it was the endless desire to tell him that his left eye was green and not brown, it was something that had scrambled his thoughts and refused to stay silent.

Something that was drawing him, like they were magnetically charged, to the man standing in front of him.

“Like the first night, when we almost ended up in bed— I mean, I know I didn’t—” but Husk never finished the sentence, considering that Anthony’s mouth crashed against his, cutting off the words on his tongue and trapping his breath somewhere.

A thick, slow breath, something that automatically softened the posture of his shoulders and made his eyelids heavy, while his left hand went up to seek the hair at the nape of his neck in a firm grip and his right hand slid down, seeking the only thing he could hold on to – the zipper of that catsuit already undone under his chest – as if Anthony were suddenly the only thing that’s real.

The two of them, under the light of the small porch, and all the darkness around in the unconscious replica of a stage without an audience.

And the only breath he wanted to feel on him, inside him – everywhere – was Anthony’s.

“Shut the fuck up. Please .” Angel breathed, moving away just enough to rub his profile against Husk’s in a caress that was more animal than human, something that spoke of a burning, hungry need.

It seemed to tell him ‘don’t leave me alone, please’.

He simply reached behind him, fumbling blindly with the handle to lower it and open the door of the building, dragging Anthony with him and shutting out the world for a while.

I’m not going anywhere.

In the suffused darkness of the hallway, the silent urgency and that nameless thoughts that tormented Tony – the ones that Husk felt on his tongue with the sugary clarity of the stupid cherry lollipop that the other had eaten a little while before – had the sweet taste of something that Henry had almost forgotten by now: the desire to taking care of someone.

Chapter Text

November 1st – present

Anthony woke with a start from an endless fall.

He had dreamed of what had been tormenting him for weeks now: the Halloween overdose.

He touched the inside of his elbow frantically, his breathing still rapid, checking for non-existent holes – a path of desperation embroidered by needles, one dose after another – and slowly regaining contact with reality.

His apartment. His room.

Henry Husker naked in his bed.

That last thought made him hold his breath, a wave of adrenaline that came back to knock on his consciousness, or maybe it was the last remnants of that nightmare sinking its teeth into his mind.

To be fair, he and Husk hadn’t exactly cleared up the situation the night before; there had been a lot of interesting things, but not many words.

Sighs and moans, Henry’s low voice and Anthony thought he had really fucked his brains out, that the drugs had finally scrumbled his head with a delayed effect, because that voice really sounded like he’s purring. Into his ear, along his throat in a trail of wet kisses while those big, tawny hands searched for the zipper of his cat suit to pull it down completely. Kisses that, in that dim pink light of the strings hanging behind the headboard, had lingered slowly on the slightly faded purple marks left by Valentino’s fingers on his neck.

Anthony rolled over on his side, in those wrinkled sheets, wedging himself under Husk’s arm to search for his neck nuzzling his freckled nose there; whether to kiss him or breathe him, it didn’t really matter.

Henry just mumbled something sleepily, holding him better without even opening his eyes.

Tony couldn’t help but smile in such a way that, if he had looked at himself in the mirror, he would have slapped himself.

You can’t do this, Anthony. You just fucking can’t.

And yet, as he walked his right index and middle fingers along Husk’s chest so he could open his hand and place it right there between the dark hair on his sternum, something told him that he had already lost control.

It had been very, very different sex from the first time. Or the second one, to be more precise.

There hadn’t been the same desperate hunger, that need to devour each other. This time, Henry had savored him slowly and Anthony had let him do it – even though the little voice inside him, very similar to Valentino’s tone, had cruelly whispered that his role wasn’t that.

You cannot come if I haven’t come first, amorcito. Don’t be selfish with pleasure.

Husker had undressed him slowly, lowering that black cat suit – a low laugh, mixed with a huff, “it’s so fucking tight, how the hell did you wear it in the first place?” – and walking to make him move backwards towards the bed; he had chuckled at the mountain of pillows, a sound that Anthony had felt in his mouth and that had made his stomach do a fluttering.

Damn the fucking butterflies.

The pillows had been removed, soft thumps on the floor as well as the soft thump of Tony, practically naked, who had let himself fall face up on the now empty bed.

The other’s clothes had remained in place instead – only the Elvis jacket was gone – and the image of Henry leaning over him on his forearms, the black eye, the unbuttoned shirt and that trail of open-mouthed kisses that continued downwards until reaching his thong and taking it between his teeth to pull it down had been categorically included in the repertoire for the best wanks in the world.

A brushstroke of cherry red silk along his pale, freckled thighs, his already hard cock popping out, and Anthony’s languid moan as he felt even Henry’s breathing right there against his aching erection.

Husker, still almost dressed, in contrast to him naked, with cat ears and lying in his bed, had been such a horny sight that Anthony’s blood had gone to his head; and say that he thought it had all gone elsewhere.

And yet it wasn’t a fantasy, oh no. It was all incredibly, fucking real.

The final blow hadn’t been that vision, but what he had said to him.

Let me take care of you.

If he hadn’t been a pro – so to speak – those words spoken in a husky but velvety tone, soaked with arousal, would have made him come. Like, instantly.

And instead, as he sank his fingers into Husker’s salt-and-pepper waves – a pleasant tickle on the inside of his thigh, between the beard and the hair – arching his back and his pelvis toward his mouth with his heels planted on the edge of the bed, he found himself looking at the pink lights upside down and desperately concentrating on making that blowjob last more than two minutes.

Husk had taken him into his mouth without hesitation, but with the same, intoxicating slowness with which he had kissed that path along his body, as if he had to count every freckle under his lips.

He had sucked a bit and then run his tongue over the length, slowly, before moving down between his cheeks to taste him and soften him where Tony was eager to feel him inside.

Present-Anthony buried his nose against the neck of the still half-asleep Henry, nuzzling at the memory of that lips kissing his hole, that tongue lapping and pushing to prep him, before moving up and taking him into his mouth again to suck him good.

So good.

He was sure he’d choked out a sound he didn’t think he could produce when Husk had started massaging his balls while sucking him; there, right there he had completely lost control and had come, in a languid moan that resembled a sob.

Henry’s swallowing; his amber eyes watching him from below, crouched between his thighs, in the pink darkness of his bedroom. Dark hair, whiskey eyes. Anthony’s quick breathing, the other one getting back on his feet, the Elvis costume disappearing on the floor. Husk’s mouth, the tongue searching for his, his own taste as he kisses him and feels him rubbing against his hole.

Tony glanced at the nightstand, where between an alarm clock that didn’t work, a couple of hand creams and a half-full blue crystal ashtray there was the bottle of cherry lube – “Are you for real? ” – that he had indicated to Husk with rather confused gestures when he had felt a question against his neck, where he was still kissing away those purple marks.

And to think that only Sunday night had he fucked Valentino in that dingy alley behind who-knows-what club because he was convinced that Henry had dumped him.

The moment Husk had pushed inside him, in a hungry thrust of his hips, Tony had called himself an idiot.

You idiot, you are such a dickhead.

He had meowed every moan against the other’s mouth, as if on that Night of the Witches Henry couldn’t tear himself away from his lips due to some bizarre spell. Anthony had gotten hard again, one thrust after another, and he had dug his nails into his shoulders, being careful to avoid his back.

He had rocked his hips, tightening his thighs around his hips and meeting him halfway as Henry pressed him against the mattress and fucked him exactly as he had said: taking care of him.

When Husk had taken Tony’s cock in his hand and started to jerk him in rhythm with the thrusts, the control had evaporated like snow in the sun.

Thinking back to the orgasm that had seized him for the second time, just before Husk also emptied himself inside him in a soft growl vented against his mouth, Anthony repeated for the umpteenth time what had now become a mantra.

I’m fucked.

“Why do you keep staring at me.”

Henry’s sleepy voice made Tony blink a couple of times, coming back from that long, hot memory of the night before.

He grinned, settling back into him and leaving a kiss on his neck; Husk began to purr again, and now he no longer knew if it was his imagination or if it was really happening.

“I wasn’t staring.”

“I felt it.”

Anthony chuckled softly, stretching and pressing himself against his body to push him down, face up, so he could position himself on top of him.

“It’s not my fault you’re sexy, daddy.” he cooed, folding his hands one on top of the other on Henry’s chest and resting his chin on them, so he could peek up at him.

Husk slowly opened his eyes, still too sleepy to give a prompt answer.

He just stared at him and raised his thick left eyebrow skeptically.

“What? That's true,” Tony reiterated, turning his head to rest his cheek and rub it a little against that hairy chest, without breaking his gaze. “You should stop questioning the fact that you’re a cock-tease daddy and start agreeing with me.”

“And you should stop talking bullshit.”

Anthony’s indignant reply was lost in an amused and crystalline laugh, while Henry in an unexpected maneuver grabbed him to reverse the positions in a rustle of sheets and lie on top of him, tucked between his thighs, with a smug smirk.

The blond chuckled again, looking up at him; in the gray light of a lazy November morning in the Village, Henry was a far more welcome sight than last year.

The plastered ceiling of the hospital, the rhythmic beeping of the machines, the smell of disinfectant and the feeling of sandpaper in his throat. Molly’s voice, it sounded just like her, talking to someone – someone who was placing something cold on his chest and trying to open his eyes to shine a light on them.

“Are you okay?”

It was Henry’s voice that brought him out of his thoughts.

Anthony blinked a couple of times, before taking a breath and stretching again, holding on to Husk’s shoulders and spreading his legs a little wider to make more room for him.

“I was just thinking that last year I had a very different morning,” he practically purred. “That’s fucking better.”

“Yeah?” Husk grinned, languid, pressing his hips and that morning hardness right into Anthony’s inner thigh. “And what kind of morning was that?”

He took a breath.

Charlie had said lying about being an addict was against the NA code, but technically he’d never actually lied, right?

I can’t tell him I overdosed on a friend’s bathroom floor and my sister basically locked me in rehab for nine months.

He ignored Charlie’s voice and the little speech about honesty once again.

“I was alone and far, far less happy.”

Only half-truths.

Henry’s amber eyes narrowed, as if he knew there was more to that answer. He didn’t investigate, though, just making a low, affirmative sound, before stiffening slightly: Tony had slowly moved his hands to risk a caress on his back and those scars.

“Don’t.”

It was the first time Husk had made such an explicit ‘stop’ on the matter.

The blond moved his hands again, without a fuss, going up to his shoulders and sliding one into the hair at the nape of the neck for a slow massage that made him soften again. The man went back to lie on top of him, giving a few lazy kisses to those bruises on Anthony’s throat – maybe the goal was to make them disappear completely like this, considering how much he had lingered on them last night too.

“What are they?” he murmured in his ear, softly.

Henry stopped and remained silent.

Another of those silences that made a lot of noise in his head.

When Anthony was finally convinced that he would not get an answer, a low, intimate murmur came – the confession of someone who perhaps had never spoken of it before.

“I had an accident.”

Tony dared to slide a hand down again, while his right hand remained to slowly scritch the back of Husk’s neck through his salt-and-pepper hair, as if he were trying to coax a big, reluctant cat.

This time, Husk tensed again but did not withdraw from the touch.

Anthony ran his fingertips lightly, without pressing, following the contours of the scars; burns or cuts, it was not clear, probably both. Lying under him he could not see well, but there was definitely a design of some kind – he traced the outlines blindly, breathing slowly and whispering a soft ssssht every now and then when Henry stiffened more and hid better against his neck, clenching his fists on the pillow.

He blinked after reaching the end of that macabre path.

“They look like wings.”

What kind of accident leaves such precise scars?

Husk snorted a bitter half-laugh, a snort that made Anthony shiver; he felt him move again and, in a twist of the hips, he reversed positions once more. He found himself straddling him, no longer able to touch his back.

“Let’s just say I pissed off the wrong people.” Henry concluded, quite lapidary, and something in his tone suggested to Anthony that he wouldn’t add more to that.

The blond nodded slightly, with the awareness that only the son of a mafia boss can have in these kinds of situations, but with curiosity that devoured his brain.

There was a whole world, inside Henry Husker, that he desperately wanted to sink into.

"What about you?"

Oh no.

“Me?” Tony took his time, straightening in that position and resting his hands on Husk’s chest to steady himself as he rocked his hips once, rubbing their cocks together in a perfect distraction.

“Those.”

Ok, maybe not so perfect.

Anthony swallowed hard; his Adam’s apple bobbed, left hand instinctively reached up to his neck to massage the faded bruises absentmindedly.

Henry had opened up to him about a very sensitive subject that morning. Maybe he owed him an explanation, even if it meant risking seeing him get out of bed, slam the door behind him and never come back.

He cleared his throat, while Valentino’s voice laughed languidly and cruelly in his thoughts.

“Last Sunday, when you—” Anthony cleared his throat. “When you had that bad day, I still went out.”

Maybe taking it one step at a time was easier?

“I saw Valentino.”

No, better to rip the band-aid off.

Husker watched him from below, in an indecipherable silence, a dark flicker at the bottom of his amber eyes.

There had been no need to tell him how he had won the bruises.

After all, he’d seen in the dressing room what Valentino was capable of.

Anthony closed his eyes in a broken breath that made a wave of fear rising in the back of his throat, ready to take Henry’s refusal.

At least he wouldn’t watch him walk out the door and leave him there.

Instead, he felt something else.

Hands that caressed his freckled thighs and slid to grab his ass for a moment – ​​the stylized heart tattooed on his cheek that squeezed slightly, under the palm – before going down again. Another hand that went up to brush those purple marks with its knuckles, in a hinted caress that made him reopen his slightly teary eyes and seek for Husk’s gaze again.

There were no signs of pity, just silent acceptance. No one had ever looked at him like that, like something precious. Like someone to take care of.

Oh, you’ll be fucking damned Henry Husker.

“I’m sorry.”

For not seeing each other on Sunday, for the bruises, for Valentino, for the fact that almost every man in his life had turned out to be shit?

It was those amber eyes – which in the soft light filtering through the window seemed almost golden – that told him there really was no need to specify.

Anthony rocked his hips astride, as if trying to settle himself and the other issue that was keeping him on edge.

“We haven’t talked about—” he cleared his throat again. “You know, I didn’t know if you—”

Husk came to his rescue, with an amused smirk.

“Since when did you lose your tongue, hmm?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Tony said, making him chuckle – the hands still resting on his chest wobbled up and down as the laughter infected him. He found himself smiling again, ever so slightly.

“I was saying, we haven’t talked about an exclusive.”

Henry rubbed his hands against his thighs again, a pensive caress.

“Want something exclusive?”

“No, I—” he tried to ignore the happy, crazy flutter in his stomach at the thought that there really was ‘something’ then, that he hadn’t imagined it. “It’s just we haven’t talked about it, so I don’t—”

“Look.”

Henry’s low, calm voice put a stop to the spiral of thoughts that threatened to devour him.

“You’re young, you’re sexy as fuck, and you have a job where you basically have make other people horny. I am a recently divorced forty-year-old with a lot of other shit going on.” Henry had a lot of skeletons in his closet too, but this silent game of not touching on certain topics seemed to come naturally to both of them. “If you want to fuck someone other than me, go ahead. Hell, if you want to fuck the entire Yankees team, feel free to do so.”

“I actually fucked one of the Yankees.”

“Good boy.” and Anthony laughed, deeply amused. “But seriously, do whatever you want Tony. My life is such a mess that I have no right or desire to stop anyone from being themselves. Just—”

It was Henry’s turn to clear his throat, hand returning to the purple marks on Anthony’s throat.

Was it concern what was seething in those amber eyes?

“Don’t let anyone hurt you. Whether it’s Valentino or some random asshole.”

‘Or me,’ seemed to be the words hanging at the end of the sentence.

Tony took a thick, soft breath – something that settled warmly in the pit of his stomach; he grabbed Henry’s right hand to press it to his cheek and bend his head into his palm, closing his eyes again to enjoy the touch.

For a moment, it really did seem like there were just the two of them in that room and the whole world outside.

He reopened his eyes in yet another blink, placing a kiss against Henry’s palm and letting him go into a sharp, malicious smile.

“I want breakfast.” he stated, lying again on top of Husk and hoping that the rapid beating of his heart - a foolish, foolish happiness – would pass for excitement.

And it wasn’t entirely wrong, actually: he had gotten pretty hard, rubbing himself against his cock.

Henry smirked, sliding his hands up to grab his ass and push it back against him in a low, satisfied, throaty sound.

“The house is yours, I’m the guest.”

“Last time too you acted as a guest even if it was your apartment.”

“You’re a brat.”

He won a sort of spanking that maked him meow spitefully and arch against him.

“Harder, daddy ~”

​​“Mouth is back, huh?”

“Wanna see where it ends up now, this mouth?”

Henry’s gaze became hungry again – that shade of amber that had become a thick, sweet honey to dip fingers into – just like his tone.

That gaze was more than enough of an answer, one that he didn’t say out loud because Tony kissed it away in a languid breath, finding Husk’s lips already parted to slip his tongue in.

The way Henry let him do almost anything in bed kept messing with his brain. Qualified service tops were rare to find.

As they kissed, a ringing broke the sigh-filled silence, coming straight from Husk’s pants, scattered on the floor with the rest of Elvis' costume.

The blond ignored it, brutally; the same couldn’t be said for Henry.

“Tony—” he tried to say, between kisses. “Tony, I have to— It could be about Caroli—”

The exasperated snort that Anthony let out against his mouth, before letting his forehead fall against his shoulder and raising a hand in an exasperated ‘go, answer’ gesture made Henry chuckle, and with one last kiss he took him off of him and crawled on his stomach towards the mattress’ edge to reaching his pants and rummage through them for his phone.

“Yeah?”

This allowed the blond a spectacular view of Husker’s ass, as well as his tawny, scarred back.

Ignoring a male voice with an odd Transatlantic accent on the other end of the phone, Tony remained quiet, looking intently for the first time at the trail of scars he had only followed with his fingers.

While Henry was answering in almost exasperated monosyllables, Tony instinctively leaned down to place a kiss where a cluster of burns seemed to join the two wings carved into the flesh.

Husk shuddered a bit beneath him, dressing in goosebumps and peering over his shoulder in a silent question.

“Not that I recall, no.”

The phone conversation continued but Henry rolled over onto his back, calling Anthony to lie on top of him again; the blond obeyed, in a happy silence, placing another kiss on his hairy chest and nuzzling against it while Husk’s fingers lazily traced meaningless squiggles on his shoulder, in a distracted caress.

When Anthony Scavo wanted something, he just took it.

With yet another mischievous smile, that trail of kisses continued silently and downwards, under the attentive gaze of Henry – who in the meantime was trying to concentrate.

“Tell me when…”

The last word came out perhaps a little too much like a moan, because Henry placed a hand over his mouth the moment Tony actually showed him where he wanted to put that mouth: on his dick.

“Al, can I call you back?”

When he took it in his mouth and Husk’s hand slipped between his blond hair in a sigh that sounded a lot like a ‘oh yeah baby’, he knew he had won.

Chapter Text

November 2nd to 20th – some weeks earlier

For Henry Husker, November was a kaleidoscope of sensations – moments and days stitched together with that bizarre thread that had begun to intertwine between him and Anthony, ever tighter.

*

There was a carpet of leaves on the paths of Central Park, and where the trees were not yet completely bare, they blazed against the Manhattan sky.

The soles of Anthony’s Docs were creaking and that unlikely fuchsia lace had come untied again – Henry stared at it, distracted, as he walked with him and four other little dogs. Fat Nuggets was wearing an equally unlikely outfit, a purple sweater that matched Tony’s.

The blond’s hand dangled next to his – the one that wasn’t holding a sweet, sugary soda they’d stopped to get earlier.

Cherry cola, probably.

He reached out instinctively, to intertwine his fingers with the other’s and hold his hand.

Anthony’s hazel-green gaze found him, an instant later, and he smiled.

Henry found himself doing the same.

*

Molly was very nice once you got to know her better.

Delightfully bossy, a bit like her brother, but more sensible.

Caroline and Anna were playing in Anna’s bedroom – he had seen them disappear and start listing the names of an army of what looked like frogs – while the two Scavo brothers were arguing in the kitchen about what was the secret ingredient in the cookie’s recipe Molly had made for that Sunday lunch he had been invited to.

He was leaning against the pantry, near the sink, and watching them practically insult each other in Italian – his knowledge of it was fluent enough to understand that the situation was serious. That Nonna had said nutmeg and not cloves. That Anthony didn’t understand ‘un cazzo’ and ‘cosa ne vuoi capire tu di cucina!'

He smiled behind his cup of coffee, at that very serious insult, suppressing a half laugh without much success.

Tony turned to look at him, mouth agape, pointing indignantly at his sister as if silently asking his opinion on the matter.

When he noticed Husk’s smile, he too began to laugh, followed by Molly.

The Scavo kitchen was filled with laughter, so much that even Daniel and Nicholas – he had also met him – had come over to see what was happening.

*

In the reflection of the foggy bathroom mirror, Anthony’s pale and freckled figure in the shower. His humming, in the rush of water, and that cherry shampoo scent that he had begun to associate more and more with a familiar smell.

On his sheets, his clothes, his fingers.

He stood there with the razor in his hand, amber eyes fixed on that little heart tattooed on his left cheeks – the same one he had squeezed in his palm the night before, while he ate Tony’s ass, because lube was fine but spit was more fun.

He blinked, belatedly noticing the water off and the blast of hot, humid air coming from the shower door of that tiny bathroom.

With Anthony in there, it felt like the most beautiful house in the world.

*

He had dreamed of being deaf; a constant ringing in his ears that had taken away his hearing. He spoke but couldn’t even hear what he was saying.

He had woken with a start only to discover that the ringing was really there.

The heavy November rain had blown the alarm of a store right around the corner; the yellow light of the Brooklyn streetlights filtering through the uncurtained windows illuminated Anthony, lying on his left side, arm stuck under the pillow.

He watched him mumble something in his sleep and roll over, curling up in the cold; the duvet had slid down, tangled at the foot of the bed.

Henry reached over to grab it and cover him again – the blond’s relaxed sigh, another sleepy groan in Italian: dormi tesoro.

He lay back down behind him, reaching out to pull him against himself – back to chest – and nuzzling sleepily the nose in the hair on the back of his neck.

He fell asleep purring.

*

The cinema was empty, except for the two of them. He had come to pick up Anthony – Angel Dust – at the club; when he had called him from the dressing room, something inside Henry had told him not to let him come back alone.

Those kisses tasted of popcorn, of shenanigans, of ssssht we can’t fuck in here , of no one can see us anyway Husky, humor me.

On the screen, an old rerun of ‘Alien’ for the sci-fi night.

Kneeling at his feet and wedged between his open thighs, Anthony was sucking him off.

Husk had closed his eyes for a moment, fingers running through those blond locks, and he had gasped with pleasure – a low groan – as he watched him take it in his mouth and rub his freckled nose into the dark tuft at the base of his cock.

He had pulled his hair to get him up, to find the hem of his skirt and push the purple panties aside, to suck his own finger and slide it between his ass cheeks to enter him.

Anthony’s moan, his fuck me here please whiskers. He had straddled him and the screen had suddenly vanished from Husk’s field of vision.

When Anthony sank down on his cock with another absolutely arousing moan breathed into his mouth, part of Henry wondered if they were really alone in that cinema.

The other part, the one that pushed the tongue too into Anthony, decided he didn’t give a damn.

*

Pink. Lilac. On, off, off, on again.

His vision darkened as Anthony set aside yet another piece of clothing that didn’t fit for the evening.

Henry pushed away from his eyes a sort of oversized sweater used as a dress and looked at him again.

Half naked, busy mumbling italian nonsense and digging in the closet; him, completely naked, still lazily lying in bed because he had no intention of getting up from there.

It was his day off, after all.

*

Lidia smiled at him, while Anthony was saying goodbye to Caroline: he had her in his arms, on the landing of his old apartment, and he was recommending her not to tell her mother that they had eaten ice cream that afternoon. Loudly enough that it wasn't really a secret.

Caroline’s giggling, her boots kicking softly swinging in the air and Anthony's mischievous smile as he put her back down.

Henry was still looking at Lidia, who silently pointed out the scene and tilt her head towards her shoulder with the same sweetness that had made him fall in love in that club in Las Vegas. A lifetime ago.

I like Tony, she seemed to be telling him.

Me too, a lot, those amber eyes answered.

November 21st – twenty-four hours earlier

Husk looked at himself in the piercing studio’s mirror, craning his neck as best he could to peek at the brand new red heart adorning his left earlobe.

“What do you say?”

Angel’s tone was almost too enthusiastic for something that Henry had agreed to after a truly admirable insistence – and a hand that had slid down, along his stomach, to sneak under the sheets and tease his dick. In that moment, the blood had left Husk’s brain and Anthony’s voice in his ear – while his hand worked magic – had become much more convincing.

He had murmured ‘whatever you want’ then sought his lips for a kiss and then yeah, they had ended up here.

“Hmm.”

“Can you express an opinion in understandable language, please?”

“I know six of them, take a pick.”

Anthony choked on a sip of Starbucks coffee – ‘cause of course there had been a detour on the way to the piercing and tattoo studio – and looked at him wide-eyed, catching his glance in the mirror.

“What do you mean six ?”

“That I speak six languages, so you’ll have to be a bit more specific when you ask me—”

“And why the hell didn’t I know anything about it?!”

Husk blinked as the pretty girl who had just pierced his earlobe took off her gloves and nonchalantly slipped out of the room.

“... You never asked.”

Angel, open-mouthed and indignant, raised both hands in the air – exasperated – as his only comment.

“You’ll spill your coffee.”

“Oh fuck coffee.” he joined him in front of the cot, blocking his mirror view and sliding between his legs to tap his chest accusingly with the index finger. Husk instinctively put his hands on his hips, chuckling lowly and holding him there.

“Next time you fuck me, talk to me in one of those languages.”

“We’re in public.” Henry pointed out, looking around for a moment as if to make sure no one had heard him and raising his left eyebrow in vague reproach.

This made Anthony laugh, in that crystalline way that made his stomach flutter so much.

“Not right now, silly. Or am I to assume that your lack of curtains is actually a voyeur kink?”

Husk sighed heavily, patting him on the ass as an invitation to get out of the way to give him room to get up and getting a sort of playful moan in return, which made him grumble and blush at the same time, as he left the room to reach the cash and pay.

This was just the first stop on a tour to prepare for the fundraising evening; a tour expertly organized by Anthony himself, who had spontaneously offered to help him find the right dress and get ready. Something, in the process, must have gone terribly wrong for Henry to find himself agreeing to get a piercing because ‘trust me babe, it’ll go well with the outfit’.

He wondered silently what had happened to his ability to say no to that man as he took out his phone to pay and, in the background, Angel chatted with the girl who had just pierced his ear to show her his piercings.

A vague memory of that morning, before Anthony had erased his ability to reason, reminded him how the blond had tried to convince him to get his nipple pierced, but he hadn’t given in despite that hand rubbing his cock before moving further down.

This gave him a pinch of personal pride.

That’s how you do it, Henry.

He cleared his throat, putting the phone away.

“Shall we?”

Anthony greeted the girl with a couple of kisses on the cheeks – Italian style – before finishing his coffee and throwing it in the trash as he followed him out into the cold November air.

New York was now a red, yellow and orange fire burning between the skyscrapers, when the leaves had not yet fallen into a colorful carpet in Central Park.

The air was cold and biting and Henry adjusted the scarf around the neck of his coat before shoving hands in his pockets; he almost immediately felt Anthony’s arm slip into the arm-loop, as if it were a natural gesture.

Since when it had become like this?

“Next stop, Armani.”

“Whoa, slow down, I don’t have all that money for an Armani suit.”

“Don’t worry, Husky.” he gave him a knowing wink, starting to walk along the sidewalk; tucked into the usual fuchsia eco-bio-fur teddy jacket, a pair of black wool over-the-knee socks and a denim miniskirt, next to Henry and his jeans plus black coat were an interesting contrast to look at.

Husk looked up a little to stare at him, a warm, pleasant feeling spreading in the pit of his stomach again. That ‘something’ had been proliferating inside him for days now, rising like a soft tide.

Anthony, who hadn’t noticed him staring this time, continued his speech.

“The store manager knows me. He can get us a discount.”

Henry frowned, vaguely puzzled.

“He knows you?”

Anthony seemed to notice what he had just said because he blinked a couple of times, realizing something.

“Anh, yeah.” he cleared his throat. “For Valentino. He came to the club a few times.”

Henry Husker had not become a croupier – and a gambler – without knowing how to read others; it was also thanks to that, in addition to his undeniable cheek, that he had managed to get so high, in the golden days.

So, it did not take much effort to understand that Anthony was hiding something.

He did not investigate further, for the moment, limiting himself to a low sound of assent.

Armani’s store was exactly what the name promised: luxurious and refined.

Husk followed Anthony step by step, never losing sight of him, as the blond greeted the sales assistants as if he had known them all his life and reached the ‘famous’ manager: a man a little older than Henry, short, who looked at Tony with the same glance as every client of the club.

Client.

A pensive worm bit into Henry’s conscience, something that remained there and that made him frown his thick eyebrows as he left Anthony free to choose his suit, accompany him to the dressing room and wait for him as he began to try it on.

He was still there with frowns, busy tying his tie in the mirror, when the curtain parted to let the blond enter.

He intercepted his smile in the reflection – a golden flash of the canine – and that thought vanished in a flutter in the pit of his stomach the moment he felt him hug him from behind and rest the chin on his left shoulder.

The fact that Tony was taller than him gave him an inexplicable satisfaction.

“Hey, handsome.” he purred. “It looks good on you.”

Henry snorted, ironically, straightening the knot of his tie as Anthony’s hands slipped under the suit to caress his hips – carefully avoiding his back, after their last conversation – and slid further down to find the crotch of his pants. Shamelessly.

“It’s the nicest thing I’ve ever worn, but I can’t afford it.”

“Didn’t I just tell you? Julian’s giving you a discount.”

“Why?”

The question sounded less convincing than he would have liked, considering that Anthony’s hands had undone the button and zipper to sneak under the fabric and find his already quite hard cock. He closed his eyes in a thick breath, leaning the back of his head against the blond's shoulder and listening to him chuckle against his ear in a soft and lazy kiss.

“Because I asked him to.”

He should have asked what made Anthony so persuasive with the manager of an Armani store, perhaps, but the moment the blond pulled down his pants a little and took him in his hand – there, in the reflection of the mirror, to show him everything – his already poor conversational skills disappeared completely.

“Tony, we are—”

“In public, yeah yeah, I know.” he repeated, leaving another kiss on his neck while he pulled Husk’s pants down a little more with his free hand and slipped to massage him between the cheeks and reach his balls, stimulating him in that way too. “You want me to stop?”

Husk opened his mouth in a low, husky moan, watching the scene in the mirror and opening his legs a little too.

“Fuck no.”

Anthony’s delighted grin preceded the excited meow in his ear.

“That’s what I thought.”

Shopping had never been so much fun.

November 22nd – present

“You’ve got some lipstick there.”

Henry blinked a couple of times, before sliding that amber gaze against Alastor’s dark eyes – cold and particularly bored; while that irritating smirk never really goes away, Husk had learned over the years to associate the variations of that perpetually smiling expression.

Like, at the moment the left corner of Alastor’s lips indicated with relative certainty a barely perceptible annoyance and a poorly concealed blame for behavior that was unacceptable to him.

Henry sighed, patient and vaguely exasperated – with Alastor, it was impossible not to be. Usual practice.

“Where?”

“There— No, further down.” he clarified, while Henry rubbed the left side of his neck without much success. “Near the collar. It will definitely leave a stain, I hope you are aware of that.”

Husk chuckled unrestrainedly – a dirty, throaty sound – as he reached down to rub that neck area right near the collar of the black shirt with white buttons he was wearing that night.

The same night in which Alastor had practically forced him to accompany him to the Lenox Hill fundraising evening, so ‘you can act as a diversion for all those inappropriate women in the midst of a hormonal crisis who try to seduce me every time’ even if diversion meant more human shield than anything else.

The asshole was indeed a very coveted prey.

And so, on a Friday night when Henry could have spent the evening with the culprit of that dark red lipstick mark, he had put on his Armani suit – freckled fingers knotting the tie for him, an excuse to touch him and leave a kiss on the tip of his nose – and he had gone to pick up Alastor with the still smitten expression of someone who spent the pre-evening in a certain way.

Coming.

“All good?”

“Yes.”

“I should check to see if there’s any left on my—”

“I don’t think I want to know where else you have lipstick, Husker.” Alastor cut off a potentially awkward conversation without even looking at him, checking with bored indolence at the contents of his glass – rye whiskey, neat – and swirling it a couple of times.

The flash that crossed Henry’s mind – strands of blond hair clutched between his fingers, a pair of hazel-green eyes staring languidly and liquidly up at him, a freckled nose tucked into the tuft at the base of his cock – made him actually agree that nope.

“Yeah, no, you don’t wanna know.” Husk’s absolutely stupid smile, placid and content with that very recent memory, was met with yet another vaguely disgusted sound from Alastor.

“Gross.”

Henry wisely decided to drop the subject, downing the rest of his glass.

Only the second one, so far everything is under control. See? You can do it very well.

He rubbed his bristly salt-and-pepper beard, looking around for a waiter or something. Maybe both.

“So, tell me again what the fuck am I doing here.”

“You are my chaperone and you elevate your essence only by being in my company, of course.”

“I’m not a fucking chap— What did you just call me?”

Alastor’s sigh, accompanied by yet another sharp smile, was answer enough. Husk adjusted his red tie, loosening it a bit and looking around again.

“No, seriously, what is tonight? What I have to do.”

“Nothing, Husker, you just have to smile and try to seduce some old, wealthy, maybe slightly bored lady from the Upper East Side into shelling out a lot of money for our hospital.” Alastor explained, looking around to see if he could spot the exact category he had just described. “You’re pretty good at it, huh? Like good old days.”

A stolen mascot. An unlikely evening. A bizarre friendship born out of debt.

Henry watched the doctor in silence for a couple of moments before shaking his head and sighing — walking down memory lane was always nice, even if it was absurd.

“If I really have to do this, I need a drink.”

“Isn’t that what you always do?”

“Drinking or seducing people?”

“Both.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re gratuitously rude sometimes.”

Husker ignored him, grabbing a flute of champagne from one of the trays the waiters were carrying around the room, when…

He choked on it.

And not because Vox had just arrived, taking off his coat and dropping it without even looking at the poor cloakroom attendant; it was one of the people accompanying him who had caught his attention.

He coughed silently, Alastor didn’t even bother to pat him on the shoulder; Husk heard him make a sort of annoyed and exasperated noise at the same time.

“Of course Vox has to come and show off at these events. I’ll use you as a distraction again, Husk, just so you know— Is everything fine?”

An odd modicum of empathy from Alastor told Henry that he must have looked really unhinged right now.

Henry caught his breath, still staring at Valentino, who had an arm around Vox’s shoulders as they walked around the room and greeted various guests, accompanied by another young woman in an elegant dress, short, dark eyes glued to a phone screen and the bored look of someone who has come here but would rather be somewhere else.

“Husker?”

Vox’s hand around Valentino’s waist, a possessive caress, and the man murmuring something in his ear with a languid smile, making Vox sigh patiently.

I wonder if he smiled like that, everytime he hit Anthony.

“No.”

Nothing was fine.

Alastor tilted his head slightly to his right shoulder, his perpetual smile tinged with a puzzled edge; he followed the path of Henry’s amber gaze and focused on Vox’s companion.

“Do you know Vox’s flamboyant lover?”

“Yeah.”

He said no more.

Alastor didn’t probe, but judging by the way his dark eyes narrowed, he was connecting a few dots here and there, something he’d sensed from the past few weeks; perhaps, the night he’d bumped into Anthony, who’d come to see Husk at work and spend the evening there, at the bar, constantly finding excuses to touch his hands.

That adorable, manipulative bastard Alastor was far too good at reading people. Above all, at understanding Henry Husker’s weaknesses.

“I see.”

Without further warning, Henry felt the doctor’s hand grab his elbow, as peremptory as the look he sent his way.

“I swear if you do anything, anything , to embarrass me, I will kill you and make it look like an accident.” he warned calmly, sounding like he wasn’t joking at all.

Husk rasped yet another harsh, rather sarcastic laugh from the back of his throat.

“As if it were the first time.”

“That I kill someone by making it look like an accident? No, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Henry’s gaze stopped piercing Valentino for the first time since he’d entered the room to look at Alastor with a politely shocked expression.

“… You’re not serious.”

“Do you really want to find out?”

Well, he wasn't sure if he really wanted to find out if that particular ‘killer’ nuance of Alastor’s smile was a real threat or yet another mysterious statement from the man – who in the meantime had let go.

Henry decided to grab his fourth drink of the evening from a tray and down it – which made the doctor’s left eyebrow rise.

“Are you going to kill yourself first from an ethyl coma?”

“Imma take a piss.”

Henry ignored Alastor’s remark that reminded him of how little he cared about his bodily functions as he made his way through the various elegant people present and reached the bathroom.

The water in the sink had been running for ten minutes now without Husk actually managing to do what he was supposed to do: wash his hands.

Gripping the edge, his amber gaze fixed on his reflection and a lively internal exchange with his irritating little voice that this time was murmuring words of anger in his ear. For once, not aimed entirely at his behavior.

Anger.

A gnawing sensation that sank teeth into his stomach and made him tighten his bite – a thought suggested to him that he would have growled, if he hadn’t gritted his teeth.

Calm down Husk, calm down.

What’s the point of calming down? Don’t you wanna smash his face?

Alastor would kill him – the threat from before seemed very real.

Don’t you wanna give him back the same shit that he most likely gave Anthony every day?

They were at a charity event, along with several doctors and physicians and there was absolutely no point in embarrassing himself even more. He was already out of place as Alastor’s plus one.

Of course, you’re his pet.

Shut up.

You obey everything he says, right? Where are your fucking balls?

Shut up shut up.

You can’t even hold your own with Anthony’s abusive ex, just like you weren’t able to keep Li—

The sound of the mirror glass shattering with a violent crack, under Henry’s fist. The clinking of the shards in the sink, on the floor. The pain that made his hand throb.

You’re a coward, Henry Husker.

Henry watched the point of impact of the fist, following the web of cracks in the mirror and chasing that of his memories.

Lidia crying, on the other side of the closed door. Caroline, at grandparents’ house. We can’t pay for anything, Henry. The world crumbling under his feet. The intoxicating anger towards himself. The little voice whispering to him, sensual, that he would have gambled that money anyway. The fist smashed against the mirror to hear something other than his wife’s tears or his self-hatred.

Just as it had happened years ago, Henry stuck his hand under the tap and watched the water turn red.

No matter what, Henry always ended up punishing the same person: himself.

Distracted by these reflections and noticeably gloomy, he took a thick sigh, turning off the water.

His intention to return to the main room – right hand dabbed with one of the towels provided – was interrupted by a soft chatting and the door to the men’s room opening to reveal the back of a tall man holding onto a pretty young woman.

The man in question – hand lasciviously clutching the ass of his companion, who was giggling in delight at who-knows-what he was kissing against her ear – was none other than Valentino.

As if his thoughts had just manifested there, in the flesh.

Anger sank its teeth back into his stomach.

The girl meowed a surprised sound, trying to compose herself.

“What’s the matter baby, don’t—”

Valentino didn’t finish the sentence, following the trajectory of the girl’s gaze, which locked in the amber Husker eyes. Considerably lower.

Henry clearly saw the tangle of thoughts that meandered deep into the dark eyes of the man who was staring at him, with his hand still on the girl’s ass who was meanwhile rearranging the straps of her dress.

A sizzling, electric silence. The one that precedes storms.

Then, he smiled.

A golden canine, mirroring Anthony’s, as a further lash to Henry’s anger.

What the fuck did Anthony ever see in this douchebag?

“Look who’s here.” Val chanted with a sneer, leaning against the bathroom wall and holding the girl tighter as if she were some sort of accessory. Henry looked at her for a moment, just in time to notice a hint of discomfort – as if she had sensed something tense.

“The old man who’s fucking Angel Dust now. He’s giving you a special price, hm?”

Henry frowned, confused, and Valentino probably noticed because he let out a theatrical, incredulous laugh, slamming his left hand on his thigh.

“He didn’t tell you, did he?”

“Told what.”

“Oh, that’s fucking hilarious.” he shook his head and clicked his tongue a couple of times. “Nah, I’ll let my amorcito explain it to you.” He reached up to cup the chin of the girl in his arms, a sort of coercive caress.

There was a thin and blurred line between what Valentino take forcibly and his ability to take a refusal.

But that wasn’t what Henry focused on.

“He’s not yours.”

Stupid, stupid Husk. Why the fuck don’t you learn to shut up?

Valentino tilted his head slightly toward his shoulder, managing to tickle the girl’s forehead with the fur trim of his coat – for him, the dress code apparently didn’t apply.

The black gaze he shoved at Husk dripped with all the silent danger he’d already intuited from Anthony’s stories or from what he’d heard in the dressing room.

Valentino wasn’t a man to be easily contradicted.

“What did you just say?”

“I said, he’s not yours,” Henry repeated, apparently choosing to ignore the feeling. “He’s not a fucking object. And most of all, he told me you’re his ex.”

Valentine laughed and the girl seemed even more uncomfortable.

“He’s not a fucking object?! Cariño, have you looked at him carefully? That man was born to be a sexual toy.”

The anger inside Husker grew even more, if that was possible.

“To fuck him inside out and start all over again.”

Husker swallowed a growl and marched towards the door, ignoring Valentino and the girl leaning nearby with a superiority he was currently having a hard time maintaining.

Be cool, Husk, he’s just a frustrated dickhead.

“Voxy told me you’re divorced.”

Stop.

Henry froze, his bruised hand still on the doorknob and an eerie ringing in his ears.

The little voice was deadly silent now.

“I wonder if your ex-wife was a whore too, to pay for your debts.”

Husk saw red.

If someone had asked him to explain exactly what had happened, Henry would have had a very difficult time reconstructing the dynamics.

All he knew was that first he was about to leave the bathroom and a moment later that same already sore fist crashed into Valentino’s mouth, in the frightened scream of the girl who ran out of the bathroom. He found himself on his knees on the floor, practically astride the man, trying to hit him again while the other paid back in kind.

In the general confusion, Husk’s anger had become a dull, devouring sensation.

So much so that he didn’t notice the security intervened to separate them, the tug under his arms to remove him from Valentino and the angry spit that landed on him – blood and saliva – along with Spanish cursing that the other poured on him as he was tugged away too.

Along with the security, Vox and Alastor, plus the young woman who had arrived with the other two at the party.

“What the fuck is going on, ALASTOR!” Vox’s voice, who checked Valentino briefly before turning to the one he had just invoked in a snarl.

Husk jerked himself away from the security grip, straightening his jacket and shirt and wiping the blood from his nose with an equally bloody hand.

Alastor’s gaze pierced his forehead and he stubbornly ignored it.

“What happened, Husker?”

“Keep your pet at bay—”

“I’m not his fucking pet!”

“He attacked me, Vox, I didn’t do anything!”

“You piece of shit, you—”

“Enough.”

Alastor didn’t even need to yell. The hiss that interrupted the cacophony of sentences was enough to make Henry shiver, and he raised his amber gaze to finally meet the doctor’s.

He had never seen him so angry.

“I think it’s time for you to go home, Henry.”

Not Husk. Henry.

There was only one reason Alastor was addressing him that way.

Husk swallowed, glancing at Valentino who was dramatizing the whole thing, leaning on Vox as if he were in incredible pain before turning back to Alastor.

“Al—”

“Now, Husker.”

It was an answer that didn’t want any argument.

With his anger turning into burning humiliation, Henry stepped on the mirror shards that he had broken just like the had punched Valentino’s lip earlier and, pushing aside security with yet another shove, left the bathroom, angrily dabbing at his nose blood with a handful of tissues from the dispenser.

In the icy silence that followed him, he only heard the young woman’s voice, followed by Alastor’s as he addressed security. ‘I am mortified by my companion’s behavior— ’

Henry Husker left the fundraiser amidst the general buzz of the guests, his metaphorically ears down and his tail between his legs.

Valentino’s words about Anthony – “He didn’t tell you, did he?” – reawakened the worm from the day before.

So focused that he didn’t notice his exit had been filmed and commented on.

And uploaded online.

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.

Chapter Text

November 24th – one hour earlier

The video had gone viral.

For some absurd reason – Henry had never understood how the fuck social media worked or why people were so fascinated by it – a shaky shot of a forty-year-old man coming out of a party bathroom swabbing a bloody nose and the scathing commentary paired with an irritating tune had some inexplicable attraction for people.

Something made him suspect that the video had been ‘pushed’ through the right channels thanks to Vox and Valentino’s personal vendetta.

The fact is that it had taken just one day – less than twenty-four hours – for his face to end up in every TikTok algorithm from New York to New Zealand, passing directly through China.

In the afternoon, he also received a wonderful phone call from Lidia’s lawyer telling him that he had seen the video.

That’s it, nothing else.

He was officially screwed.

The image of him as a violent madman who causes fights at charity fundraisers – it wasn’t enough to be an alcoholic and a gambler, he had to go all in on this too – had also reached the ears of the social worker.

There had been no phone call this time, but a wonderful email in which he was officially informed that his case had been sufficiently examined and that the court would then issue a verdict in a month.

A fucking wonderful Christmas gift.

Something told him that he would see Caroline again with the binoculars, after that email.

He had tried to call Lidia a couple of times, but the moment he pressed the button and heard the phone ring, before she could even answer he had hung up.

And the fact that she hadn’t called him back was quite indicative of the effect that video had had on her as well.

He would have loved to spend the evening getting drunk until he forgot his name, exactly as he had done all day – or alternatively, gambling away what was left of his salary – but Zestiel had wanted to see him too.

Before his shift at the Coffre, he had had a rather humiliating conversation in the boss’s office, in which he was reminded – in simple terms – that he had been hired because Alastor had asked for a personal favor and because he had been presented as a reliable person; if he started brawling every time he had to resolve an issue, what reliability could he guarantee to carry out more discreet tasks?

Alastor, by the way, was sitting at Zestiel’s desk while Henry took the scolding, turning his back to him and avoiding his eyes.

As often happened when he wanted to punish him, he gave him the silent treatment.

Husk had remained standing, knuckles-bandaged hands behind his back and the serious and rigid look of someone who is used to lowering his head but had never really accepted it.

He had forgotten his pride at the bottom of a glass, but he still had his dignity.

More or less.

So, Henry had mumbled his apologies again – mainly addressed to Alastor, who had ignored him again – and had gone back behind the bar for an evening of miserable hangover, absolute boredom and self-pity.

He had turned off his phone at the twentieth notification in which various ‘someones’ he had rarely heard from had decided to pop out and text him ‘ hey are you the one from that video? How cool! ’ and he had closed himself in a dark silence.

What made the situation even worse there was what had happened that morning at dawn with Anthony.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

Henry stood there – arms folded, hips leaning on the cabinet behind the counter, amber gaze lost in the void – absentmindedly staring at the few customers that evening without really seeing them.

Are you in love with me?

“What a shitty question.”

Great, now he even started talking to himself. Maybe the alcohol had really burned his neurons.

The words Valentino had said to him in that bathroom came back, just like they had that morning; the ones that had blocked any answer in his throat.

He didn’t tell you, did he?

He had no right to get pissed off about something he himself did: keeping secrets.

Absolutely no right.

And yet.

Yet, there was that worm that had been gnawing at his thoughts for days and that Valentino had nourished with the insinuation that Anthony was hiding something from him.

What worried Husk the most – who in the meantime continued to stare absentmindedly at the few occupied tables – wasn’t the idea of ​​a secret, or what that secret contained; the suspicion that Anthony used himself in other ways than just performing half naked in his ex’s club had occurred to him. He hadn’t dwelt on it much, nor did he find it a problem.

What had made Henry’s brain click was the idea that Valentino still controlled Anthony’s secrets; that he was just a temporary diversion, someone Tony was screwing because he had a whim and who would leave him in the lurch as soon as that fucking Puerto Rican pimp snapped his fingers.

He darkened further at the thought that a part of him, before this sort of relationship began, had hoped exactly that: that Anthony would get fed up and leave him alone.

The suspicion that after that morning's fight he would never see him again twisted his stomach in yet another bout of anger. Towards himself or the blond, it wasn't clear.

Are you in love with me?

Husk loosened his bow tie, swallowing the image of Anthony’s teary eyes and burning his tongue with the bitter feeling that he had done exactly what he promised himself not to do. That he had promised him , in a way, not to do.

I don’t want to hurt you.

“YOU!”

The background jazz music – there was no one playing, actually – served as a dissonant soundtrack to the exuberant entrance of a blonde with half-pink hair pulled back in a high ponytail, a bright red leather jacket and the look of having just come from an eighties punk-disco night.

Anthony’s friend.

Henry realized with confused delay that she had it in for him, considering that he watched her march towards the counter, closely followed by a tall, thin, gothic boy with long black hair, who was crumpling a hat in his hands and trying to make himself small while his explosive companion broke the Coffre’s quiet ready to take a swing at him.

Henry intercepted Tex’s questioning glance, but limited himself to shaking his head slowly and blocking any intervention.

He looked back at the girl just as, having reached the counter, she climbed onto the step to reach him and grab one of his braces to pull him closer.

Husk leaned forward, taken aback.

“What the fuck have you done to him, anh?”

“Cherri, maybe it’s not—”

“You fucked him and then threw him away like all the fucking men in his life do?!”

The goth boy blushed, trying to reach out and rest his hand on Cherri’s shoulder to calm her down, somehow.

Husk, numb from the remnants of the day’s alcohol, simply took her accusations.

“I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

“Damn if they are!” Cherri retorted, shrugging off the boy’s hand and reaching out to grab the second suspender and make Henry stagger again. “What, did you lock him in a fucking room with no cell phone?”

Henry frowned in confusion and annoyance, firmly grabbing Cherri’s wrists to pry her hands from his suspenders so he could straighten up.

“He’s probably busy somewhere.”

To forget me, as he should have done a couple of months ago.

“Sure, and he hasn’t found the time to answer me since this morning?”

The goth boy continued to wrinkle his hat and look around through the curtain of his long black hair, avoiding the politely puzzled glances of the other customers.

And they weren’t the only ones: Husk intercepted the burgundy jacket of Alastor’s suit appearing on the mezzanine, outside Zestiel’s office, before meeting his black, cold gaze.

The situation was getting really awkward really fast.

He cleared his throat.

“Listen, Chanel—”

“My name is Cherri, asshole.”

“Cherri, or whatever the fuck your name is, I have no idea where Anthony could be but I’m sure he’s fine, and frankly I don’t—”

A chat screen was shoved under his – broken – nose before he could continue.

Angie Bitch
hey. r u free? i need to do smth to not getting high
[...]
lemme erase these fugly feels

Henry blinked a couple of times, focusing on Anthony’s words as a wave of thoughts invaded his consciousness and slowly reversed his perspective. It was almost like seeing the whole picture: finding missing pieces, connecting the dots, starting to make sense of certain behaviors, first and foremost ‘no alcohol’.

Yet another secret he hadn’t told him about.

Who knows if Valentino controls this too.

Husker’s face darkened again, tugging at his amber eyes and staring at Cherri in a silent question; beneath the anger, that hint of worry imprinted in the curve of her lips made his fur metaphorically bristle and clear his mind a little.

“Have you tried going to his house?”

“Sure, dickhead, but he didn’t answer the door. I rang the bell for half an hour.”

“Then he probably wasn't home.”

“The lights were on.”

Something inside Husk started ticking, like a bomb, making him frown more in a dim concern that put the anger on hold.

Meanwhile, Zestiel had joined Alastor on the mezzanine – he watched him confabulate something with him and catch his gaze for a bit, silently.

Henry sighed heavily, returning to look at the girl and her unlikely companion.

“Cherri, I—”

“Tony told me you were the only one he introduced to his sister.”

Henry blinked, and remembered Sunday lunch: the discussion about the family recipe, the kiss Anthony had given him when no one was looking and a happy smile – so foolishly happy – that had warmed him all inside.

There, somewhere, where he thought he was no longer capable of feeling certain things.

He had lost it at the card table, the ability to love.

Right… ?

“I don’t know if you guys had a fight or if Tony is just being a drama queen as usual, but I know it’s not like him to ignore my calls and the amount of texts I’ve been sending him,” Cherri continued, seriously. “And I know that when he’s feeling shitty, he tends to do a lot stupid things.”

Henry just stared at her, searching deep inside that look for an answer to the question he wanted to ask but didn’t know where to start.

Cherri’s silence, in the jazzy club atmosphere, was rather eloquent.

I’m your goddamn experiment to try to be a decent partner for once in your shitty life?

Yeah, maybe he was.

Maybe Anthony was someone Husk would actually try to make an effort for, someone he could be better for.

Someone he could take care of.

Are you in love with me?

The butterflies in his stomach fluttered wildly, making Henry take a sharp, choked breath. It felt like he was breathing thick oxygen again, something that immediately went to his head and dilated all the noises.

Lucid, the hangover completely gone.

Suddenly, he was hugging Anthony again in that Brooklyn diner, swaying to a silly love song. He was in the kitchen full of sun and laughter of the Scavo house, he was in bed in his apartment telling him about Alastor, about Las Vegas, about Lidia.

I still haven’t told him that his left eye is green.

He looked back at Cherri, determined, intercepting behind her the silhouette of Zestiel overlooking the room, staring at him in a distant and indecipherable silence.

Alastor, next to him, narrowed his dark eyes in a silent threat.

If you walk out that door, don’t bother coming back.

“Oh, fuck it.” Henry muttered, looking back at Cherri. “You’re gonna do me a favor.”

November 24th – present

No New York taxi driver had ever seemed so slow to him.

And to think that Anthony’s house in the Village wasn’t that far from the Coffre – just three or four blocks away – but the feeling of time dilating had made the ride seem endless.

He had given the guy with the strong Eastern accent his money and had thrown himself out of the yellow car, hanging on the building’s intercom to get in.

No answer.

He had paced up and down the sidewalk for at least ten minutes, before taking advantage of the return of a rather tipsy couple and sneaking inside, taking the stairs two at a time to get more quickly to the second door on the fifth floor – he had left his lungs on the landing of the third, to be fair – and started knocking.

Again, no answer.

If Cherri was right, the creeping suspicion that he knew exactly who was holding Anthony up froze the blood in his veins.

He swallowed a lump of guilt – bitter on his tongue – and knocked again.

He pricked up his ears as a very muffled sound came from the other end.

A moan?

He frowned and put his ear to the door, listening better.

No, a sob.

“Anthony?!” Husk didn’t bother to keep his voice low, even at this unlikely hour, banging his fist against the wood a couple of times again. “Anthony, are you okay?”

The sobbing disappeared, replaced by another muffled sound that disturbingly resembled the one he had heard in the dressing room the first time he had met – without knowing it – Valentino.

An annoyed murmur in Spanish sent a rush of anger through his brain.

Henry saw red. Again.

He slammed his fist against the door, once, with peremptory violence.

“Open the fucking door!”

A soft sound, that of someone who had probably moved closer to listen better.

“If you don’t open up, you piece of shit, I swear I’ll call the police first and then I’ll just break it down. Open up.” A first kick. “This. Fucking. Door.” a kick with each word.

More doors opened, on the same fifth floor landing, and confused and sleepy residents looked out.

A tall, lanky man with gray hair – though he looked younger than Husk – and a slightly aquiline nose, wearing a burgundy silk robe and a pair of bunny slippers that he had time to notice, tied his robe and scanned the scene with a puzzled expression.

“Is everything alright?”

Henry didn’t even have time to answer when a familiar face appeared behind him, just because New York is too small: a rather short guy, with a black mullet, the right side of his face full of burn scars. Except for the fact that this time he was only wearing boxers with one hand idly scratching his balls, he was definitely the shortie brawler from Black Dot.

Great.

“Stols, go back to bed,” he yawned. “Leave these fags to deal with their fucking business.”

The audacity of such a statement made Henry’s left eyebrow rise with the face of someone who was saying ‘are you for real’.

The aforementioned ‘Stols’ looked at Husker one last time, in a silent question, and the latter shook his head slowly; he didn't need help, not yet.

The door closed.

He went back to knocking repeatedly, ignoring the racket he was making.

When other voices and other questions were added, coming from the landings of the lower floors, finally the door opened: in a nervous sprint, Henry only had time to glimpse a hand reaching out for his wrist and yanking him inside, immediately closing it with an annoyed thud.

“Cállate, cabrón, you woke up the whole fucking building.”

He didn’t even need the sweet smell of Valentino’s red smoke to confirm that he had been there for a long time. In the soft light of the pink and purple lights, it gave everything an even more surreal atmosphere.

Henry yanked his wrist out of her grasp and looked around.

“Where is he.”

“Who?” Valentino asked innocently, curving a smile that glimmered gold. “That little slut you’ve been screwing since you came to my club?”

Husk reached out with his right hand to grab the collar of his unbuttoned black shirt, roughly, leaning in close to his face and practically growling at him.

“The lesson I gave you the other night wasn’t enough for you?”

Valentino laughed – a husky, sensual laugh – taking a puff of red smoke and blowing it in his face.

Henry coughed and let go.

“Oh, about that . Expect a letter of complaint for assault from my lawyer, even though Voxy told me you’re in deep shit already. He plays golf with your wife’s divorce attorney.”

The ground sank under Husk’s feet a little more, while Valentino casually rearranged his shirt.

“Let’s see when you can see your daughter again. By the way—” he pouted, letting ashes fall directly to the floor. “What would your niña say if she knew you were having fun with another man instead of putting your pathetic little family back together?”

A fierce rush of anger made his breathing quicken again and his fists clench.

He remembered last night, all the times Alastor had scolded him for being impulsive, and miraculously he managed to stop himself.

“I asked you where he is.”

Val sighed, looking exasperated, pointing lazily to the door further on: the bathroom.

Husk shoved him away, not caring that he was considerably shorter than him, and turned the handle down. Locked.

“Tony?”

A moan from the other end, mixed with an incredulous and slightly stuttering question.

“He— Henry?”

“It’s me, baby.”

Something broke somewhere, deep in his throat, hearing him like that.

Suddenly, the fierce fight of last morning seemed so far away.

“Are you okay? Why are you locked in—”

“Henry, go away!” Angel interrupted, coughing.

The refusal stung like salt on an open wound, but Tony continued before giving him time to respond in any way.

“Go away, Valent—”

The sound of glass breaking. Pain. The vision that gets blurry. A blow to the back of the head.

Knees hitting the floor. The pain exploding more vividly, like a lash chewing on nerves, as something resembling blood begins to trickle down his neck.

“You son of a bitch,” Husk hissed, bringing both hands to his head and twisting the neck in a spasm of nausea to focus on Valentino behind him; precisely, on the object with which he had just hit him: what was left of a bottle.

Henry had begun to suspect that his end would be tied to a bottle, but he certainly didn’t imagine it that way.

Do you even have time to joke, Husker?

Anthony yelled something from inside the bathroom, but it was getting really hard to concentrate at that point, especially with his head wound throbbing and Valentino looking determined to hit him again.

Henry blocked the kick aimed at his face by crossing his arms in front of his face but felt the sole of the man’s designer boot violently plant itself against his forearms, making them creak.

Without hesitation, he twisted his wrist to grab Val’s ankle and yank it in an attempt to make him fall: he managed to at least make him unbalanced, so he could punch him straight in the knee.

The scream of pain and Spanish rage was followed by that of Anthony still locked in the bathroom, accompanied by a sort of metallic noise.

From then on, events became decidedly confusing: he found himself in a tangle of limbs and tissue, long arms and legs, without really being able to understand where he began and where Val ended.

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he was brawling with the same man.

Who knows, maybe it’s a record.

When he hit his head on the floor again, giving another blow to the previous wound, another lash of pain threatened to turn his stomach inside out; he found himself on his back, Valentino straddling him with his hands wrapped around his throat and starving for oxygen.

As he felt those fingers press against his carotid artery, unable to actually push him away no matter how hard he tried, darkness began to creep on the edges of his vision; his lungs screamed for air and a part of him was very indignant that the last thing he would see would be the furious growl of a Puerto Rican pimp choking him.

What a fucking end you’re going to, Henry Husker.

Just as he was about to pass out, two things happened: the umpteenth sound of glass breaking – glass that rained down on him along with a shower of tequila, judging by the taste – and the return of oxygen.

Valentino’s fingers stopped applying pressure and a breath made Henry cough several times, sucking air into his sore throat with the relish of someone who had almost forgotten how to breathe.

His head was throbbing like hell, but he managed to crawl out from under Valentino just in time to see Anthony in only a sort of black miniskirt and nothing else on, his makeup smudged, his face swollen with fists and his left wrist half-skinned but the menacing look of someone who can perfectly take care of himself.

Especially if he’s holding a Yankees-signed baseball bat.

It was the bravest and most fearless sight he had ever seen.

Husk remained slumped on the ground, half propped up on his elbows, watching Valentino rub his head, his braided hair dripping with tequila and a little blood from the wound, and cursing in thick Spanish.

“Get the fuck outta my house.” the blond growled, gripping the bat. “I used tequila before, let’s see what happens to your head with this, anh?”

Before Val could actually respond, the wailing sirens’ sound announced the police’s arrival; considering the racket they’d made, it had been someone else in the building who called them.

Valentino stood up half limping, still rubbing his head and thrusting a glare at Henry with a slow, menacing smile.

A little bit of gold, a little bit of blood.

“See you around, gatito.” he then slid over to Anthony, and that smile was tinged with excitement. “You know you always make me hard, when you play hard to get.” was his goodbye.

He disappeared out the door and down the stairs, jostling the onlookers who had come out of their apartments attracted by the fighting noise in Anthony’s and disappearing before he could be stopped.

Henry, still on the ground, watched the blond’s hands shake as they gripped the bat again and chuckled in disbelief – and quite shocked – at what had just happened.

“I never imagined I’d have to thank Daniel.”

Husk wanted so badly to thank Daniel too, but the darkness began to grip his consciousness.

The double bounce of the bat on the floor, Anthony’s bare feet on broken glasses – you’ll hurt yourself, babe, be careful – reaching him.

“Hey hey hey , Husky, let me see.”

Gentle fingers carded through his salt-and-pepper, slightly sticky hair.

More blood and more tequila.

A painful breath held between his teeth.

“You need stitches. Easy, huh? It’s okay.”

Henry closed his eyes, in a sore moan, as Anthony’s fingers smoothed his locks back from his sweaty forehead.

Nothing is okay, love.

The last thing he managed to grasp were mixed voices. Footsteps. More crunching of glass.

My. Love.

The cherry scent of Anthony’s skin. His hands. Someone moving him.

And then, it all shut down.

Chapter Text

November 24th – Mountainside Treatment Center, one year ago

The plastered ceiling of his room was a refined shade of beige and as happily anonymous as everything else in there: the refectory, the activity room, the art lab, the infirmary.

Even the room where they all sat in a circle, along with what Anthony was firmly convinced was a Disney princess who had escaped from some book.

With his arms folded – they had taken all his clothes off him and the only color he was allowed to wear was a frankly hideous gray – he watched Dr. Charlie Magne interact with one of the other patients who was telling yet another sob story that was all the same: my father never loved me, society never understood me, snorting even the plaster makes me feel less alone.

A part of him was firmly convinced that all junkies were clichés in terrible taste.

You too, Tony.

He frowned, annoyed, at yet another comment that Valentino’s voice whispered in his head.

The gesture did not go unnoticed by Charlie, considering that he found her big brown eyes and a welcoming smile right after that.

“Do you want to share something with us, Anthony?”

The blond blinked, looking around and catching the glances of everyone present.

Show time.

It was Angel Dust who smiled languidly, spreading his legs and sliding the hands up his thighs in a seductive movement until they stopped at the knees.

“People usually pay to watch me while I use my mouth.”

Scattered giggles came that made him smirk again; Charlie remained impassive, her and her calm smile.

“So nothing?”

“It depends, baby. I can put on a show, but I don't think everyone can afford it."

One of the patients – a slimy looking guy who couldn’t wait to fuck him, judging by the way he looked at him – adjusted the crotch of his pants and Angel clicked his pierced tongue against the cheek.

“See?” he pointed at him, unashamed, making him blush violently. “He would definitely pay for that.”

The guy in question, without another word, stood up with a grunt and, covering his erection, walked out of the room.

Charlie sighed, while a general buzz spread among those still present.

“This isn’t working, Anthony,” the blonde spoke, over the chatter and making him feel for the first time like a child who had done something naughty. “We started these meetings two weeks ago and if you don’t feel like talking that’s fine, but making others uncomfortable is against the rules of our facility.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault that guy got a hard-on just looking at me!”

The statement slid into a room that had gone deadly silent; Charlie had never lowered her gaze and was staring at him, serious and professional.

Anthony had always hated silence.

The taste of vomit, the bathroom floor, the feeling of his heart pounding so hard against his ribs he was sure they would crack. Blue yellow blue again. The stinging smell of disinfectant, his sister’s tears, the scent of flowers slowly withering on the nightstand of his hospital bed, ‘get well soon, amorcito’.

“What do you want me to say, anh”? he blurted out, perhaps to silence the crazy buzz of thoughts and swallow the beginning of yet another panic attack. “That I tried to kill myself in my friend’s bathroom cause I thought dying would make all this shit stop?”

Those words, spoken out loud for the first time, had the violence of a gunshot.

Anthony winced at the recoil, looking back at the people present and, for once, he didn’t like being the center of attention.

Not even a little.

Charlie’s smile softened and something inside him loosened a bit.

“Let’s start from here, shall we?”

November 24th – present

There's another thing Anthony had always hated: hospitals.

The memory of what had happened more than a year ago had haunted him – whispering in his ear – the entire time they had spent in the ER being treated.

Sitting on the bed a few feet away from Henry – even though he was behind a curtain, he could hear everything perfectly – he had diligently answered every question he had been asked: yes, it was my ex; yes, I had sex against my consent; no, I do not want to press charges; yes, I intervened to defend myself and Henry Husker, who you are treating nearby.

He had endured the doctors’ and policemans’ stares as they filled out his chart, he had listened to the results of the drug test and he had answered the hardest question of all: no, I was not forced to take drugs.

The same shame he had felt answering the docs’ questions when he was hospitalized for overdose.

A burning humiliation.

He hadn’t wanted to be hospitalized; he had had himself treated and stitched up where necessary, confirming that he was being followed by a psychiatrist and taking care of a lot of other bureaucratic matters that he had to fill out in order to get out of there.

He had been forced to call Molly, since she was still his legal guardian, and he had to tell her what had happened; he had pressed the receiver of the hospital pay phone against his ear, listening to her sob for at least five minutes as he tried to reassure her.

I’m fine, Henry came to save me.

I’m fine, I didn’t overdose.

I’m fine, now I’ll start over.

The truth was that two of these three statements had made him feel worse: all things considered, he was the one who saved Henry and, above all, starting over meant having flushed a year of sobriety down the toilet because he hadn’t been able to control himself.

Husk, on the other hand, had perhaps come out worse.

The fight with Valentino had given him a nasty cut on the back of his head and a concussion, which had left him lethargic for the entire medical check up.

When he had regained consciousness, and after having confirmed that it was nothing too serious, he had resisted with all his will the hospitalization and had signed a bunch of papers in which he had assumed all responsibility for leaving against medical advice, with the promise of stuffing himself with painkillers and being monitored for at least 24 hours by someone.

The someone in question was none other than Anthony, who had not hesitated for a moment in offering himself.

He had met Henry’s amber gaze – for the first time since they’d been taken to the ER – and had read a lot of indecipherable things in it.

Shame, sadness, gratitude, and something else.

Something he couldn’t name.

They had called a cab and headed to Brooklyn.

Henry had practically collapsed on the sagging couch as soon as they got home and hadn’t woken up for the rest of the day.

To kill time, Anthony had wandered around the house piling up empty bottles, just like the thoughts that got tangled up in the silence.

They had a lot to talk about.

When Henry opened his eyes, the sun had almost set again.

Anthony was sitting on the floor next to the couch, his chin resting on his knees curled up against his chest; dressed in an unlikely gray jumpsuit that they had given him at the hospital, considering that when the ambulance had arrived he had not had time to put anything on and had only followed the paramedics who had wanted to treat him too.

He hadn’t let go of Husk’s hand for even a second during the ride to the hospital.

He met Henry’s amber gaze, in the golden light of the sunset, and it took him a couple of moments to understand what was happening.

“Hey.” Anthony smiled softly, in a murmur.

Laid on his front, Husk reached out absentmindedly with a hand to search for Tony’s face, who leaned forward to meet his fingertips. A soft caress on the freckled cheekbone, swollen and purple from Valentino’s fists.

Anthony closed his eyes for a moment, in a slow sigh, before looking at him again.

“I’m really here.” was the answer to that silent question he had read in his eyes.

Henry blinked, a couple of times, withdrawing his hand that remained awkwardly suspended in mid-air before he sighed and sat up in a grimace.

“Hey hey, take it slow.” Anthony rose to his knees, to help him. “How are you feeling?”

“Like they tried to smash my head.”

Legit.

Husk, looking upset and grimacing in pain, gingerly placed his left hand behind his neck to feel the bandage covering the wound.

“The doctor said you have to come back in a week to remove the stitches. I’m afraid you’ll be left with—” the blond cleared his throat, with a vague unease. “A scar.”

A path carved into the flesh on his back, that Anthony had traced with his fingers. With kisses. With sighs.

“Doesn’t matter.” Henry replied, with the same, tired defeat he could read in him but mixed with something different. Something that tingled softly on Anthony’s tongue as he met the man’s gaze.

“At least this time it’s for a good reason.”

Damn Henry Husker, how come he always made him blush.

Tony cleared his throat, standing up.

“You have to put ice on it. Lie down, I’ll get you something.”

“I don’t know if I have ice, honestly.” Husk groaned, lying down again this time on his back with yet another painful grimace.

Anthony opened the freezer with the mathematical certainty that there was the quintessential cliché that serves in these situations: bingo.

He grinned, grabbing a bag of frozen peas that had been there for who knows how long – maybe Henry hadn’t even bought it – and closed the door with a flick of his hip.

“God bless frozen foods.”

“What the fuck is that?”

Exactly.

Anthony shrugged, sitting back down and holding out the bag of peas.

“Let's thank the previous tenant, whoever that was.”

“They found him dead in here, that’s why I pay so little rent.”

“Let’s thank him doubly then.”

Henry placed the bag of peas under his neck like a pillow, and trying not to press too hard on the wound, he relaxed under Tony’s watchful gaze.

The silence that fell shortly thereafter made so much noise.

“Look—”

“Look—” they repeated together, before stopping at the same moment and looking at each other again with that soft unease that pervaded the room.

Husk cleared his throat.

“You first.”

Anthony shook his head.

“No no, you first.”

The truth was that he wasn’t sure he could speak, considering his heart had jumped into his throat.

He looked at Henry and stopped the urge to push the salt-and-pepper tuft back from his forehead by fiddling with the hem of the sleeves of that hospital-smelling jumpsuit.

Sanitizer, machine beeps, aseptic lights.

“I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for—” Henry stopped again, as if he were digging the words out of a very deep place, deep down somewhere. “Getting you into trouble. I am really sorry.”

Judging by the way he avoided his gaze, Anthony could tell that wasn’t exactly what he was sorry about. Or at least not only that.

The big pink elephant in the room.

Anthony crooked a sad but calm smile.

“Don’t worry, Henry. I’m the one who overreacted.”

“No, you’re right, I shouldn’t have interfered,” he continued, peering at him. “I didn’t think he would get to—” he ran his amber gaze over Anthony’s injuries: the split eyebrow and various bruises on his face, purple finger marks around his neck, his bandaged wrist and who knows what else.

A ‘what else’ that Anthony hoped he hadn’t heard, on the other side of the curtain.

There was no pity in Henry’s look, but there was again that ‘something’ he had read in the hospital that he couldn’t name.

That he didn’t dare name.

He cleared his throat again.

“Eh, Valentino is built like that.”

Violent, cruel, possessive.

“It wasn’t the first time, I’m used to it.”

On his knees on the bathroom floor choking on his cock, handcuffed to the sink pipe.

Henry didn’t add anything; he simply watched him in silence, thick brows furrowed and that bag of frozen peas used as a pillow.

The silence grew heavy again and suddenly Tony couldn’t sit still anymore.

He stood up.

“You want something? I can make some tea, considering the painkillers it’s better not to have caffeine.” He forced a chuckle, trying to fill the silence somehow.

In that same apartment, the day before, there had been the same, deafening silence.

He turned his back on Henry, heading toward the kitchenette to look for a kettle – a gifted moka pot, him teaching Husk how to make Italian coffee, Henry’s confused but amused expression as he listened to him talk in detail about what it means to drink a good espresso.

Ghosts of a month in which he simply couldn’t have helped but fall in love with him.

Anthony had just filled and put the kettle on when Henry’s words came from behind the couch.

“I’m an alcoholic.”

Anthony remained silent, his back turned, as if turning around could have interrupted this sort of confession as fragile as glass.

He held his breath.

“Actually, I’m a gambler who started drinking so I wouldn’t gamble away all my money. Usually it works.”

Henry’s low, velvety voice seemed to come from some remote corner of his consciousness – a defeated murmur, someone who has tried everything to not say anything and ended up breaking into a thousand pieces.

“I've been since I was a kid, basically. The guy who was supposed to be my father taught me how to count cards. I became a croupier as soon as I was of legal age to do so and I never stopped.”

Anthony started breathing again, slowly; he turned, leaning against the kitchen cabinet and peering at him over the couch: Henry was lying there, one hand over his eyes, like someone who either spoke now or would never do so again.

“You know how I met Lidia, but I didn’t tell you we already had problems before my—”

Accident.

Husk cleared his throat once again.

“I gambled away my entire paycheck, sometimes even the tips. She probably would have left me a lot sooner if it hadn’t been for what happened to me.”

His tone darkened.

Anthony ventured closer, moving around the couch again and carefully sitting down on the floor in front of him, where he’d been earlier.

Husk still didn’t look at him.

“Four years ago, I got caught cheating at the wrong casino. They took me, locked me in a basement and enjoyed flaying my back for I don’t even know how fucking long.” the hand over his eyes tightened into a fist. “When I was about to pass out, they’d drug me to keep me awake.”

Anthony felt his blood freeze at Henry’s mirthless half-laugh; it sounded more like a strangled sob.

“It wasn’t— An accident.” Henry sounded like it was the first time ever that he spoke out loud this thought. “It wasn’t a fucking accident. Maybe the fact that the scars look like wings, that’s an accident.”

What man’s cruelty creates, sometimes, is a horrific wonder.

“I started drinking when we moved to New York. We couldn’t stay in Vegas anymore, it wasn’t safe. I tried to fix it, to stop gambling. I ended up replacing it with drinking, and as you can see, that was a really shitty choice.”

Anthony leaned forward and rested his chin on the couch, next to Henry’s arm; he silently rubbed his freckled nose against the fuzz on his arm, making him flinch.

Husk didn’t stop talking.

“The Sunday I ghosted you, when we were supposed to meet, it wasn’t just because I got the call from the social worker, it was because I was ashamed of myself. I was so wasted I couldn’t get up from the floor.”

“Oh, Henry—”

“No, let me finish.” He removed the hand from his eyes and turned his head, causing the frozen peas to creak, to search for Anthony’s eyes with a silent urgency.

Almost as if he wanted to see if he was still there listening to him or if he had left.

“You’re right, I was such a self-righteous bastard to accuse you of not telling me everything, so—” he took another breath, lighter, as if he had finally freed himself of something. “I truly am sorry.”

The feeling of a tension melting away, somewhere, and at the same time a weight dragging his stomach down.

You’re a hypocrite too, Angel Dust.

A junkie. A whore. A liar.

Anthony swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, as something vaguely resembling panic began to make his breathing quicken.

“Hey.”

Henry’s hand, accompanied by his murmur mixed with a comforting ‘ssssh’, came to brush his knuckles over his swollen cheekbone again, in a hinted caress. When Tony met that amber gaze, and Husk realized he could actually touch him, he opened the hand to cup his cheek in a quiet smile.

The kind of person who has now pulled all the skeletons out of the closet.

“You don’t have to tell me anything.” Henry spoke softly again, without taking his eyes off him. “You don’t have to feel obligated. I told you ’cause I wanted to tell you.”

How the hell could he not fall in love with this man.

“Let’s start from here, shall we?”

In that moment – with those words that Henry had unconsciously spoken in the same way Charlie had unlocked something inside him a year ago – something inside Anthony trembled.

A breath that became a sort of sob, a sound that made Henry’s thick eyebrows furrow with vague concern.

“Are you—”

“I OD’d.”

The same raw sincerity that Husker had used with him a couple of moments before, except that Anthony looked him straight in the eyes.

If he hadn’t – he was sure about it – he would have shattered into a billion pieces; as if the gold of that gaze could hold together all his cracks, in the poetic and poignant representation of a kintsugi.

Henry breathed silently, slowly, focusing better, unable to remove his hand from his cheek.

“A year ago, during a Halloween party. I took a bunch of stuff ’cause I wanted to stop thinking that Valentino would rather be with his Wall Street daddy than me. What an idiot, right?”

Henry didn’t answer, but the sweetness and silent reproach in his gaze were quite telling.

Tony sniffed and went on, bending the head to press his cheek against Henry’s palm in another caress.

“You too know how I met Val. What I didn’t tell you, though, is that I started doing drugs with him.”

Breaking into a billion pieces.

“At first just a little something every now and then, you know. MDMA, blue pills, all stuff to work better. When I was doing porn it was hard to stay horny all the time, so—” he shrugged, not as if it were a good enough excuse but only as a matter of fact.

Husk just nodded, lightly stroking his bruised cheekbone with the thumb.

“Then came the heavy stuff. Nose candy, dope, oxy. I tried a little bit of everything. I became an addict without even realizing it.”

But you knew full well what you were doing, amorcito. You liked it, you asked me for it.

“When Valentino wanted to punish me, he left me without drugs. I started working as a hooker for him because sometimes I had no other way to earn a fix. I still do sometimes, with certain clients.”

My precious little slut in love.

Under his cheek, in Henry’s palm, Anthony began to feel something wet and a part of him felt even more ashamed, while the other finally began to breathe.

Let it all go.

“When I overdosed, Molly helped me. She paid for my rehab, and I started to feel better. I’ve been going to therapy for a year, give or take, and before last night I had managed to stay clean.”

Another tired chuckle, mixed with a sob.

Anthony clutched Henry’s hand, nuzzling the nose in his palm, hiding there for a moment or two before continuing.

“The day we fought, when I said all those horrible things to you, I went out and took molly. I lost control, I don’t know what came over me—”

“Tony.”

“I feel like a fucking idiot for having wasted a year of—”

“Tony.”

“—sobriety for what, anyway? ’Cause I didn’t realize that you were just trying to help me and ’cause you don’t love me? I made the same stupid mistake that—”

“I love you.”

You know that feeling when the world stops spinning and everything starts to fall apart, but in a good way? When your breath catches in your throat and your stomach jumps in a feeling of euphoria and dizziness? Panic, but without fear?

There.

Just. Like. That.

Anthony Scavo stared at Henry Husker as if he were seeing him for the first time, as if in that moment time had stopped and gone back all at once, catapulting them back to the first night they’d met by chance.

That moment when he could have ignored that drunken daddy and his search for trouble but instead decided to intervene.

Their very personal “what if.”

“… What?”

Henry smiled, as if he had not just shocked the man sitting on the ground, in front of him.

He caressed his wet cheek again and Tony remained silent, confused, convinced that it had just been a trick of perception. He had surely heard wrong.

“I thought I had lost the will to live at the bottom of a bottle. Or that I gambled away all the love I could give to someone. But since we ended up in this situation, I started to feel better.”

This couldn’t be true.

“I started talking to Lidia again. I started to want to be a better father to Caroline, to put in the effort at work. I started to think that maybe I didn’t want to fuck it all up anymore.”

“Henry—”

“And it’s all because of you, Anthony. When I think of myself the way you apparently see me, I feel like a better person.”

“I’m not—”

“I’m serious.”

Husker’s amber eyes had never looked so beautiful, in the dim light of a Brooklyn apartment, in a black and white world where the only people in screaming color were the two of them, while everything outside had slowly gone dark.

Dark hair, whiskey eyes.

Anthony watched the man he’d accidentally ended up in bed with talk and tell him something he never thought he’d want to hear. Not after all those bad relationships, not after Valentino. Not after the venomous fear of never being enough for anyone.

He could never have imagined that that drunken almost-fuck in a completely random night would lead them to this moment.

To that crooked smile of a man who looked at him and saw him for who he really was.

“It’s because of you that I learned what it means to love someone again, asshole.”

And right there, right then, something tightened in Tony’s stomach, something that had nothing to do with the hangover, mdma, or Valentino’s fists. Something warm, soft, the same feeling that only last morning he had spat in Husk’s face with the anger of someone who doesn’t want to feel certain things.

Because Anthony always knows how it ends.

And yet, someone should have told him right away that falling in love is not something that takes your breath away.

It’s breathing.

Slowly, calmly, deeply.

It’s not feeling short of breath, instead it’s a breath of fresh air, oxygen when you feel like drowning.

The hug he held onto Henry with, because even that little distance had become unbearable, was pure instinct.

And love.

The silence with which Anthony held him, while Husk returned that hug and pulled him against him to let him lie down on top of him and sob against his neck, had the same urgency as what poets write: sometimes, you need someone to slap you when you deserve it and someone to kiss you when you feel like dying.

Chapter Text

December 23rd – one day earlier

It’s gonna be okay, Anthony had told him.

He had tied his tie – though Husk was perfectly capable of doing it himself – and had solemnly placed the hands on his shoulders to look him straight in the eyes.

It’s gonna be okay.

Debating with himself whether to order his fifth coffee of the day, Henry Husker wondered if it had really been a good idea to accept this meeting.

The lawyer would have told him no; since the video came out, he had prevented Henry from having any further contact with Lidia, so as not to give the opportunity to provide any further possible evidence against his case.

But it’s Lidia , that little voice had told him, which sometimes sounded not like the gambling Siren but like a friendly, reasonable voice, When has Lidia ever tried to screw you, in your life?

He had talked Anthony about it, one night when they were in his Brooklyn apartment: them, a Chinese take away dinner and a bunch of boxes to unpack.

You need to make this house cozier, Husky. I can ask Molly if she has furniture they don’t use, books, anything you can use for Caroline’s bedroom.

Said and done.

However, in one of the rare pauses in Tony’s river-like chatter, Henry while sitting at the tiny kitchen table – stabbing the noodles with his chopsticks in a rather dark pout – had grumbled that Lidia had asked him to meet before the last court hearing.

Anthony – dressed in an oversized red sweater because “ Christmas is almost here, Husky, you should start getting into the Christmas spirit and stop acting like a sexy daddy who’s perpetually pissed off at the world ” – had stopped his bite halfway and had silently weighed the matter.

Not what Lidia had suggested, but Henry’s expression.

Do you trust her?

Yes.

Then go. If she’s like you told me, you really should go.

And Husker, who by now had become incapable of saying no to that man, had obediently put on his tie, his black suit that he was wearing during signing divorce papers – the night he had met Anthony – and had gone to the meeting arranged before the hearing.

Now, sitting at a table next to a bar’s window not far from the courthouse, he considered whether to get up and leave like the coward he had always been.

“Henry?”

He blinked, stopping looking out the window at the particularly snowy and frenetic bustle of the day before Christmas Eve and focusing on the woman who had just stopped in front of his table.

Lidia had the same expression she had that night who knows how many years ago, when a young Henry Husker fresh from a big poker win had deservedly spent half of what he had earned on the most beautiful dancers in Las Vegas.

Even though he had one sitting on his lap, the moment he saw Lidia in the bluish lights of a nightclub he had fallen in love instantly.

He cleared his throat and tried to stand up, a little awkwardly, to welcome her; she raised her hands calmly, motioning for him to remain seated while she took off the scarf from her neck.

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

“There’s half an hour until the hearing, we have time.”

“Yeah.” Lidia smiled a little wistfully but resolut, which made Husk’s eyebrows rise in a slightly curious way. “Sure. How are you? Are you feeling better?”

Henry absentmindedly felt the back of his neck, where the stitches had given way to a new scar.

Anthony’s freckled nose tucked into his hair. The slow breathing of someone asleep and deep in some dream. An Italian mumble, Tony’s hands pulling him closer, his back and his old scars pressed against that slender chest that swells with a sigh before sinking further into the dream.

“Yeah. Better.”

In every possible way.

“Anthony says hello, by the way.”

Lidia smiled softly, taking off her jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair.

“Is he okay too?”

A tangle of thoughts unraveled like a yarn in Husk’s head, in a confused, chaotic but happy mural of the past few weeks.

The evenings spent at Anthony’s house or in his apartment, watching stupid movies without actually seeing them because they ended up fucking after about twenty minutes.

The furious fight they’d had about the proper way to fold pants in the closet and the angry sex they’d made peace with – Anthony’s hand planted against the wall, the other gripping Husk’s as he pumped his cock at the same pace as he sank into him, the shortness of breath and the rough kisses he’d used to mark the neck of the man who’d fucked with his brains in the first place.

The afternoon dog-sitting walks with Anna, who had asked Henry why Caroline couldn’t come with them to ice-skate in Central Park.

The mornings when he had looked at Tony, sitting at the table of that apartment that was slowly becoming a little more ‘home’, while the blond ate breakfast scrolling through Tiktok videos on his phone and Husk found himself smiling like a teenager with a crush.

In love.

He smiled a little at Lidia, nodding.

“He’s okay too.”

The woman smiled back, still in that same way, which made Henry adjust himself better in the chair while the other one called off a waiter so she could order.

“So, what is it.”

Husk had never been good with questions. Or patience. Or anxiety.

Suddenly, he thought with fervent longing about ordering a whiskey neat.

No, don’t be a fucking coward.

A new little voice had joined his head lately: his own.

Lidia took a slow, solemn breath; she straightened her back, with that ballerina grace she’d never truly lost.

“I have decided to withdraw the sole custody request.”

Husk blinked again, a couple of times. He’d definitely misheard.

“I’ll say it at the hearing today. I didn’t want to do it from the start.” she continued, with a sigh, thanking the waiter who arrived with her coffee with a nod. “But you know what my father is like. And we barely spoke anymore, and it seemed to me that you didn’t care about—”

Lidia didn’t say it, but the name rang out in the silence between them, tinged by the chatter of the bar around them.

Caroline.

The urge to order something strong came back forcefully.

Husk remained silent, taking in all those words that didn’t even sound like an accusation. They were just the truth of the facts.

Who knows if the swing he had set up in the living room was still there.

He cleared his throat, swallowing a lump of discomfort that made his Adam’s apple bob up and down.

“You don’t, uh, have to justify yourself.”

“I do.”

“Lidia—”

“ I do , Henry.” she insisted, with the stubbornness that had made him fall in love.

He probably had a thing for stubborn creatures, he thought with a half-smirk.

“I'm sorry for putting you through this. As bad as it was between you and me, we loved each other so much and you didn’t deserve it. Caroline didn’t deserve it.”

“How is she?”

The pain of not being able to ask her directly.

Lidia smiled again, softly, over the rim of her teacup.

“She misses you a lot, but she’s fine.” she allowed herself an amused half-snort, full of tenderness. “She made a lot of drawings for you, says she wants to give them to you in person. To you and Anthony.”

Something inside Henry tightened and softened at the same time.

“There’s also him, Anna and some sort of frogs’ army that I don’t quite understand where they came from.” she raised her right eyebrow, amused.

Like on Halloween, the image foolishly happy of what his life could have been from that moment on.

“Tell her that I miss her so much too.”

Lidia nodded softly.

“I explained to her that it wasn’t up to you that you hadn’t seen each other anymore.”

The wave of gratitude towards his ex-wife made his chest swell in an instinctive sigh, a tension released slowly along with the pain.

Let it go.

“I wanted to tell you in person, before the hearing, because I wanted to look into those golden eyes that made me fall in love all those years ago.”

Lidia’s voice – firm but full of emotion – called his attention again; he looked at her expression and, somewhere, realized that this was the first open and mature conversation about their feelings since it all started.

Ever since they had killed a part of him, in that basement.

And no, it wasn’t an Accident.

“We both have our faults, Henry, but I’m so tired of this cold war. My father can say whatever he wants, you may not have been a good husband but you are definitely a good father. And that is what matters, now.”

Let it go.

“I’ve started therapy.” Saying it out loud to someone other than Anthony – who had told him what to do, who to contact, how to behave – made it even more real. “I’m just getting started, but…”

He shrugged, because there wasn’t much else to say.

He had years and years of gambling addiction and alcoholism to unravel on his psychiatrist’s couch.

Lidia smiled at him for the umpteenth time, and Henry straightened his back, with a pride he’d almost forgotten he felt.

“I wonder if they’ll even be able to do something about that bad temper of yours.”

The man snorted an amused half-laugh, watching as she finished her tea and looked back at him.

“There’s one more thing I wanted to tell you—”

Lidia rested a hand on her belly, gently; there was only a hint of roundness under her palm, but Husk watched that touch and a flicker of awareness crept into his amber eyes.

He searched again for the woman’s gaze – which was also Caroline’s – and in her somewhat melancholy but happy silence he read many, many things.

Henry just smiled at her, without a trace of remorse or resentment.

“Congratulations, Lidia. You deserve to be happy.”

You deserve to be loved the way I loved you, before life got in the way.

She gave a sort of half laugh, mixed with a sob – the raw emotion held back, a full stop being put on their story. It hadn’t been the divorce; they had stopped loving each other months before they signed those papers.

The idea that Lidia was starting a new family didn’t take away anything from what they’d had. It didn’t take anything away from their family, partly because of Caroline and partly because certain types of love don’t disappear. They simply become something else.

“Thank you, Henry.”

He bowed his head in a silent nod, before standing up and putting on his coat.

“We have to get going, if we’re late and my lawyer sees us together he’ll want my head.”

Lidia stood up, giggling, and silently accepted Husk’s help in putting on her jacket; she peered over her shoulder at him, as if she was unsure whether to ask something that eventually escaped her lips anyway.

“What about you?”

Lidia’s question seemed completely casual, but Henry knew exactly what his ex-wife was asking.

How happy are you?

Husk also retrieved the scarf, wrapping it around his neck a couple of times.

He thought about the surreal conversation he had with Alastor – backed by a combative Cherri who had kept her promise – to get his job back from Zestiel, the other day, and about yet another debt he had contracted with the man he claimed was his best friend. And maybe he really was.

He thought about the late dinner he and Anthony had promised each other that night, after a performance audition for a club other than Valentino’s. The owner was a certain Asmodeus, a name that was popular in the Village scene.

He thought about the way the blond had purred in his ear, lying on top of him that morning. The unrestrained laughter, silenced by a wooden spoon thrown at that freckled smug face, when he learned Henry didn’t know how to ride a bike.

He thought about the kiss he had left Tony before leaving the house; something quick, soft and almost absentminded, with the ease of something that seemed to have been born years ago but instead had been four months.

Henry smiled, searching for Lidia’s gaze.

“I’m happy too.”

December 22nd –two days earlier

The previous night’s snowfall, totally unexpected, had paralyzed New York; the Italian curses that Angel had reeled off on the way to the Mountainside Treatment Center would have made his mother very indignant.

I raised you better than this, Anthony.

He seemed to hear perfectly that voice that he hadn’t heard for a long time – too long – that was scolding him with a stern look that underneath was sparkling with amusement.

In any case, his appointment with Charlie – the last one before Christmas – was supposed to start a quarter of an hour earlier than the moment he had catapulted himself to the reception, blond hair full of snowflakes and nose red from the cold.

He had just had time to say hello to Loona – returned by the usual vaguely bored look and the pop! of bubble gum – and fish a red lollipop out of the glass jar, before the doctor appeared from the door of her office with a smile and called him inside.

Days after his relapse – after Valentino, after Henry had told him he loved him and had held him in a hug that had lasted an hour, a week or maybe just a minute – he had been officially summoned by Charlie, informed by Molly of what had happened.

Although he had shown up covered in bruises and guilt, the psychiatrist had dismissed the matter very simply: it can happen.

He had looked at her, one eye still half closed from the beatings, and the last residue of shame had melted away the moment Charlie had smiled at him with her mouth closed and reminded him that he was still recovering; that the risk of relapse in drug addicts was very high; that the fact that he had felt so guilty for having given in to temptation was proof that he was truly detoxing.

That there is always a way to start over.

And Anthony, in that month, had started a lot of things over again.

He had quit his job at The Vees and started looking elsewhere. He had stopped being a hooker, this time completely. He had helped Henry find a therapist who could help him unravel the complex and beautiful mess that was his life.

Most of all, he had taken up photography again.

He had turned a room in his apartment into a small darkroom and started papering the wall behind his bed with all the photos he had developed: faces and dogs and Manhattan’s corners, intertwined with pink and purple lights.

Sunken into the leather couch in Charlie’s office, lollipop in mouth, Anthony studied the photographs on the doctor’s bookshelf and stopped again at the one where the laughing blonde doctor was hugging her girlfriend.

A face half hidden by a pillow, an almost shy and happily exasperated smile; a five o’clock shadow, tawny skin, salt-and-pepper waves that sleep and Tony’s fingers had further tangled; Henry Husker’s amber eyes looking at him, lovingly, from that pillow.

“So! Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

Charlie’s voice snapped him out of his musings, making him blink and search for the doctor’s hazel gaze.

He could have told her that, the other day, Fat Nugget’s foster family had introduced him to other owners and his dog-sitting business had expanded even further. Or, he could have told her that Henry had officially given him a drawer in the tiny closet in his apartment, and that Anthony had instead taken half the closet or so, without the other saying anything to his statement ‘I have more clothes than you.’

Instead, he looked at her and took a deep breath, removing the lollipop from his mouth.

“I’ve decided to press charges against Valentino.”

When love becomes something that hurts, you have to suck out all the poison.

Shake the devil off the back.

Maybe it was the snow falling outside the window that made the studio’s silence so soft, or maybe it was that twinkle in the back of Charlie’s eyes, as she closed her notebook without writing anything down for the first time since their meetings had begun.

Uncomfortable chairs, provocations and distrust.

She looked at Anthony as if contemplating something, a success of some kind. She took a deep, satisfied breath, which the blond found himself unconsciously imitating.

Finally, she smiled at him with a pride that made Tony want to truly live up to that expression.

“This is how you heal.”

December 24th –present

Henry Husker, exhaling a lungful of smoke with which he had just plastered his lungs, listened with a resigned air to the twentieth time that Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’ came on Spotify’s Christmas playlist, blasting out of the Bluetooth speaker that Anthony had placed on the small kitchen table – where Henry was sitting – while he finished decorating the Christmas tree.

Well, calling that sort of slightly mangy branch that the neighbors downstairs – the ones with loud latin music – had given him a ‘tree’ was a bit of a stretch, but Anthony seemed as excited as if it were the Rockefeller Center’s tree.

And so, the Christmas spirit that the blond had brought into that house had officially taken over his living room. And his bedroom. And his bathroom – Henry had remained there staring with silent resignation at a silver garland hanging from the mirror.

The good thing was that while Tony worked, Husk could silently look at his ass and think about everything he was going to do to him next.

“You like it, Husky?”

Damn if I like it.

He had the scruple born from who knows what recesses of his conscience not to answer out loud, considering that most likely the demanded answer was a little different from what he liked at that moment; let’s just say that the fact that Anthony was walking around his apartment in a pair of indecently short shorts – the ones he usually uses while pole dancing – didn’t help his concentration. At all.

“Hmm?”

He didn’t have time to focus on the real object of that question before a flick landed right on his nose.

“... Ouch.”

“I swear you’ve gotten hornier since you met me.” Anthony scolded, now standing in front of him; he clicked mischievously his pierced tongue, raising the eyebrows a couple of times and making him blush. “Focus.”

“I’m focused.”

“On my ass for sure, but I was talking about the tree.”

Henry leaned to the right, past Tony, looking at the mangy branch stuck in a pot. It was still a mangy branch, only now it was wrapped in a mass of brilliant garlands and had a star on top.

For some reason unknown even to him, that image sent a wave of tenderness through him.

He put out his cigarette in the ashtray with a sizzle and reached out to grab Tony and pull him into a silent hug.

Since he was still sitting, the blond had to slide between his legs.

“I take it as a yes.” he chuckled, and Husk felt his arms slide over his shoulders and around his neck, fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck to give him scritches.

Henry closed his eyes and nuzzled Anthony’s belly, in the white wool of an oversized sweater, in a full and purred breath.

Tony always smelled of cherry, the same body wash that was everywhere now: in his sheets, in his closet, on him.

There was something deeply domestic and intimate, in the silence that fell between them, mixed with yet another corny Christmas song.

“Oh, my shrink invited me to her wedding.”

Husk opened his eyes, blinked, and lifted his forehead from Tony’s belly so he could look up at him and raise his left eyebrow.

“Congrats?”

“You can say it face to face, since I can bring a plus one.”

“Tony—”

“You have time to get used to the idea, it’s in March.”

Which meant, once again, he had no say in the matter.

What love has fucking done to my brain.

Henry sighed, letting Anthony go after he leaned down to kiss him on the forehead and gave him a little push to get out of the hug and get back to decorating the little tree; he ran his left hand through his salt-and-pepper tuft, as if he were reflecting.

“Okay.” plus one at the wedding. “Sure, if Al hasn’t killed me by March, chopped me up and stashed me in one of the hospital morgue’s cubicles where he works.”

Anthony snorted ironically, peering over his shoulder – on tiptoe to hang Christmas balls from the topmost, scrawny branches.

“You serious?”

“Nah— Maybe. ” Actually, no, he couldn’t know for sure. He shrugged. “I don’t know. But if I don’t get a backer for Zestiel’s speakeasy, I’ll be out of work again.”

Anthony hummed the tune of ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas’ , not looking at him, before speaking again.

“Did you know Charlie’s father is Samael Magne?”

“Who?”

Tony sighed, turning fully to look at Husk with a hint of blame.

“Seriously? Have you ever read gossip in your life?”

“Nope.”

Anthony sighed, patiently.

“He’s like the epitome of a triple-D daddy.”

“… I’m afraid to ask what that means.”

“Divorced, delicious, disgustingly rich. I don’t know about his dick, so I’ll stick with facts.”

Henry looked at him, blinking once, unbothered.

“I still don’t see how this is going to solve my problem.”

“ Well. ” Tony smirked, a cryptic glint in his green-hazel eyes that Husk caught just as the blond turned to look at him again. “If I asked Charlie to invite Alastor to the wedding, they might get to know each other. And if they do and Creepy Face convinces him to invest in Zestiel’s place…”

Bingo.

“… Shit.” he looked at the blond with the look of someone who had just had an epiphany. “Did I already say I love you?”

“Yeah, but keep talking baby.”

Henry chuckled, then rested his chin on crossed arms on the table with another sigh; he glanced at the time on the Bluetooth speaker, before going back to look at Anthony as Santa’s Elf.

“You better get ready or you’ll be late for your sister’s.”

“Oh, I told her I’m not going.”

Husk frowned and stood up straight, glancing at the other.

“Tony—”

“I want to spend Christmas Eve with you.” he interrupted, without even looking at him. The naturalness, and stubbornness, of someone who doesn't seem willing to listen to reasons. “Let me be a little sappy, hm?”

“It doesn’t suit you.”

“That’s right, you’re the sappy one.”

“Hey, stronzetto , do you want to—”

“Let’s just say, save me from an endless Christmas Eve dinner.” Tony turned to look at Henry, a crooked smile and a half-laugh stuck there, deep in those mismatched eyes. “You have no idea what an Italian holiday dinner is like.”

No, he didn’t actually know.

His plans for a lonely Christmas Eve tinged on a warmer hue than he’d imagined.

Life definitely goes in unexpected ways, sometimes.

He cleared his throat, swallowing a lump in his throat that was definitely something else – anything – and not some intense, happy feeling that he couldn't swallow.

The incredulous effort of someone who’s used to swallowing only poison.

“Are you okay with celebrating with me?”

“Where else could I be?” Tony replied, taking a few steps away from the small, scrawny tree so he could take in the whole thing. “After practically saving your life twice, I’d say I can’t let you out of my sight for a moment.”

Henry snorted a half-laugh, getting up to join him there in front of the tree – the lights Anthony had just wrapped him in reflected in the glass, illuminating the soft snow outside the window that was whitening Brooklyn.

He stopped there, next to him, and reached out with his left arm to wrap around his hip and pull him against him in a half-step – the need to feel him against him, as he looked at the light he had brought into that apartment.

Into his life.

“Tony.”

“Mh?”

Henry didn’t even look at him; he had memorized the shade of his gaze.

“You know your left eye is green?”

The blond peered down at him silently, before chuckling softly—a soft, amused sound.

“I never noticed.”

So, no one had ever told him.

Henry held him tighter, lifting the muzzle to place a kiss somewhere in the crook between his neck and shoulder – half exposed, given how oversized was that sweater – and purred.

“Hey, shall we go to the diner from the first time we went out?” Anthony asked after a few moments, curving his neck so he could rest his cheek on Henry’s head without taking his eyes off the tree.

Henry stopped purring and sighed patiently.

“Am I going to witness that fries and milkshake crap again?”

“Hell yeah, baby!”

Hell yeah.

Outside the window of a diner in Brooklyn, the snow continued to whiten New York, immersing all the houses in a landscape of the kind you find in glass globes; the ones that if you shake them, they all start to sparkle in a blizzard.

There was condensation on the windows and a bored waiter – different from the girl from last time – who was probably wondering what had he done in his past lives to spend Christmas Eve shift in a diner. It would have been a decidedly boring evening, if it hadn’t been for the only customers at that unlikely hour: two guys swaying in the middle of the hallway, even though they technically couldn’t do it.

The waiter rested the cheek on his right hand, elbow propped up on the counter, and swayed his head silently to the melody of an old Italian song whose lyrics he didn’t understand; probably that tall, lanky blond guy, who almost disappeared in a white Christmas sweater, wool socks and Docs with fuchsia laces, understood him very well, considering how he chuckled amusedly at the words that the man hugging him – a forty-year-old- ish with tawny skin, salt ’n pepper hair and amber eyes, wearing black jeans and a dark red sweater – was singing in his ear.

He stared at them for a few more moments, undecided whether or not to interrupt them to ask if they wanted to order something else; then, he peeked at the jukebox and the almost finished vinyl.

He came out from behind the counter and, without being seen, inserted another coin.

The song started again.

Chapter Text

March 15th – Plaza Hotel, three months later

A bite.

Anthony’s tongue coming over right after, languid – the cold of the piercing’s ball nestled in that hot, wet touch – to suck his freshly bitten thumb with the same, indecent slowness he would put into sucking his cock.

Henry panted against the blond’s ear, nuzzling his nose into the hair at the nape of his neck to breathe him in and sink into him once more to wring another moan from him.

Another bite.

“Sssssht—” it wasn’t clear who he was saying this to, although the hand he was holding pressed against Tony’s mouth could be a good clue. “We said quiet.”

Judging by the way Tony arched his back to push himself against him and take him even deeper, spreading his legs a little further and tugging at the pants bunched up at his ankles, ‘quiet’ wasn’t in the cards.

Henry chuckled – a soft, purring sound – and clawed his right hand rested against the wall of what looked like some sort of utility closet, pushing his hips against that freckled ass; a little stylized heart tattooed there, on that cheek, not unlike the piercing he’d convinced him to get in his ear.

They had snuck away from the hypothetical end of that infinite wedding reception, cause Samael Magne’s daughter would never have a discreet wedding; aside from the decidedly lavish setting, Husk had counted three first courses and two second courses, as well as an exaggerated amount of appetizers and an even more worrying freedom with the open bar.

He’d fumbled in his pocket to find his sobriety token and looked longingly at the bottles of whiskey lined up behind the bartender, before settling on a lot of tonic water. Neat.

So he was perfectly sober – and Tony too – when during lunch he got a hard-on feeling the blond’s foot under the table slowly rubbing against his ankle, lifting the pant leg of his elegant suit and sending all the blood to his dick as he tried to listen to the speeches of another of Charlie’s patients: the gothic and stuttering boy he had glimpsed the night Cherri had entered the Coffré with explosive delicacy to call him to order.

When they say that Manhattan is a tiny island.

So, he and Tony had found themselves in front of an unlikely company of other guests that Charlie had probably purposely made all sit at the same table, sumptuously set, and who by very strange coincidences of life all knew each other: the boy in question – who he had discovered was called Penn – and his plus one Cherri, aka Anthony’s best friend, plus Alastor and his companion who he had dragged along without exactly announcing her presence. Niffty.

At yet another conversation about which was better, engineering – a Penn-supported option – or medicine – with a bored and arrogant Alastor – Husk had stretched an arm over the back of Anthony’s chair and leaned forward to discreetly seek his ear.

Much more discreet than his boner, that’s for sure.

Let’s get out of here.

Laughing and kissing in the elevator or against the rooms’ doors, like two teenagers, they had stumbled into the hotel housekeepers’ closet.

Tony’s hand blindly groping behind his back for the handle to lower it and almost falls backwards, pulling a stumbling Henry with him by his suspenders. The darkness, the soft smell of towels and clean sheets. Mouth still searching for the blond’s in a thick and hungry breath. The clinking of the unbuckled belt, the languid moan of Anthony as he presses his hard cock against the palm of Husk’s hand.

Husk had taken it in his hand, stifling a half moan when he had felt the blond’s hands fumbling to undo his pants, and lower them enough to let the hard cock pop out.

Henry Husker had watched the man kneel at his feet – sanctity and blasphemy – gazing up at him as he stuck out the tongue and ran it along his length until he was teasing the tip with that pierced tongue and, in that moment, he realized that Anthony could do anything he wanted to him and Henry would let him.

He had reached out to run his hands through the man’s blond hair, a caress that had become a kind of excited tug as he took the whole thing in his mouth.

He let himself be blown for a while, listening to the low moans and the liquid sound in the silence of the closet, before taking a sharper breath and yanking Anthony back to his feet; he had turned him against the wall, with some urgency, and had pulled his pants down, all the way down, lingering on that purple jockstrap that had made his mouth water.

He had snapped the elastic on the side to redden that white skin and hear him chuckle a “harder, daddy ” that had made Husk snort in amusement before he was the one to kneel and spread Tony’s cheeks to prep him. With his tongue.

Tony’s moans had made him even harder, while he pushed with his tongue to soften his hole and start fucking him a little already like this – right hand massaging his balls, from behind, still ‘sheathed’ by the jockstrap.

Fuck me, Henry, pleasepleaseplease.

As he had sunk into him, after a last kiss on the tattooed stylized heart, he had placed a hand over his mouth and a lingering kiss on his neck.

You know I like it when you scream, but this time we have to be quiet.

And here they were.

Henry’s amber gaze – drunken with pleasure – watched Tony’s left hand move down to push aside the jockstrap and take his rock hard cock in his hand, the tip swollen and red, and begin stroking it in time with the thrusts into his ass.

“I want to cum— In your mouth.” Husk panted, pressing his sweaty forehead against the back of Anthony’s neck and taking his hand off the wall to slide it under the blond’s shirt; he searched for the pink nipple, to torment the piercing and earn another moan, a bite and a lick on his thumb. “But first— You come.” he gurgled.

Anthony breathed a muffled, excited sound, continuing to masturbate as Henry sank into him in a liquid, rhythmic beat, his thighs crashing against his ass.

He left his mouth free only to search for the hem of his black shirt and lift it to hold it with his mouth, revealing the path of black fuzz on a tawny skin that started from the base of the cock up to the navel. Then he grabbed his hips with both hands, pounding in him faster.

“Oh yeah— Yes babe, fuck my ass—”

Henry hoped with all his heart that no one was passing by outside the closet at that moment, but to be honest he didn’t have enough blood in his brain to really care.

He watched Anthony stroke his cock faster and faster as he penetrated him, and he watched him tense up completely – he felt him squeeze his dick, up in his ass – and finally came with a shudder, a little in his hand and a little against the wall, before relaxing all of sudden.

Henry rode out the last moments of his orgasm, before quickly pulling out and reaching for the scruff of his neck to make him kneel in front of him again, facing him and starting to masturbate his still wet cock in front of his nose.

He watched him obediently open his mouth and stick out the pierced tongue in such a dirty gesture – gaze languid from the pleasure just consumed, hair disheveled, cheeks red and a naughty smirk – that Henry only needed two more strokes to come right on that tongue.

Anthony showed him the result, in a puddle on his tongue, before swallowing in an obvious gesture that made his Adam’s apple bob up and down; he leaned over to suck the tip and clean it completely.

Henry shuddered with such visceral pleasure that he almost got hard again.

As if nothing had happened, Anthony stood up, adjusting his jockstrap and pulling up his suit pants – light gray, pinstriped, pink shirt and black bow tie. He then reached out to start adjusting Husker as well, who was watching him, enchanted and still inebriated by the orgasm of a moment before.

“The bow tie suits you.” he commented, straightening the aforementioned dark red bow tie.

Henry cleared his throat, letting him do it, and watching him from his perspective – a little lower – as he pulled up his black pants and re-zipped them.

“And that thing looks good on you, though.”

“Hmm?”

Henry jerked his chin in a nod toward Tony’s groin, and the blond dropped his hazelgreen gaze for a moment realizing what he was talking about.

“Anh, the jockstrap. Yeah.” He grinned, a languid flicker at the back of his eyes. “I figured we’d fuck, it had to be easy to take off.”

“You figured or you planned to make it happen?”

“Whatcha think?”

Henry chuckled again, a soft gurgle, grabbing Tony by the collar and pulling him down enough to reach him for a kiss, which was cut short when three knocks came on the closet door.

“I know you’re in there, you fucking nymphos, a waitress saw you.”

Cherri’s voice came, muffled, from the other side of the closed door. Anthony hunched his shoulders with a not at all apologetic ‘oopsieee~’, while Husk silently rolled his eyes as if asking whoever was listening a ‘why me’.

“They didn’t teach you how to knock, sugar?”

“I knocked, dickhead.” Anthony chuckled again. “Hurry up and get out, cause the cake is being cut and the Disney princess’ wife is threatening to cut off the balls of anyone who isn’t there.”

Husk frowned, finishing tucking his black shirt into his pants.

“Did she seriously say that?”

The conversation continued from one side of the door to the other, while Anthony picked up the suit jacket he had taken off earlier, piled on the floor.

“She didn’t use those words, but shortly yeah.” Cherri’s voice replied, whose footsteps they then heard walking away. “Come on, I’ll wait for you at the lift. And I hate you fuckheads for leaving me alone to sit through a debate about engineering and medicine while Alastor’s little friend stared at me the whole time.”

“Aren’t you used to Penn?” Tony asked, rearranging his bow tie.

Cherri’s answer came at a dangerously high volume, from the hallway.

“I fuck him, I certainly don’t listen to everything he tells me about mechanical gears.”

Fair enough.

“So you’re Creepy Face’s niece?”

“Yep.”

“And you are the daughter of... ?”

“Nobody’s.”

“... Sure. Of course.”

Anthony swallowed in a shiver of pure panic that he tried to contain, while he watched Henry return to them with two flutes in his hands – alcohol-free – and the bow tie still crooked from before. Apparently, they hadn’t fixed it properly.

“Husky, welcome back!” perhaps he sounded a little too enthusiastic, so much so that the other raised his left eyebrow in silent question as he held out the glass.

“What were you guys talking about?”

“Orphans,” Niffty replied lightly, making Anthony go pale again.

Husk took a sip of virgin orange juice and didn’t seem to faze.

“Your boyfriend is nice, Husker, but he’s a little too good for my taste. Oh, excuse me guys!” And then, just like that, Niffty was gone leaving Husk coughing on his juice, while Angel felt himself blush.

His circulatory system had been working overtime lately.

He didn’t turn red at the thought of fucking in a closet and potentially getting caught and a simple word made him that red? He was losing his touch.

“I didn’t—” Husk tried to say, between coughs. “I never said anything about—”

“Babe, relax.” it wasn’t clear who he was telling, maybe he was trying to convince himself. “Niffty seems rather… Eccentric.”

To say the least.

Henry chuckled a little, trying to banish the discomfort.

“Yeah. Believe me, you really don’t want to know how I first met her.”

“You’re tempting me, though.”

“Trust me.”

“Alright, I’ll trust you. But, is that for real? That her and Alastor don’t fuck?”

Husk scratched a half laugh from his vocal cords, in a snort that was nothing short of ironic.

“Yeah, sure, Alastor is not really into this stuff.”

“Women?”

“Sex.”

“Really?”

“Yup.” Husk nodded knowingly, and Anthony blinked twice before smirking.

“How do you know that?”

Watching him blush slowly, trying to pretend nothing had happened, was an infinite satisfaction.

“Look at you, you hit on him.”

“No.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Henry.”

“What about my poker face?”

“Then you are a very good player but still a terrible liar when it comes to yourself.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”

“And touchy, too.” He clicked his pierced tongue against the roof of his mouth a couple of times, shaking his head reproachfully.

Henry was still decidedly red as he cleared his throat and squinted the amber gaze away, staring across the crowd gathered at Charlie and Vaggie in front of the cake-cutting table.

Anthony thought, in a flutter in the pit of his stomach, that it was rather adorable before he blinked and came back to earth.

Henry Husker had officially screwed up his brain.

“It happened years ago, I wouldn’t call it trying.”

“Oh, so you succeeded?”

“I told you to shut up.”

“Then make me.”

Anthony grinned again, at Henry’s heavy breathing and the way those amber eyes slid hungrily over his lips.

The memory of the closet was still vivid, and not just cause of the crooked bow tie.

“You want more.”

Henry’s tone was velvet on his bare skin – he imagined it murmuring directly into his ear, as he lay between his thighs, sunk into one of the Plaza king size beds.

“Husker!”

They both gasped and Anthony put a hand to his chest in the universal gesture of a missed heart attack.

He turned just in time to focus on Alastor’s black stare, who had just appeared out of nowhere next to them. Like he had spawned out of nowhere or something.

“Hey Al.” Henry greeted patiently, with a hint of tacit resignation.

“You did a great job. Mr. Magne would be a great investor, if only he weren’t so annoying.”

Tony’s hazelgreen gaze – “You know your left eye is green?” – slid to search for the shape of Samael, not far from Charlie and busy wiping away tears like any emotional and usually absent father who is unable to relate normally to his little girl.

Like any self-respecting psychiatrist, Dr. Magne was a shining example of unresolved daddy issues.

“I’m sure you can handle him, boss.”

“Obviously.” Alastor raised his left eyebrow, looking bored and almost indignant. “I asked him when we could meet for dinner to discuss the investment, and he thought I was asking him out on a date.”

Tony, listening to the chatter between Henry and Alastor, pictured Samael’s silhouette – blond like his daughter, shorter than Husk but with an adorable yet depressed Golden Retrivier-like smile – next to Alastor’s sharper one, always so cool and composed, and something inside him started to ship them.

Judging by the silence with which Henry had greeted that last statement, just before Alastor left to look for Niffty without saying goodbye, maybe he was thinking that too.

He cleared his throat.

“You think that—”

“Yup.”

“Even though… ?”

Henry shrugged, nonchalantly.

“There can be many types of relationships, even without romance or sex. Alastor hasn’t been this interested in someone since—” he paused, thoughtful, before blinking a couple of times. “Since I’ve known him, I guess. And I’ve known him for a long time.”

“Interested?” Anthony looked back at Samael, who had been joined by Alastor, who was apparently introducing him to Niffty. He grinned. “I’d say they might end up fucking in the closet like us, if I didn’t know Creepy Face doesn’t fuck.”

“What do you mean?”

Tony and Henry turned, like two gossipy old ladies, to focus on Cherri and Penn who had just arrived behind them. Not far away, Charlie was feeding Vaggie the first slice of cake, to the applause of the other wedding guests.

“Nothing.” Anthony tried to divert the conversation, waving his left hand in a very ‘Italian’ way to swat the matter away. “Long story.”

“Don’t tell me you hit on Henry’s friend.”

“Not me, he hit on—”

“What the fuck, Tony, I said no.”

“You haven’t gotten any better at lying in the meantime”

“Oh shut up you two, I want to get the bouquet!”

Anthony got elbowed in the stomach by Cherri, who practically pushed him aside to go front line and join the girls eager to grab the flowers.

He watched Penn swallow, vaguely anxious, and loosen his mustard-colored tie.

“Don’t worry, Penn,” Tony reassured him, giving him a couple of loud pats on the back. “She wants to take it just to set it on fire. She doesn’t really believe in marriage.”

“Oh. Good, but I didn’t mean to say—”

Tony missed the other man’s stutter – which had started with a series of excuses that made the situation worse – because he slid over to look at Henry, as if he’d been chasing some unknown tangle of thoughts.

He found his amber eyes waiting for him there, with a smile and a lot of things inside.

It was another one of those silences that made a lot of noise.

He thought about Henry’s failed marriage, but about how a lot of good things had come out of it: if he hadn’t divorced them, they wouldn’t have met. If they hadn’t met, Henry wouldn’t have started his healing journey so he could see his daughter more often. If they hadn’t met, Anthony might never have let Valentino go completely, much less reported him.

If Henry hadn’t believed in marriage, all those years ago, who knows how it would have gone.

Life is a strange thing, Anthony thought. It gives you tons of possibilities but doesn’t give you any rules; you have to learn to create them. You have to learn to make mistakes, to fall, to start all over again even when it seems impossible.

And sometimes your ‘all over again’ is someone you never thought possible: a grumpy bartender, a gambler in treatment, an AA who loves you like you never thought possible.

Anthony heard a roar of applause and laughter; he jerked his gaze from Husk to Cherri, who had practically climbed on top of Niffty to grab the bouquet and was waving it triumphantly, amid Charlie’s laughter and Vaggie’s amused, almost exasperated look.

He felt a familiar tingle and looked back at Henry Husker – and in that moment, the whole world around them froze in a muffled silence, as if someone had turned off the volume and left only the sound of their breathing and the beating of their hearts.

Anthony Scavo heard, in that silence, a question that he didn’t want to say out loud but that made him smile and think back in a rapid and confused kaleidoscope to all the moments of his life that had brought him there: from when he started shooting porn for Valentino to the times when the clients, friends of Val, had beaten him. From when he had thrown a bowl of porridge in the face of one of the patients in the rehab facility, in the midst of withdrawal, to the day he had left and Val had come to pick him up, claws tightening on his soul.

Ever since Henry had woken up next to him, in that motel bed where he took his clients, and had asked him a confused and sleepy “... And who the fuck are you?”.

Tony stood there smiling at him as the audio around them got louder and time started to flow again.

I’m the loser you never knew you were waiting for.

the end