#badcard

"ugh, you'd think, right?" rich old people do love spending time with angel, and he can't blame them. he's pretty enough to impress everyone else, and he's got no problems with hanging off a guy's arm and making him feel oh-so-special. the types of guys looking for angel, though, aren't too big on being pushed around. he can get away with being a brat, but not with making demands ; he supposes if they want to feel dominated, they go for someone with a little more domineering of a reputation. "nah, i gotta play nice with my boys. more money if i flutter my eyelashes and shit, you know?"

val had taught him how to dance. when he was alive, his family had constant parties : weddings, funerals, the five thousand different childhood celebrations. and angel had stood off to the side for all of them, watching the door and shrinking away from the neighbor boys calling him pretty, trying to charm him onto the floor. but val liked to dance, so angel learned to dance.

learned is generous. val pulled him through the steps, tugging him into place until he started catching himself, angel drunk enough that every dip left his head spinning. husk never pulls. he leans back before he moves, giving angel room to follow. his hands rest light on angel -- not tentative, not with this, but gentle enough for angel to pull away. he steps closer instead, and husk lets him. when husk goes for a dip, angel's expecting it. he braces himself against husk and leans back on his heels, balancing on sharp stilettos.

one heel slips, catching on a crack in the pavement, and husk steadies him ( there's something nice about knowing something softer than the floor is there to catch you ). the pause in motion is enough to break the tension ; angel laughs, moving his hands from their spot on husk's shoulders to curl around husk's neck, and laughs, face half-buried in husk's collarbone. he's still mid-laugh when husk shifts both their weights and tilts angel's head away from his chest.

he wouldn't choose this type of pretty for himself. a short skirt, the shoulder-less top of the dress so tight that he can't lift his arms without threatening to spill over. the kind of outfit you plan to take off. he sits across from the house, ankles crossed, knees together ( he's high-end, vox had reminded him, and he shouldn't be offering free shows ). the house has kept his hands to himself so far. angel wishes he'd keep his thoughts to himself instead. he doesn't know what val's set his prices at for this job ( if you have to ask, you can't afford it ), but he remembers how cheap he'd been when he met val.

he's gotten good at sleeping in places that aren't his. if he can avoid staying the night, he does, the sweat and doting too sticky to sit with, let alone sleep through. with husk, that was never a possibility -- he remembers husk pulling the blanket over both of them and playing with the fluff at the nape of angel's neck, asking angel questions, and angel dozing off almost mid-sentence. he'd woken up still tucked in tight, a far cry from his usual entanglements. husk didn't leave him with any time to wonder where he'd went.

and he totally wouldn't, if he didn’t already know exactly how husk will be staring at him, eyes shining like angel’s doing something real impressive and not…basically just lying back doing nothing.

he doesn't get cold easy. never did, even without the layer of fluff and the drinks elevating his temperature. it helps that hell doesn't get cold often, either. on the rare days where the temperature falls, he'd sooner be cold a few minutes than to change clothes every time he gets to work, so he's dressed in his usual attire, something short and silky and hard to get a grip on. today's really cold, though, enough to make him wish he'd at least gone for the stockings. the wind goes straight through him.