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Sometimes the memories still feel like a fuckin’ fever dream. Vivid jeweled colours that are blurring around the edges; muffled voices and music that snap into crisp clarity only in time for him to recall the last few words or notes. The familiar weight of a friendly hand on his shoulder; of hooded ruby eyes gleaming warmly. And now he’s waxing poetic again, like a sentimental fool—but it's hardly the first time, and doesn’t it say it all that he’s still never learned?
The alcohol probably doesn’t help. Or maybe it does—even after several decades the jury’s still out on that one, and he’ll sure as shit never find out otherwise.
Everything about Alastor is dialed up to eleven. His smile, his enthusiasm, his fuckin’ mile-a-minute-chatter—and worst of all, his goddamn charm. Now, Husk isn’t a gullible man—he's too much of a jaded realist for that—but it’s hard not to like the guy, despite his reputation as a bloodthirsty horror. Bright lights refract and splinter through the soft fall of his red hair as he leans closer, smile softening to something genuine as he laughs. The live band’s playing something at Alastor’s request, upbeat and jaunty, but the melody slips beyond his reach. They're friends, he thinks. Alastor’s shit at poker, brow furrowing at his cards despite his smile, so Husk’s been goading him into a game every chance he gets. Never with any meaningful stakes—a good bottle of whiskey here, a trivial favour there—but mostly, Husk just likes watching Alastor lose.
“Lost in your thoughts again, Husker?”
When he blinks blearily it doesn’t take long for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, his cramped excuse for a room lit only by one lingering lamp that flickers pathetically from the corner, about as eager to be here as he is. He’d know Alastor’s scent anywhere, as familiar to him as his own shadow; warm musk and tobacco with echoes of damp vegetation that makes his stomach tighten with instinctive anticipation and nausea. It takes a moment longer to extricate the Alastor that’s with him now from the one he’d just been playing cards with, but his voice helps. There’s a lazy coldness to it that says he’s in a bad fuckin’ mood and about to make it Husk’s problem.
“What the hell do you want?” he asks dully, throat dry and aching, mouth tasting like ass. With his back twinging, he forces himself up into a sitting position only so he can fumble his hand out to pick up the bottle still sitting on the floor beside his couch. Husk’s not in the mood to make barbed comments about Alastor’s inability to knock, or grouse about the fact that this might as well be their room with the way Alastor’s always turning up whenever he wants, because there’s no point, is there? Any so-called fuckin’ privacy he’s oh-so-graciously granted is nothing but an illusion and they both know it. Boundaries are not exactly something that Alastor’s ever been very well acquainted with.
Husk’s ear twitches irritably as Alastor’s fingers slide up to map out the shape of it, claws dragging through the short hair before dipping back down to scritch at the base. He’s at his desk, trying to work, but Alastor has never been one to let minor things like other people’s obligations get in the way of his own entertainment. “Knock it the fuck off,” he grunts, and shakes his head to dislodge Alastor’s hand—only to be met with breathy drunken giggles as Alastor leans forward against his back, ducking down and in to rub his cheek along the fluff of Husk’s whiskers. “Obnoxious,” he mutters, but doesn’t pull away. The papers in front of him are a blurry mess of numbers and nonsensical words.
“I’ve always liked cats,” Alastor announces brightly, the warm puffs of his breath reeking of whiskey and the hand that’s not still rubbing at his ear coming to rest on his shoulder almost possessively. Husk doesn’t remember what he was working on that night, only that he’d looked down through the wide glass window that provided a view of the bustling casino floor with the heat of Alastor’s skinny frame and his scent practically wrapped around him. “Never had one, though.” Alastor sounds faintly wistful, until his grip suddenly tightens and his voice drops to something teasing, filter crackling. “Well, until now.”
“I ain’t a cat,” Husk replies automatically, because he always does, and because it makes Alastor laugh again and relax to drape both of his arms lazily over Husk’s shoulders from behind. “And I ain’t yours.”
Alastor’s eyes glint in the darkness, fixed intently upon him as Husk takes a swig from the bottle. It’s only cheap vodka because anything else is a waste; he hardly tastes it, after all—its sole purpose being the shudder of relief that passes through his frame as he swallows it down. And this way, Alastor won’t be tempted to steal a drink just to piss him off.
“Why, Husker, are you saying you haven’t missed my company?” There’s an edge to Alastor’s voice as he approaches, and Husk eyes him warily over the rim of the bottle. He doesn’t answer, because it’s a fuckin’ trap and he’s not so wasted that he’s going to fall for it. There’s only one thing—or more accurately, one person—that puts Alastor in a snit like this, and it’s always Husk that pays the price.
There’s no one else who can.
For a guy who prides himself on being unflappable and unreadable, Alastor’s honestly pretty shit at it, in Husk’s opinion. Always has been; or maybe they just know each other too well. He never used to try so hard though, not when they first met. Only since—
“Play cards with me,” Alastor demands abruptly, the couch creaking quietly as he seats himself beside Husk, posture ramrod straight and smile so stiff it looks as though it might shatter. God, Husk wants to fuckin’ shatter it; see proof that he’s made Alastor feel even the tiniest fraction of the shit he’s put Husk through even as he’s the one to inevitably put the pieces back together.
His grip tightens around the bottle in his hand, and Husk can’t help the savage little sneer that curls his lip as Alastor’s gaze slides sideways to eye him expectantly. There’s a whole bunch of shit he wants to say to that request, but bites back on it so hard the iron tang of blood blooms on his tongue.
They’re so fuckin’ obnoxious together it’s hard not to say shit. Apparently they go way back, old friends from years before Husk arrived down here—the type who make each other worse. Now, Husk isn’t opposed to new contacts, new associations, particularly if they’re powerful enough to be worthwhile, and he’s familiar enough with the TV-headed asshole’s reputation to recognise him immediately.
He doesn’t trust him. Not that Husk exactly trusts Alastor either, he has to remind himself, but there’s a smarmy insincerity to the way Vox introduces himself and casts his gaze around appraisingly that sets Husk’s teeth on edge. Alastor just looks elated, throwing one arm around Vox’s shoulders to drag him closer and chattering away at a mile a minute.
Unlike Alastor, Vox is good at poker.
It’s hard to get a read on him, but one thing is made real fuckin’ clear: he’s possessive of Alastor to an almost unnerving degree—protective, almost, which is the biggest goddamn joke Husk’s seen in years. If anyone needs protecting here, it’s not the psycho cannibal with a victim list likely longer than his and Vox’s combined.
“Al’s been telling me all about this place,” Vox says smoothly, claws drumming against the lacquered surface of the quiet, out of the way table they’re seated at. “And you.”
Husk grunts in acknowledgment as Alastor glances delightedly between them both. “Yeah, well, he just turned up one day out of fuckin’ nowhere and made himself at home.”
There’s a flicker of real emotion in Vox’s expression at that, a brief, genuine softness that looks unnervingly out of place. “Yeah,” Vox says, and casts an almost ruefully fond glance in Alastor’s direction as the man in question shamelessly steals Vox’s drink from in front of him to finish it off. “He does that.”
Husk startles when Alastor tugs the bottle from his hand and takes a long pull, wincing only briefly at the quality; it may as well be paint stripper, usually worth nothing but Alastor’s disdain. He always says it reminds him of moonshine, so maybe he's just feeling real fucking nostalgic. With his head tipped back the elegant line of his neck is faintly illuminated from behind and Husk watches the bob of his throat as he swallows, feeling faintly wrong-footed. It’s achingly familiar with a wistfulness that’s just wrong and out of place, because he knows Alastor isn’t here to get shitfaced together like old times. Those days are long gone, and Husk doesn’t fucking want them back. Alastor’s posture abruptly relaxes and he slumps back against the couch, letting the bottle dangle down between his fingers. He’s close enough that their thighs are touching, the heat of him burning through to make Husk’s skin itch and his claws twitch. It’s tempting; Alastor’s head is resting on the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling with an absent, fixed smile, throat bare and exposed. He wonders what Alastor would do if he grabbed at it, closing his fingers around the bare flesh of it and squeezing; if Alastor would even let him get that far.
Alastor must have already been drinking; aside from the lack of tie the upper button of his shirt is undone, his jacket open. It’s a side of himself he won’t allow the rest of the hotel to see, but Husk? Husk’s already seen it all, and couldn’t tell another soul even if he wanted to.
“The fuck’s wrong with you tonight?” he says at last, and there’s a dull ache already beginning to make itself known at the base of his skull. The immediate danger seems to have passed, but it’s never fully gone, always lurking somewhere beneath that forced, fake smile. Husk is debating stealing the bottle back when Alastor brings it to his lips again for another mouthful, in what feels like a deliberate ‘fuck you’.
“Oh, Husker,” he murmurs listlessly as he glances over, eyes strangely unreadable, “what isn’t?”
Husk can’t help the bark of laughter that escapes him at that, and Alastor’s smile twitches with something genuine as he passes the bottle back. “You’re asking the wrong guy,” he replies, and hates how choked his voice sounds. “No cards, then?”
The heat against his side increases as Alastor shifts and Husk immediately stiffens, because he’s knows what that movement means and he's not in the goddamn mood to handle a maudlin Alastor, no, this is not his fuckin’ job even if it immediately sends him back to—
Alastor is leaning against him as he rants, whiskey slopping over the side of his glass as he brandishes it in the air for emphasis. “—of course I told him no; have I ever given the impression that I have any desire to involve my work with another? To partner and combine resources?” He pauses briefly to finish off his drink and slam the tumbler down clumsily on the table; Husk only hums in acknowledgement and rearranges his own arm to allow Alastor to slide in closer. “It’s absurd, Husker, only a fool would contemplate such a thing!”
He’s right, of course. Vox is an idiot if he thought Alastor would actually agree, but Husk also saw it coming a fuckin’ mile away. It’s been a funny thing, having a front row seat to the explosive and probably legendary conclusion of an increasingly intense friendship that he’d known would end badly the moment he’d laid eyes on them together. A slow motion car crash that had been in building for years simply because Vox didn’t know when to stop.
There’s no way that was all there was to it, though. Vox hadn’t exactly been subtle with the way he’d looked at Alastor, and Hell—that was one thing Husk could hardly fault him for. Sure, Alastor was a weird looking guy on first glance, but once you got to know him—especially like this, softened around the edges and startlingly emotive, hair disheveled and cheeks pink with too much alcohol, he was real fuckin’ pretty.
Husk, though, had never been a fan of sticking his dick in crazy.
“No,” Alastor says listlessly, cheek pressed against the sleep-matted fur of Husk’s shoulder as he reaches up with one hand to fiddle idly with Husk’s bow tie. “I need a better distraction than that, Husker.” The tie loosens and Alastor picks at it casually with his claws, as though undressing Husk is a normal occurrence for them and not some wildly out of character affair that’s setting off blaring alarm bells in the back of his aching mind.
It’s not like he’s never thought about it. Softly, roughly, violently. Willingly and unwillingly, though he knows if it came down to it he’d never have the stomach for the latter. Not that any of those scenarios have ever seemed remotely likely; unlike Vox he’s not fuckin’ delusional, and has always known better than to take any of Alastor’s over enthusiastic fondlings as anything but what they really are: the possessive affection of a maladjusted man who knows no other way to express it.
Of course, his one mistake had been misjudging just how possessive Alastor really was. Is.
His hand is petting over the fur of Husk’s chest now, and it can hardly feel pleasant—it's ungroomed, faintly oily and damp from sweating in his sleep; the small room is cramped and overheated, and only seems to be getting worse. Nausea’s rising in his gut. Husk takes another long drink from the near-empty bottle and grits his teeth before shoving Alastor’s hand away. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me.”
He doesn’t shove Alastor’s hand away; doesn’t make any move to stop him at all as he slides down to rest his head in Husk’s lap, fingers catching at the soft pad of Husk’s palm. “What should I do, Husker?” Alastor asks mournfully, and the genuine hurt that flickers in his eyes is surreal, though it’s quickly followed by anger. “He’s gone, he wasn't supposed to—”
Husk exhales and catches Alastor’s fingers within his own to stop their movement, to stop the pleasant shivers it was beginning to send up his spine. “Nothing,” he says simply, though he knows that won’t satisfy Alastor in the slightest. “Let him go.”
But that is, of course, the one thing that it’s impossible for Alastor to do. The man’s obsessive in his hobbies, his interests, and his affections to an unhealthy degree. And once he’s deemed someone as his, there’s no going back. And Vox? Well, he’s been Alastor’s for a long time.
Alastor stares up at him with a strained smile, eyes so bright they’re almost wild before he squeezes them shut and lets out a hysterical giggle, fingers curling around Husk’s own. Someone raps on the closed door and calls for him, but Husk ignores them—instead focusing on the crimson of Alastor’s hair splayed over the dark fabric of his lap, the long sweep of his eyelashes as he opens his eyes one more, half lidded and thoughtful. His dainty little upturned nose is pink at the end, too, and Husk suppresses the bizarre urge to nuzzle against it.
“Husker, darling,” Alastor says, and the threatening heat in his voice is goddamn criminal. “You won’t leave me, will you?” His words are slurring faintly together, melodic and smooth.
Husk doesn’t remember how he answered.
The flash of anger that passes across Alastor’s face is dark and ugly—and Husk’s fucking glad—it’s enough to almost make him forget that inciting Alastor’s wrath was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid in the first place. But unlike the coldness of his demeanour when he’d entered the room, this is something genuine and raw; a crack Husk had dug his claws into and forced open to reveal the bloody, glistening hurt beneath. And he’s pleased, a bitter grin curling his upper lip as Alastor jerks back and lifts his hand to instead catch Husk’s chin, fingers bitingly sharp against his jaw.
“You are a funny one, Husker,” he hisses, and leans in to press the tip of his nose against Husk’s own, warm vodka-soaked breath and the quick, desperate shape of his lips brushing against him. “Pretending that you don’t want this when, really, there’s nothing keeping you here at all.”
For a moment Husk remains frozen, held in place by the weight of the truth and lies piled so high it’s overwhelming. Because Alastor’s not wrong—he could leave, technically, but this is his fuckin’ room and he refuses to be driven from it; he doesn’t want this because Alastor’s touch now makes his skin crawl, except they’ve been together for decades and it’s the most familiar thing in his pathetic, lonely existence, his constant, a comfort and punishment both. Are you saying you haven’t missed my company? He swallows and looks away into the darkness where Alastor’s shadow lurks, staring back at him with a fractured wail distorting its open mouth. In his lowest moments, he can admit he misses how things used to be. Sometimes he wonders if Alastor does, too.
For years, Husk had tried to convince himself that getting him under contract had been Alastor’s plan all along, since the moment they met; that none of it had ever been genuine. More than anything, he’d wanted to believe it was all a long-con—because maybe then it wouldn’t hurt so fucking much; make him so goddamn angry. Unfortunately, though, he knows Alastor better than that.
The moment Alastor proposes the deal, his blood turns to ice. He’d got himself into this mess, sure, and he hadn’t expected Alastor to help him for free even though they were friends—but this?
“I wouldn’t make this offer to anyone else,” Alastor adds, and the worst part is that Husk knows he’s telling the truth, that he thinks he’s being generous—because everyone knows that Alastor doesn’t keep his souls; he near-destroys them. “You keep your powers, your properties, even the majority of your free time—honestly, you’ll hardly know the difference!”
“You’ll own me,” Husk spits out, tossing back another whiskey even though alcohol muddying his thoughts further is the last thing he needs right now, “my fucking soul, Al.” He hears his own voice crack.
“Yes,” Alastor says softly, and reaches out to straighten his tie. Husk simply lets him, mind still struggling to process the rapidly narrowing choices available to him. “It’s me, Husker! Is that really so bad?”
He knows it had all been genuine, in Alastor’s own twisted way.
‘You won’t leave me, will you?’
Yeah, Alastor had made real fuckin’ sure of that.
With a frustrated snarl he bites at Alastor’s mouth as he shoves him back against the couch, straddling his lap with hands pinning Alastor’s skinny upper arms against the cushions. There’s dark blood running down over Alastor’s lips and chin as he laughs breathlessly, glittering ruby eyes bright and wild. “There he is!” Alastor sing-songs, tongue darting out to lick at Husk’s mouth where it’s stained with his own blood, hot and damp. “My Husker.”
“Don’t,” he growls against Alastor’s open grin, sinking his claws so deeply into Alastor’s arms that the fabric punctures and he reaches skin, “fuckin’ call me that.”
Husk would never call this a kiss—at least, it resembles none he’s ever experienced; it’s more a vicious mess of sharp, nipping teeth and wet tongues, and when he draws back to take a breath a disgusting mess of pink-tinged saliva is dripping from Alastor’s open, jagged smile. And Alastor—Alastor is just sitting there under Husk’s weight, gazing at him with an intoxicated, obsessive intensity, like this is exactly what he fucking wanted.
He’s painfully hard, he realises, achingly pressed up against Alastor’s stomach in a way that must be humiliatingly unmistakable. It takes everything in him not to grind up against that firm warmth, and instead ducks his head to bite at Alastor’s jaw and neck so he doesn’t have to look at his eyes. Alastor allows this, too, inhaling sharply as Husk lathes his rough tongue over the puncture wounds—it must hurt, but Alastor only angles his head back further to give Husk easier access.
The sound of his own ragged breath is deafening and his chest is so tight it's like he's about to have a damn heart attack. Husk hates that it feels good to know that Alastor allows—no, welcomes this from him, because there’s no fucking way he’d permit it from anyone else. It’s a power he hadn’t quite known he could exercise until now; or maybe just hadn’t let himself acknowledge the existence of. Because if he wants Alastor, if he needs Alastor after everything the bastard’s done to him, what kind of fucked up does that make him?
But, he realises with a bitter, petty satisfaction, that Alastor needs him just as much. Would probably let Husk fuck him, right here on his ratty couch just to force Husk to confront the depth of his own obsession, and to feed Alastor’s own goddamn compulsive need for validation.
God, Husk fucking hates him.
He shoves off Alastor with a frustrated snarl and flops back beside him, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. This is all just a bad dream after drinking too much and dwelling on shitty memories, it has to be.
But then he feels the familiar weight of Alastor’s cheek returning to his shoulder, hand once more finding its home on his chest, stroking in an absent way that has to be self-soothing. All the resentful, caustic words that had been bubbling up inside of him just—die, buried under a sudden, indescribable exhaustion. His head is swimming, his mouth is aching and still sour with Alastor’s blood, and he’s just so fucking tired of it all.
Like the old fool he is, he'd once asked Alastor if he'd ever think about freeing him, only to receive a disquietingly melancholy look in return. "How could I, Husker?" Alastor had said after a long pause, smile taut and knowing. "Whatever would you do with yourself?" Husk hadn't ever asked again. He lets his hands fall back down with a shaky exhale, but doesn’t open his eyes.
When Husk wakes up some hours later, head pounding and mouth dry, he’s alone. But when he licks his lips there's a sharp twinge of pain as scabbed over wounds crack and bleed, yet to heal.