Angel posted himself on the couch, his slender frame bundled in the embrace of his multiple arms. Despite the comfort of the plush furniture, his body refused to relax. His arms still hugged himself tightly as he stared distantly across the room.
Cherri hurried into her kitchen, grabbing a spare rag and wetting it with warm water. Wringing out the overflow, she grabbed a couple of chilled beers and walked back into the living room, placing herself next to her silent houseguest. She nudged him gently, drawing his attention to the heated, wet rag she was offering him.
"Too clean your face, babe." She gently alluded to the mascara that still actively ran rivers down the gentle arches of his face, cumulating at his chin, and dripping off in charcoal ink-drops.
He nodded, his lips upturning just barely into a feeble smile. This wasn't the first occurrence of Angel appearing at Cherri's doorstep in some sort of distraught state, and that familiarity acquired her a level of proficiency in calming him unlike any other.
"Thanks, toots." Angel sniffed and took the towel, draping the water-weighted fabric over his face, relishing in the relaxing warmth that enveloped his senses. He hummed in satisfaction. This would certainly aid the headache that was coming on from his explosive crying fit.
A few hasty wipes, and he pulled the mascara stained rag back, still leaving slight patches of smudged grey in the now frazzled fur. Feeling a tad embarrassed, he actively avoided his friend's concerned and questioning gaze, keeping his stare at their feet. His forbearance dragged on for a while, practically counting each individual carpet fiber to keep his eyes away from her.
He had never crumbled so easily at the mere words of another sinner, leaving his pride thoroughly shot. That aphorism Alastor had called to him forcefully yanked away his cloak of fortitude right out of his unsuspecting hands, and, as he stood bare and unprotected, subsequently triggered an inroad of those hurtfully pleasant memories, each one proving harder to bear than the last. In that moment, the only thing that clearly rang through his psyche was the blistering urge to run. Now here he was, the only locality he could run to for safety, and he'd have to confess it all to his closest confidant lest she jump to her own conclusions. If only the couch he sat upon could swallow him whole, and aid his escape from this awkward circumstance.
"Angie, what's going on?" Angel bit his lip, barring himself from uttering a response. Cherri paused, carefully thinking of a way to word her next question.
"Is Val...bothering you again?" Angel felt his muscles lock at his formidable pimp's name, which only added validity to Cherri's concern. Her face twisted into an angry snarl. "I swear Angie, you just say the word and I'll blow his fuckin' clown lookin'-ass straight outta-"
"It's not Val..." Angel muttered, peeking up at his friend. She could easily recognize what was plaguing him upon her direct gaze over his careworn face. Angel, in intimate instances of comfort and trust that he would only grace her with, wore his emotions on his sleeve. His differently colored eyes opened like doorways between the charcoal portieres of his sweeping lashes; straight into his soul.
And all she saw within was heartache.
She pulled her friend into a gentle hug, letting him bury his face into her chest and neck. Four arms shot out and wrapped around her in an instant, clinging to her tightly, fingers enmeshed into the tattered material of her shirt. She had a rising suspicion of what it could be.
"Are ya' thinking of... him today, babe?" she asked against his hair, his white locks licking at her chin.
His shoulders gave little tremors; he was crying again. That was all the answer she needed; she knew what was going on. She sat quietly, letting him unload his despair into the embrace they shared as he fell further into his paroxysm of weeping. The pyromaniac rested her rose-freckled cheek against his head, her hand gently sweeping up and down the slouched curve of his back for comfort.
She knew all too well about his missing lover from his human life; they told each other everything. Dropping into hell around the same time, they were acquainted long before Angel fell into Valentino's grasp—long before his selfdom morphed into what it was today. Surviving exterminations together, going through hell and back to provide each other with anything they needed; they labored hand in hand to build themselves up from the concrete they came crashing onto. There was not a single denizen in all of hell that she trusted more than Angel, and she knew, without a toxin of doubt, that his view of her was tantamount to her own of him. So she stood by him loyally through his bad drug trips, let him spend some nights when he needed comfort and protection, and, of course, she would lend an attentive ear as he vented his pent up anger and sadness. She expected it of herself. After all, what he did for her far outweighed anything she could ever attempt to reciprocate...
"Thank fuckin' Lucifer it worked..."
"What worked? Tony, what did you do?"
Just the distant memory was still enough to cut her down the bone, but she hid it well under her gentle, assuaging hushes as she continued to hold him close.
She was there all though years ago, by his side when he came to the bitter conclusion after so many failed searches that Allen was dead and gone. They predicted it was most likely at the end of an angel's spear. It was then, like the snap of a single thread that had held him in place, and as inexplicably as that golden tooth that seemed to just materialize one night, Angel fully, and suddenly plunged himself into his sex career, staying out into the late hours of the nights, honing his performative persona at his new employer's demand, and, not to mention, the delve into his own choice of emotional anesthetics: hard drugs.
Drugs weren't the highlight of her worries. After all, she was even inclined to partake once in a while. What truly shook her was something far more nauseating to behold. She watched the metamorphic change with the incapacitation of a powerless bystander, gaping in horror when he came home one night just as the sun began to illuminate the red sky, beaten nearly half to death. Only to return to that source the very next night, bruises still fresh in their sickly yellows and purples. That was, but only, the first instance—a preamble for the many nights after that that he would return in such a gruesome state.
"It's my fault," he would always say, rambling on in stories about how he had 'fucked up' in some unreasonable way, and therefore earned his punishment. And then came his sudden and impromptu move from the home they had spent years cultivating together.
They would still see each other as often as his jam packed schedule would allow, but she watched as with each visit, he changed a bit more, and left a piece of his old self behind somewhere in the fray of pornographic filming, or in the back of another john's car. Even so, it did little to sway her, she loved Anthony dearly, and Angel was still Anthony, despite whatever changes he would incur. She loved Angel.
As decades passed, and by these unhealthy means, he had learned to accept his loss—or, more or less, skate by with passing fancies and momentary distractions. Though, now and again, he'd fall to pieces at certain triggers: jazz music, often heard by a transient street performer, a random sight or smell that, though he couldn't remember exactly why, struck him as familiar, or, on a specific occasion, he had come across certain books that Allen had read to him. Just what trigger had he run into this time?—she wondered.
After a few moments of muffled weeping, Angel's body stilled, pulling back from the embrace, a basin of fresh, charcoal mascara gathered underneath his eyes. He grabbed the towel with a groan and slapped it roughly over his haggard features. Crooning his head back over the back of the couch, the top of his head touched the wall. He laid motionless, face veiled in the wet rag.
"I feel like fuckin' shit..." he complained.
Cherri giggled softly under her breath, reaching out to grab the two beers she set on the table. She touched the cold neck of one of the bottles to his cheek, eliciting a yelp from her embittered friend as he stiffened in surprise. He yanked the towel from his eyes, relaxing when he saw the just was she was offering him.
"This'll help."
He chuckled before taking it and twisting the top off. He kicked his head back and took a swig, welcoming the bitter beverage down his throat. Perhaps with the weighted fog of inebriation, it would dilute the sting from these pesky emotions. If only he hadn't dropped his bag of angel dust, he lamented over his loss. Cherri twisted the top off of hers, but neglected to partake, only watching as her friend sipped his.
"You...wanna talk about it?" she inquired further.
Angel pulled the bottle from his lips with a sigh, twirling it in his hands and watching the liquid slosh inside the amber tinted glass. His features were troubled, brows furrowed in agitation.
"It's that damn radio bastard..." He huffed, kicking his head back and taking another sip. "I was already having a shitty mornin'... I woke up from a dream about my past." His lower hands took hold of the bottle, the top pair gesturing emphatically as if he was painting the scenes in the air for her to see—the sights and sounds of the Mardi Gras parade, their perch atop the building, their stories and plans they conversed through stolen cigarettes and liquor.
"A good dream too...but it made it that much more shitty to wake up." His gesticulations ceased, hands falling limply in his lap, "I just wanted some good shit to get me through the day, and that fucker caught me. His high 'n mighty ass was really gettin' under my skin."
His mind drifted back to the pestering altercation, Alastor's arched, haunting smile still a fresh visage. The peak of his irritation came not from the overlord's condescension, nor the blistering insults or snide rebukes, but from the look of total bewilderment that was sorely written across Alastor's face at the sight of his reaction towards that accursed axiom about liability. Alastor had no knowledge of the sentiment that simple quote held, though understandable, how was he supposed to. He knew nothing about Angel's past—about Allen. Though, Angel doubted a ruthless overlord such as him would care about his unfortunate life even if he had enlightened him. Angel glowered down at his limp hands.
Pretentious jackass.
Cherri sipped her drink, not taking her eye away from Angel, who was muttering a rancorous descant of profanities under his breath. She could tell who all those profanities were directed at. She was well aware of the contentious nature between them through the endless complaints Angel would relay. Truthfully, Angel griped to her about everyone in that hotel: some bitchy grey girl that always got mad at him for petty matters, or the blonde airhead that was way too ignorantly optimistic for her own good, or the spastic pint-size that would break into his room and go through his private matters as she cleaned against his wishes. Cherri was never adept with remembering names, but Alastor, Angel complained about him far too often for her not to remember his name. Her lips upturned into a smirk against the rim of her bottle.
"Since when do you care about what some dickwad thinks of you?" She took another sip, reveling in the glare that the spider redirected from the absentee overlord, to her instead.
He hated to admit it, but her jesting inquiry was well-founded. Other than Cherri, he didn't really give a damn about the condemnatory judgements others would throw his way. The pornstar had been called every ugly name under the sun: whore, slut, druggie, fag—they didn't bother him anymore. So why?—he wondered. Why did that red, Cheshire-cat-wannabe mother fucker get under his skin so effortlessly? He felt his cheeks grow hot from what he concluded in his mind to be anger, though his friend blatantly disagreed.
"You're blushin, Angie." She giggled, causing her friend to snap back to reality, hiding his face as he downed the rest of his drink.
"It's cause you're getting me drunk, you crazy-pyro bitch!" Cherri's joyful laughter echoed through the living room, her natural vibrato reverberated off the walls. Despite the embarrassment, Angel smiled and laughed along. His friend's laughter had always been perpetually infectious; being around her never failed at lifting him from his lowest points.
There was always a resolute warmth when it came to Cherri. Her undying spirit always seemed to envelop him in a secure cocoon of easement. She always managed to make the best of the worst situations, finding humor in tragic circumstances, and bringing them to attention to lighten the mood. He admired how she remained steadfast in her convictions throughout the years, unlike him, who had thrown his to the wayside. Together they walked a fine line, with him on one side, his transmutations out to show, and, on the other, her and her preservation. From the moment she fell down here, she remained unchanging through the turmoils and tribulations this bastardized existence threw at her. He'd do anything to protect it—protect her. Once the chatter died down, Angel set the bottle on the coffee table with a content sigh.
"He said some stupid quote that I heard Allen say once." He tossed the additional information over her shoulder as if it were a discardable wrapper, but Cherri cocked the side of her singular eyebrow in intrigue. Angel sat back, resting his upper hands behind his head as his second pair rested in his lap, fingers twiddling together. "Some stupid bullshit 'bout taking responsibility for myself." He rolled his eyes in annoyance.
Unlike Allen, Alastor's invocation of responsibility came across as cold and unsympathetic, it left the once encouraging statement tainted. His eyes were beginning to water again at the memory. Oh no—not again. Lurching forward, he shook his head brashly as if to shake the memory out of this mind before it could trigger the waterworks again.
"Fuck him," he muttered, crossing his arms with a huff. "I don't wanna to talk about it anymore..." The spider concluded, his eyes tracing over the other contents on the table. "Ya' craftin' some explosives before I got here?"
"Yeah...I was preparing for a job I have this weekend." Cherri got up, grabbing Angel's empty bottle and taking them over to the kitchen trash, tossing them in. "I can just start them tomorrow." Angel picked up some of the explosive powder, holding an empty bomb capsule between his knees as he syphoned the powder down into the pipe. His second pair reached for the other pieces he would need.
"I'll help ya'..." He offered, already getting to work before she could protest, a stout confidence behind his offer of assistance. She wouldn't truly mind his help, he was the only other soul who knew exactly how she liked them built. Cherri smiled, grabbing two more cold beers from the fridge and bringing them over. She sat back down next to him: the only soul in the nine circles she could assuredly call a friend, placing the beers on the floor by their feet.
"Thanks, Angie." She smiled, before grabbing her own materials and getting to work herself.
"It's been a helluva long time since we last did somethin' like this..." Angel began, capping off a PVC pipe he had stuffed to the brim with explosive powder and broken shrapnel. "I kinda miss the good ol' days." Taping the battery pack in place, he set it down, leaning back as he succumbed to the reverie. "Remember our old place?—on the east side?" Cherri didn't bother to look up from the bomb she crafted, her cheerful nature faltering slightly. The look on her face, as least, to the best of Angel's interpretation, showed her sadness of the time that had passed—of the times they resided together.
"Yeah..." she responded vaguely. Click. Another PVC pip was capped, and a battery pack fastened, "if it weren't for Val, we probably still would be." The bitterness in her tone sliced through his pleasant trip down memory lane, and he frowned slightly. She almost seemed to resent him for setting out on his own, as if he had left her behind. It wasn't just her that missed those times.
"Hey, it's not like it was my idea. Val wanted me closer to the studio...and besides-" A gentle nudge to her bicep finally pulled her eye from the empty PVC pipe in her hand. "With all the guys I was bringin' home, ya' wouldn't have gotten any sleep." The cheeky grin he bore ignited a similar parting of her lips, and a feathery laugh.
"You skank," she teased. Angel erupted in a barrage of his mischievous cackles.
##
They spent the rest of the afternoon making copious amounts of explosives for the blonde pyromaniac, often taking breaks to get snacks, watch a little TV, and talk. As night overtook the land, the living room was filled with every kind of explosive that could possibly be constructed, all neatly sealed and ready for use. Cherri looked at the time displayed on her phone screen.
"It's getting late, we should hit the sack." Angel nodded, sitting up straight and stretching his back, sore from hunching over the coffee table for hours. Cherri got up, walking down the hall, leaving Angel to sit on the couch in quiet confusion. After a minute of still silence, she came back, tossing him a long t-shirt to use as pajamas. Angel smiled, holding the shirt in his arms.
"Thanks, suga-tits." His tone was playful, pulling an endearing smile from her.
"Sleep well, you cry-baby bitch." With that, she flicked off the light switch and disappeared back down the hall.
Angel stripped down in her living room, setting his clothes neatly aside before putting on the long t-shirt, the soft material draping down to his mid thighs. His second pair of arms would have to remain inside the shirt, but he didn't mind, he was grateful to have something else to sleep in other than his fitted jacket and constricting skirt.
He peered out the living room window, out to the freckles of distant city lights that splayed across the black slate of hell's horizon. In hell no stars dusted the night sky, leaving only the lonesome red moon that seemed to struggle to provide barely any brilliance plastered against the dark, barren canvas. The city lights were the only means close enough to the stars he barely remembered from his human life, flickering in rapid succession across the breadth of the city, but no more than a cheap replacement.
His own mind flickered yet again back to that abhorrent interaction, a wave of mortification washed over him again. He'd have to return to the hotel eventually. He couldn't, as much as he wanted to, hide away here for eternity. Dread constricted his lungs at the notion of seeing Alastor again, who, he guessed, was probably wracking his brain in confusion for Angel's foray of tearful emotions. Angel knew he would have to explain himself—that the reaction Alastor's words had pulled from him had nothing to do with him at all, and just hope the overlord wouldn't interrogate any further than that.
No matter, that was something he would worry about come morning.
Knowing the apartment like the back of his hands, he walked over to a storage closet by the front door, pulling out a blanket he had expected to find. He took it back to the couch, unfurling it and snuggling into it as he got comfortable. The welcoming nothingness of sleep washed over the tired spider in an instant of comforting blackness.