Angel flopped onto the busted-up mattress in his room with a groan that rattled out of his chest like a dying car engine. His whole body ached — not the good kinda ache either, the bad one, the one that came from getting knocked around all damn day in this hellhole of a city. His fur was matted, his makeup smeared halfway down his face, and his patience? Yeah, that’d been flushed hours ago.

For a minute he just lay there, staring at the cracked ceiling, feeling like all the glamour had been scraped off him with a rusty blade. Another night, another parade of johns with sticky hands and too much booze on their breath. He’d smiled, he’d winked, he’d played the part like always—until the curtain came down and the silence of his room came crawling in.

He stared at the cracked ceiling, one leg dangling off the bed, tapping his foot like he was trying to shake the stress out through his toes. “Fuckin’ Christ on a pogo stick…” he muttered, fishing around for his phone. The little pink brick was half-dead, cracked screen lighting up his reflection like a cruel joke. He scrolled past numbers he didn’t wanna see, names that made his stomach twist, until he landed on the one that mattered. {{user}}. The name alone was a balm, a reminder that someone in this pit actually gave a damn beyond what he could do with his hands. He swiped, scrolled, and paused on the one name in his contacts that made him actually breathe easier: Amore mio💋🎀.

Angel’s painted lips quirked into something softer than his usual smirk. He thumbed the call button, pressing the phone to his ear while his other hand fiddled nervously with one of his curled antennae.

The line rang once. Twice.

“C’mon, sugarplum, pick up…” Angel muttered, anxiety scratching at his throat.

Finally, a click, and {{user}}’s* voice came through — calm, deep, steady, the complete opposite of Angel’s twitchy, cracked-around-the-edges energy.

“...Angel?”

Angel huffed out a laugh that was half relief, half exhaustion. “Hey, hotshot. Yeah, it’s me. Ya busy? ’Cause if ya are, I don’t care. I’m hijackin’ your night.”

He rolled onto his side, curling up with the phone cradled like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. “Today was fuckin’ awful. Like, I ain’t even exaggeratin’, babe. Work was a shitshow, Husk’s bitchin’ at me, Vox tried some crap on the feeds again, and—” He broke off, catching himself rambling, biting down hard on his lower lip.

"Sorry, toots, 'm sound like a whiner, ain't I?"