Chapter Text
Angel wakes up to the hiss and crackle of static.
For a moment it's just that. Static. A strange noise that he can't make sense of through the haze of sleep. Then a familiar voice follows.
"Hello, my dear denizens of damnation! It is my pleasure to bring you a very special broadcast this morning."
Angel feels someone shift next to him and hears Husk's gruff voice muttering to himself "Shit, already? Ugh…couldn't wait till noon for his fuckin' show?"
"It's been quite a while since we've had a guest joining us"
Cherri's elbow presses uncomfortably into Angel's side as she stirs awake. "Ughhh, can'ya pipe down?"
Husk again. "It's Alastor. He started his broadcast."
"And I have no doubt you all have missed it!"
Angel keeps his eyes closed, refusing to think about what that means he's about to hear. He's good at ignoring shit. If he can just block it out, it doesn't gotta matter.
Cherri flops back against his side, slightly gentler than she would if she thought he were awake. "What, right now? It's the fuckin ass-crack a'dawn."
"I certainly have— dare I say the guest portions are the highlight of the show?"
Husk's voice comes from slightly further away this time. Still in bed, but probably sitting up now. "It's… eleven am."
Cherri scoffs "Same shit. Half of hell doesn't go to sleep till the sun's rising anyway."
"Hm. True." Angel feels a hand on his shoulder. Rough. The slight pinpricks of claws, retracted, but too long to be entirely hidden.
"Though I like to think I'm quite the skilled solo entertainer, having a guest to pick apart certainly adds a sort of flair, doesn't it?"
"Oh, shit, Husk— are you sure we should wake Angie? I dunno if he's gonna wanna hear this."
"There's no sleeping through these broadcasts. Better to wake him before it really starts up. Give him a sec to prepare." Husk shook his shoulder gently. "Hey, Angel? You awake?"
Angel doesn't want to be. "Yeah. 'M up." He doesn't open his eyes. He doesn't want to.
"But I suppose I've drawn out the anticipation long enough."
Husks hand stays on Angel's shoulder, warm and rough. "Angel, look, this broadcast, it's gonna be…"
"I know" Angel hates how small his voice sounds. "I know."
"Let me introduce our guest—"
Cherri holds one of Angel's hands, her head leaning on his shoulder.
"The film overlord Valentino!"
And the broadcast begins.
The sound of Valentino's screams hits Angel like a bucket of ice water.
It is piercing and high and shrieking and pained.
Angel's eyes shoot open at the sound.
Angel hadn't planned to open his eyes. He planned to shut his mind down. Float through it.
Somehow, it is harder to ignore when he isn't the one screaming.
It's loud. Even with the radio shoved into the back of Angel's closet, the sound rings through the room. Through the hotel. Maybe through all of Hell.
Every radio in Hell must be playing the damn thing. Angel can faintly it from other rooms, making a distorted echo as it overlaps with the radio in the closet.
Fat Nuggets squeals in fear at the sound, wriggling under the covers to press against Angel's stomach.
Angel wraps one set of arms around him automatically. The others curl into fists, shaking as another scream pierces the air.
Angel feels cold. He feels frozen. The screams from the radio are desperate. Animalistic. The sound of pure pain and panic. Sometimes there is a sputter, or a sob, or almost-words that fall apart before they can mean anything. But mostly it is a horrified, wailing shriek.
And more than anything else, it is Valentino. Distorted by pain and desperation and radio static, but undeniably him.
Angel feels tears stinging at the corners of his eyes.
Fuck
Valentino doesn't deserves his pity. Or his grief. If Angel stood up right now, poured himself a drink, and called for a party, nobody would blame him. And he can tell from the grim satisfaction in Husk's expression, and the way he can feel Cherri's face against his shoulder twitching into a smile, they'd both happily join him in putting up streamers.
But as another scream rings through the air, Angel just feels sick.
This is Valentino. Valentino who lied to him. Who used him. Who would smile watching him get hurt. Who gave him shitty mascara because he liked watching the tears roll down his cheeks. Who made him hurt Cherri. Who almost killed Husk. Who would pump him full of drugs one day, then turn around and withhold them until Angel was begging for a high. Who threatened him and hit him and mocked him with the stupid chain around his neck. Who forced him to relive his death so an audience could fucking jerk off to it.
But this is also Val. Val who told him he was beautiful. Who told him he deserved to be a star, and then actually made him one. The first man Angel had let himself love, not just fuck. And maybe Angel was an idiot for that, but shit, Valentino was the first man who, after a lifetime of shame, of wishing he could just be normal, made him think maybe it was all worth it. Even after the chain, sometimes it felt worth it. Sometimes it felt like love.
Valentino was the man who hit him when he was pissed off. Who didn't care for the word "no". Who tormented him like a kid burning ants with a magnifying glass or an artist happily writing a tragedy. Who made Angel feel worthless. Who would never hesitate to remind him that he was nothing but a coked-up addict whore, who'd already been used up by anyone in hell with the money and could be replaced with anything hot enough with holes.
But he was also the man who painted Angel's nails like a kid at a sleepover. Who kept him safe in the tower during exterminations. Who bought him expensive gifts. Who cleaned him up after a shoot, and told him he did a perfect job. Told him nobody needed Heaven, because Angel was here in hell. Who made Angel laugh. Who always wanted Angel around, was proud to be seen with him, wanted Angel sitting on his lap or leaning against his side at meetings. Who remembered what made Angel feel good, and sometimes, afterwards, held Angel while they slept. The man who always wanted Angel back, no matter what Angel said or did. No matter what, no matter how ugly or broken Angel felt, or how ugly and broken and used up Valentino would say Angel was, Val had never gotten rid of him.
And most of the time it felt like a cage, but sometimes it still felt like love.
Fuck it felt like love sometimes.
But Angel hated him. Angel hated him so fucking much.
Valentino deserved this. he deserved this, and Angel was glad he was gone, glad he was getting what was coming to him, but Valentino sobbed on the radio and Angel started crying.
"It's alright Angie. Let it out."
And Angel was sobbing. Sobbing like an idiot. "I shouldn't— I—"
"Nobody gives a fuck about 'should'." Cherri runs a hand through Angel's hair, "Just let it out Ange."
Valentino managed to screech out a word between his screams. Just one. Please.
And Angel can't breath. His throat is closing up, he can't get enough air—he—he needs— he needs drugs. He needs it to be quiet. He needs to turn the radio off or run or something but he can't do any of it because he can't fucking breath, he can't breath, he can't—
"Hey, hey, just—ah, shit, um— here—" Husk stammers a bit, then there are hands on Angel's shoulders, pulling him into a sitting position. Nuggets squeals unhappily at the movement and buries himself further into the blankets, hiding from the screaming. Angel wants to comfort him, tell him that the bad sounds will go away soon, that everything's gonna be okay, but he can't fucking breathe.
"Here." Husk holds out a glass of water.
Angel stares at it a moment and just shakes his head.
He doesn't want water. He doesn't want this, he doesn't need this, he can't— he needs to pull himself together but he can't. Tears are streaming down his face and his breaths are all awful, tight wheezes, and his chest hurts and he needs it to stop. He needs drugs, or he needs someone to hit him or to scream at him or to do something that will force him to shut off and go numb because he can't shut down right now but he can't survive like this, he can't breathe.
He feels like a rubber band being pulled tighter and tighter, everything hurts he can't breathe, his throat feels ragged, his chest is burning, his vision is fuzzy, he can't, he can't do this, he can't, he can't.
"Hey," Cherri's cups Angel's face in her hands. Cherri, who is calm and grounding and gentle."Just let it out, okay?All of it."
Time almost feels distorted for a moment. The screaming and the radio static and Angel's aching body can't possibly be existing at the same time as the gentle touch and soft blankets. Angel is pulled in too many directions, grief and rage and fear and relief playing tug-of-war with his mind and body.
Then he snaps like a rubber band.
He screams, the sound tearing through his throat like a knife. It's short, there isn't enough air in Angel's lungs. It hurts.
He takes a gasping, rattling breath, then screams again. he digs his shaking fingers into the mattress like it'll anchor him, twisting the sheets in his hands. He screams until he's breathless and exhausted and all he can hear is the ringing in his ears, muffling the continued sounds of Valentino's torture. He screams as loud and as long as he can, until his throat feels like someone took a cheese grater to it, and then a little longer.
Then finally, exhausted, he sobs, doubling over, collapsing into Cherri's arms.
"There you go Angie, it's gonna be alright…"
Her hands comb through his hair again, and he lets her guide him until he's laying with his head in her lap like a child.
"I—" Angel's voice is raw, his mouth tastes like blood, and he is so fucking tired, "I hate him. I hate him. I hate— I hate that— that he made me need him, I hate that I still want him to be okay, it isn't fair—"
"I know Angie, I know."
"It isn't fair. I should be happy right now."
Husk sighs and dabs at Angel's face with a tissue. "You're right. None of this shit is fair."
"I still—I—" Angel's chest feels tight. "I still wanted him to love me." The admission is humiliating. A confession of guilt. "I hate him. I hate that I'm going to miss him."
Angel hates himself. His voice. The pathetic, shaking sobs. The way none of the words match his pain.
"It's not fair. I want to be happy right now, it's not— it isn't— I can't do this—"
Angel isn't even sure what he means. Can't breathe. Can't be free. Can't be without Val. Can't be with the memory of him. Can't listen to the screams. He just can't.
"You can." Husk reaches out, taking one of Angel's hands in his. "We've got you, okay?"
And they do. Angel falls apart, and they hold him together.
Valentino's screams fade out into choked sobs and whimpers that eventually dissolve into radio static.
"Gone already? What a shame, I hoped he'd last longer. But I imagine I'm not the first to have that complaint about him!" A laugh track plays as Alastor finishes up the broadcast, cracking jokes and one-liners.
And as Valentino disappears into the radio static, Angel is still there. Choking on his grief, shaking with rage, exhausted in relief, a mess of tears and shaking limbs, but he is still there.