Work Text:
Relapse.
Such an ugly word.
So much hostility packed into six little sounds. Two little syllables.
r e l a p s e, liquid onset stifled with a quick punch, fizzling out in a grating hiss.
Re-lapse, reminiscent of prolapse, and every bit as repulsive, except the thing spilling out of him is the inescapable evidence of his own weakness, his never-ending shortcomings.
Relapse, a cold, callous dismissal curled cruelly on judgmental tongues.
There goes Angel, relapsed again.
What else can you expect from addict trash?
Crawling back to that sleazy boyfriend of his.
And so fucking what?
Doesn’t he deserve a little slack? A little grace?
He’s tried doing things the “right” way. Rehab, therapy, days spent shivering on slick sheets atoning for his sins, baptized in the cold sweats of withdrawal. Stripping himself down to the bone, resisting and replacing old habits, exsanguinating every fiber of his being,
He even took a new lover. A “normal” relationship. Sat pretty and let a white knight ride in to save him.
And look how that worked out, he thinks, dragging on his cigarette. All of his efforts to shed the leathered skin of his old self, to thoroughly bleach body and soul, and he’s right back where he started.
Was it really so terrible if he went back to Val? If he relapsed? To sink back into the comforts of his old life, the familiar embrace of sex and drugs and stardom, welcoming him home.
None of those judgmental, pearl-clutching pricks could ever understand.
So what if Val hurts him?
If that’s the price he has to pay for stability, normalcy, for one rock to cling to in the turmoil, then so be it. If Val needs to turn Angel’s body into a temple of violence, to worship with offerings of closed fists, Angel can be that vessel, the absolution of Val’s anger, his pain. Angel can be his sacrifice, his scapegoat, his savior.
For the promise of predictability, to be held and protected loved after the storm subsides, resurrected and basking in the warm rays of Val’s affection.
It’s better this way.
Better here in his old dressing room, surrounded by smashed glasses and roses, fragrant petals wilting nearly as fast as the false promises they bear—and to know it’s only temporary. That any trespasses will be atoned for.
It’s better than the hotel, the excruciating purgatory, balanced on the edge of a barstool awaiting his own inevitable fall. Waiting for kind eyes of molten gold to harden in cruelty. For gentle hands to curl into fists, sweet words to curdle. He’s always dancing, barefoot on a razor’s edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop and reveal the monster underneath.
It never does.
A dropped glass. Wine stains on the bar. Poorly timed jokes and awkward flirting; sorry I ruined our night, sorry I spoiled our date, you’re not mad, are you? And surely, this time, it will happen; surely, this time, he’s fucked up badly enough for Husk to lose patience. To hurt him.
Nothing.
He waits, and waits, thorns of anticipation wound tight like barbed wire. Anticipatory flinches, preemptive apologies, all the same hyper-vigilance, the same devastating havoc wreaked on his nervous system, and none of the reward. None of the euphoria. The crash without the high, can’t they all see that this is far worse than drugs?
This isn’t relapse. It’s release.
It’s a release from this house of cards, the fragility of a budding relationship, delicate as the feather that had hitched a ride uninvited into Angel’s dressing room. Release from this vicious game of constant calculations. What are his odds? What is he willing to bargain, to lose? The stakes are hopelessly high, and he’s playing blind. He doesn’t know the rules here. Can’t afford any mistakes.
Can’t afford to trust.
It doesn’t matter how many times Husk reassures him. Holds him close and whispers it’s alright, you haven’t ruined anything, we’re fine.
Why should Angel believe him? Their foundations are embryonic and weak. Even if he doesn’t hurt him, Husk could leave at any moment. Would leave. The second Angel fucks up, makes the wrong play, and the house crumbles beneath his feet.
Angel would rather fold.
Relapse, into the arms of the one person he can fully bestow his faith into. The one who’s stuck around, seen him at his ugliest, and loved him anyway. Val may hurt him, but he’s never, ever forsaken him.
So the kiss of bruises is a fair price to pay for the kiss of Val’s lips, kissing him better.
Husk can never fill the aching void Val left in Angel’s heart. He can’t neutralize their magnetism. Can’t silence Val’s siren song, calling to Angel every night as he lies awake in another man’s bed.
Come home, cariño. Come back to me. Just let go. What do they call it?
R e l a p s e.
Angel sighs and crushes his cigarette in the ashtray.
They’ll be calling his name soon. On stage, where he belongs. He doesn’t have to pretend here. Doesn’t have to make himself less. There’s no soul-crushing pressure, demanding he stifle his most vital essence, tame his primal, animal nature.
Why should he?
How dare anyone try and snuff out his light. Make him wither in shame. All of Charlie’s pretentious preaching, love and forgiveness and redemption, but she could never accept Angel for who he truly is. She’d rather cut and contort him into something palatable. Force him into a kind of twisted asceticism. Have him shroud himself in robes starched in hypocrisy.
Fuck that.
He’ll hold his head up high. Cast away the fig leaves, bare his body with pride, embrace and indulge his sexuality. And he’ll do it with Val by his side.
Walking the path of the righteous was never an option.
The “right” way doesn’t work for people like him.
This isn’t relapse.
It’s his salvation.