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🖤 “The Back Room” – (Hazbin Hotel Bar)
It’s late evening.
The hum of muffled chatter, clinking glasses, and crackling jazz from the main bar dims as Angel Dust pushes open a creaky wooden door labeled “EMPLOYEES ONLY.” The hallway behind it is narrow, dimly lit with a string of old, warm bulbs. He’s chasing a hunch—a sound he thought was a scratchy old record echoing behind the walls, but it’s too smooth, too raw, too live. Curious, he tiptoes toward the cracked door at the end of the hall.
BACK ROOM (extra for storage)
It’s barely furnished—a few crates, a dusty coat rack, and a lone armchair shoved into a corner. But at the center of the dim room, caught in a single shaft of gold light from a cracked overhead fixture, stands Husk.
He’s dressed in his usual getup, but there’s something different in the way he holds himself now—back straight, fingers precise, eyes closed. The saxophone in his grasp gleams like it’s been loved, not just used. And the sound? It’s achingly beautiful.
Angel freezes in the doorway.
The tune is low, smoky, full of longing—each note like a half-said confession dragged through bourbon and back again. It’s jazz, but not showy. It’s lived-in. Honest. The kind of song that curls around your ribs and won’t let go.
Husk shifts his weight, sliding into a run of notes so smooth they sound like silk being torn just right. He doesn’t know he’s being watched—or maybe he does, but he doesn’t care. His ears flick only slightly, tuned more to the beat of his own memories than the world around him.
Angel doesn’t breathe. He can’t. Something about it—about him—makes his chest go tight. He’d seen Husk drunk. He’d seen him grumpy, gambling, passed out with cards on his face. But this?
This was Husk alive.
Angel leans against the frame, suddenly aware of the lipstick tube still clutched in his hand, now forgotten. His voice comes out soft, reverent.
“…Damn, Husk… I didn’t know you had that in ya.”
The music falters—not abruptly, but like a thought tapering off mid-sentence. Husk opens one eye, then the other. The look he gives Angel isn’t annoyed. It’s not even embarrassed. It’s… tired. Vulnerable. And maybe a little afraid.
“You weren’t s’posed to hear that.” Says Husker.
“Yeah, well… I’m real glad I did.” Angel says, smiling gently.
There’s a long pause. Not awkward—just heavy.
Angel steps into the room, slowly, like if he moves too fast, the magic might snap.
“You… you sound like you been doin’ that forever. Like… you feel every note.” Angel continues.
“Yeah. Used to be all I had… Before Hell. Before the casino. Before—” Husker says quietly, eyes flicking down.
He stops himself. His grip tightens on the sax.
“Forgot what it felt like… playin’ for nobody.” Husk says lowly.
Angel sits on a nearby crate, watching him like he’s scared he’ll vanish if he blinks too long.
“Don’t stop. Please. Play somethin’ else.” Requests Angel, pleading.
Husk meets his eyes. Something unreadable passes between them—then, with a sigh, he lifts the sax again.
He plays.
This time, it’s slower. Softer. It doesn’t blaze. It bleeds.
And Angel stays.
Not for the music.
But for him.
🖤 “The Roof” – (Hazbin Hotel)
It’s midnight.
The neon cross above the hotel’s spire flickers lazily in the dark, casting ghost-pink light across the weathered shingles. The city below breathes fire and fog, a low pulse of chaos and restless noise. But up here, it’s almost quiet.
Almost.
Angel Dust pushes the roof access door open with the back of his hand, cradling a half-drunk bottle of wine in the other. He was looking for a smoke. Maybe some air. Maybe to be alone. He doesn’t expect to hear it.
Not a voice. Not a radio.
A saxophone.
He freezes halfway out the doorway.
The sound rises slow, blooming like cigarette smoke in winter air—delicate, haunting, and impossibly human. Every note feels like it aches from somewhere deep. It climbs the sky like a prayer no one expects an answer to.
Angel steps fully onto the roof now, letting the door click shut behind him.
And there he is.
Husk. Standing at the edge, back to the city, tail curled loosely around one foot. His wings are tucked tight. He’s dressed in nothing fancy—just his wrinkled white shirt, suspenders hanging loose. The moon silver-coats the edge of his fur. And in his hands, gleaming under that tired light, is the saxophone.
The one Angel didn’t know he still played.
Husk sways just slightly as he plays, like the music has more gravity than the city below. The notes rise and fall like memory. They don’t show off. They confess. It’s a melody made for no audience—private, raw, as if the instrument was the only thing that ever really listened to him.
Angel forgets to breathe for a second.
The wind tugs gently at his coat. The bottle in his hand suddenly feels stupid.
“You tryin’ to give the city a heart attack or somethin’?” Angel says, softly.
The music stops mid-line, but Husk doesn’t flinch. He lowers the sax slowly and turns just enough to see Angel standing there, one brow arched, lips curved into something uncertain.
“…Shit. Thought you were asleep.” Says Husker.
“Was. Then I heard Heaven cryin’ outta tune.” Angel says.
He walks closer, but slow—like approaching a skittish cat. Which, to be fair, wasn’t too far off.
Angel stops beside him, looking out at the ruined skyline, then down at the sax still warm in Husk’s hands.
“You’re… really good, y’know that? Not just good-good. Like… makes-you-feel-sick good.” Angel says.
“Yeah, well… doesn’t pay in Hell.” Husker says, grumbling.
Angel glances at him sidelong.
“You miss it?” Angel wonders aloud.
(after a beat):
“…I miss who I was when I played it.” Husker admits.
Silence stretches.
Then Husk lifts the sax again, hesitates—then angles it toward Angel like a silent offer.
Angel’s eyes go wide.
“Wha—oh, no no no. I don’t play.” Angel gawks.
“Didn’t say you had to.” Says Husk.
He nods toward the battered lawn chair behind them.
“Just sit.” Husker says, finitely.
So Angel does. Cross-legged, bottle between his ankles, arms around his knees. He watches as Husk turns back toward the wind and begins to play again.
This time, the song is different. Slower. Softer. Something about it curls around Angel’s chest, then tugs.
It sounds like a lullaby for broken things.
It sounds like Husk trying to remember how to feel safe.
Angel rests his chin on his arms and watches him, silent for once.
And for the first time in a long while, both of them feel just a little less alone in Hell.