Couldn't, Shouldn't, Wouldn't
Angel couldn't feel anything.
Okay, he could. He could feel his toes and his cock and the tips of his fingers. He could feel the shifting of his forehead when he went into game face and the tingle of his lips when he hummed. He could still feel the ash in his lungs and the taste of Kate's blood in his throat.
But he couldn't feel anything.
He sure as hell remembered it though.
He remembered the furtive kisses, the shy meaningful looks and the feeling of Wes as he shuddered and came.
Wes had started it all, saying that if Angel wanted to go to hell then he'd damn well go with him. And Angel didn't care because Wes was Wes and he was there. Soft, smooth, and alive.
They kissed and licked and fucked. The jagged angular scare itching an angry red as Angel compulsively sucked on it, causing Wes to moan despite himself. Angel memorized every curve and contour, committed to memory everything he never knew he wanted and licked clean the lines of sweat and musk.
Wes tasted like burnt cinnamon.
He was so easy to understand and so eager to please, but even more so to fuck. He whimpered and moaned and pleaded and said all the right things as Angel slid inside him. Angel didn't bother holding back, it didn't matter this time. He thrust in a painful rhythm that left them both gasping and spent.
There were no words or extravagant declarations of love and gratitude. It was just them and Angel could almost feel what it should have been like.
He woke up cold and hungry.
The hotel was empty and he was still alone.