The Evening Street : RADIODUST

11: Scraped Knees - 3 :DRAFT:

A/N: Okay originally, I was going to wait for December to continue writing this, but then I read through my notes and what I had half/baked for this chapter. Then I thought, how could I be this cruel to you guys, saying I was going to publish it some day? Plus, this part is so good! I've been waiting to write this out and show it!  So even though it's not 10/10 writing, you're seeing it published as a draft in Wattpad. Wattpad is not the land of good writing, but I try. Anyways, Feast. Will be edited later lol. 

The following hours were filled in with conversation, choosing out clothing, and planning. Eventually, Angel had claimed a certain attire was the best and Alastor bought what he suggested. Now, the pair were in the gender neutral restroom of some fast-food restaurant. Like most American restrooms, the walls were grimy, scratched up with initials of couples and strangers. The mirrors and wall tiles were smeared with unknown substances and stains. Toilet paper was scattered on the floor hiding the little dots of discoloration on the dirty concrete floor. Overall, the room was as filthy and unkempt as every other mediocre fast-food location.

A light flickered above while Anthony applied his makeup, brushing powder and refining his masculine features. The androgynous man Alastor knew of vanished, replaced by an ordinary, boring and unremarkable figure. In this strange situation, Alastor had noticed Angel's particular perfume, not overpowering, but still reminiscent of strawberries and sweets. The scent was different from the usual jasmine and saffron that followed him around like ticks on dog fur.

The pair both had changed outfits, of course, looking in different directions. Alastor did it out of courtesy, while Angel did it out of... respect, perhaps? Did whores even have respect?

Alastor had not seen his reflection yet as the piece of glass was battered up with fingerprints, spit and scratches. Additionally, Angel was hogging the small reflective square and taking his time to change his face. Impressive as his transformation was, Alastor was left in the dark about how he looked. All he knew was that he was wearing jeans —tight against his skin but not uncomfortable per say— and a crisp shirt with a rose pattern. In one of the buttons, he had placed a little mimic, just in case he needed video evidence.

Angel, although he looked like a nobody, retained some personality. The loose black blazer shimmered lightly. His black plastic looking pants hugged his thighs and his t-shirt was a little translucent. What bothered Alastor in particular was the ease in which Angel pulled out a wig from his back pocket. How did that scruff of hair fit inside such a non-existent buttox pocket?

Angel had looked back just in time to see Alastor's visible confusion, black wig covering his golden locks.

"What? Gotta' look like all the regular joes," he said.

"Of course," Alastor said with false understanding, still befuddled of how a wig could fit in such little space.

"Come here," Anthony said, moving to the side of the restroom's mirror. His hands were still holding on to the small makeup kit. Alastor tilted his head.

"Why so?" Alastor said, but he spared no time in approaching the mirror. He looked like himself, but, pleasing? He was not sure if that was the right word. Alastor wore a button-up shirt and a seductive pair of jeans. He looked modern. This was a tragedy and unseamly, but Alastor was a professional liar. He could sacrifice his comfort with a smile, all in the name for future content. This will do.

"Cuz' Smiles, you're recognizable with dat' handsome mug of yours and we gotta be undercover. Can't let that Victor guy realize that you're you, and I'm me. We gotta be strangers. That means we gotta do more than a costume change."