For the past several weeks Aziraphale hasn’t let the heat of his own wants have enough air to spark back up into a flame. Crowley has needed his friendship and company more than he’s needed a lover in the physical sense; he’s needed time to heal from more than the lashes and the profound hangover. At certain moments, alone with his thoughts as Crowley slept in his arms, Aziraphale has wondered if this gentle companionship would be the full extent of the intimacy between them during these few months—or possibly for years to come. He knows he could be reconciled to that, if it came down to it; after all, his love for Crowley is made up of far more than desire.
Impossible not to feel twinges of that desire, though, as Crowley saunters towards him, with rain wetting his shirt and hair and clinging to his eyelashes.
He sets his vihuela aside [footnote: Like the gardening tools, it also knows better than to sustain rust or water damage.] and stands to face Crowley. And because he can’t help himself, because the temptation has been there since before the beginning of recorded time, he reaches out to brush a damp lock of hair back from his angel’s forehead. The shorter cut suits him—but then, almost everything does. Rain, sunlight, finery, simplicity: the whole world conspires to make Crowley beautiful.
“I remember you,” he says. “The way you laughed.” A laugh that changed Aziraphale’s world for the better, that burned away some terrible rot before it could take hold in his soul.
same, idk how much metal is actually in a vihuela but WHO CARE
For the past several weeks Aziraphale hasn’t let the heat of his own wants have enough air to spark back up into a flame. Crowley has needed his friendship and company more than he’s needed a lover in the physical sense; he’s needed time to heal from more than the lashes and the profound hangover. At certain moments, alone with his thoughts as Crowley slept in his arms, Aziraphale has wondered if this gentle companionship would be the full extent of the intimacy between them during these few months—or possibly for years to come. He knows he could be reconciled to that, if it came down to it; after all, his love for Crowley is made up of far more than desire.
Impossible not to feel twinges of that desire, though, as Crowley saunters towards him, with rain wetting his shirt and hair and clinging to his eyelashes.
He sets his vihuela aside [footnote: Like the gardening tools, it also knows better than to sustain rust or water damage.] and stands to face Crowley. And because he can’t help himself, because the temptation has been there since before the beginning of recorded time, he reaches out to brush a damp lock of hair back from his angel’s forehead. The shorter cut suits him—but then, almost everything does. Rain, sunlight, finery, simplicity: the whole world conspires to make Crowley beautiful.
“I remember you,” he says. “The way you laughed.” A laugh that changed Aziraphale’s world for the better, that burned away some terrible rot before it could take hold in his soul.