Regarding the previous chapter: I realized at some point that in my shuffling around of text between my laptop, phone, e-mail, etc. so that I can work on editing in different places, I did create a version of the previous chapter in which they actually sit down and partake of the exotic cheeses they bought from Craig Huling. However, that version got lost somewhere, and it didn't occur to me that the chapter is odd without it, until it was kind of too late. So, if the trip to the cheese shop seemed superfluous and cruel to poor Mr. Huling, it wasn't intended that way. At least not by me. Crowley is another matter.

Regarding this chapter: I know that 'The Rite of Spring' has a specific story that goes with the music, and gets more or less acted out by dancers and sets when the ballet is mounted. But the analysis I give here is (yes, pretentious but) my own. I hope it doesn't bore you too much. I've tried to combine the 'real' intentions of the piece with my own impressions, in order to justify some stuff that happens later in the chapter.

One of Aziraphale's favourite creature comforts gets shared with his loved ones as our quirky quartet attend the London Philharmonic. One of them is wearing a well-fitted black Armani suit, new tie, and is dripping with sex, flash, and attitude. (Well, more so than usual.) As a result, there are big feels everywhere, and Anathema can read them all like a very entertaining book.

She also puts an idea into Aziraphale's head that could be a game-changer for him!

No smut, just the suggestion of it...

Enjoy!

ADORATION

The Southbank Centre a complex of facilities along the Thames, designed, as are many great things in London, to attract revenue to the city, as well as general interest in the arts. Aziraphale had spent quite a bit of time in the Centre since its inception in 1951, but had never been here with Crowley.

They had agreed to meet Anathema and Newt at a bench on the promenade in front of Royal Festival Hall, home to the London Philharmonic, ninety minutes before the event began. They were scheduled to have a pre-performance drink, the four of them, at one of the restaurants on the ground floor of the Hall, directly behind where Aziraphale was currently sitting.

He was back in his own, usual Victorian clothes, and seated in his own, usual position: hands in his lap, good posture, on the right side of the bench. Crowley, though, instead of sitting on the left as he usually did, was on his feet, pacing slowly back and forth, keeping his eyes peeled in all directions for their friends.

Aziraphale's eyes, however, were on Crowley.

He was, of course, dressed in the impeccably-tailored suit they had picked up from Harrod's that morning: the Armani G-line, black, potent, modern, fit him like a glove. They had also purchased (after alterations) the blinding white dress shirt, which he now wore with the black, red, and gold, aggressively reptilian tie. Capping off the package were a specially-chosen pair of shoes, perfectly-coiffed red hair, sunglasses, hands in pockets, and an easy, slinky way of moving. The tableau gave Aziraphale shivers, and he could not tear his eyes away.

The Centre was just a little over a mile from the flat, so they had decided to walk. Strolling across the Golden Jubliee Bridge, and walking down the steps onto the promenade, Aziraphale's chest had nearly burst. It hadn't hurt at all that Crowley had chosen that moment to take his hand, and smile at him fondly. It had been such an incredible coup to walk into the Centre this way - attached, and quite obviously together. Crowley turned heads quite often, but today, he seemed to them like a screwdriver - heads of people from all walks of life.

He had obviously noticed Crowley being noticed before; as a literal purveyor of temptation for six millennia, of course he was magnetic. But today, things were different. Aziraphale had received a shot in the arm of confidence this past week… it appeared that Crowley had, as well. Not that he had needed it.

It was validating, this proof that he wasn't just moony-eyed, not just in love, not just looking through six-thousand-year-old, rose-coloured glasses: Crowley was properly coveted. He, Aziraphale, had something that other people wanted! In fact, Aziraphale had had to decide whether to perch somewhere to watch his lover move, or be seen moving with him – yet another decadent choice in this pleasure pursuit. He reckoned he could do both, over the course of the evening.

Newt and Anathema walked around the corner from the south, indicating they had parked in the structure.

Anathema was dressed true to form in an expensive, velveteen and satin, ankle-length coat-dress, of a dark bluish green that complemented her complexion, and had about a thousand buttons up the front. It was half period-costume, and half elegant chic. Aziraphale admired it quite a lot, and wondered if there was a halfway-point for men as well. He resolved to talk with her about it in the near future.

Newt, however, was wearing a charcoal-grey blazer (much like one Crowley might wear), and his hair had been spiked in the front. His shirt was a standard white button-up, and his trousers were basically black Dockers. He was trying, but he still looked awkward.

He was also wearing sunglasses, but that might have been only because it was bright, as the sun was just now falling behind Parliament.

He peered unabashedly over the lenses at Crowley and exclaimed, "Good grief, mate, you look amazing."

Crowley held both hands out in a casual shrug, and said, "Thanks. New jacket?"

"Yeah. Do you like it?" Newt asked him, delighted.

"Very nice start, Breaks-Things Guy," Crowley answered with a smirk.

Newt smiled in a way that reminded Crowley a bit of Aziraphale when he was complimented, but had no idea how to react.

"So, Armani?" Anathema asked the man in the suit.

"Of course," Crowley said, as though wondering how she could be so daft.

"Also very nice, Not-A-Demon Guy," she said with a smile. Then she turned to Newt. "It gives us something new to work with."

He frowned at her, a bit embarrassed.

They all turned toward the building, and made their way to the restaurant where they had agreed to have drinks.

"So, how's the car?" Crowley asked Newt, who walked alongside him. They chatted, while their partners fell into step behind them.

"Wow! That suit!" Anathema whispered to Aziraphale. "I feel like I shouldn't look directly at it."

"I know. I think it's rather a dangerous thing," Aziraphale said, without thinking, and eyeing Crowley as he walked behind.

"Dangerous. Really?" Anathema asked him, singing the words a bit, and smirking.

He became slightly flustered. "I mean, in the sense that Crowley hardly needed an excuse to feel and act more audacious. Crowley in Armani is like adding gold leaf to an already decadent cheese - I'm afraid it might become rather an expensive habit."

She looked him over exaggeratedly. "I see. I thought you meant 'dangerous' in the sense that it'll have you on your knees in the gents' during intermission."

Aziraphale sighed. "So I'm bright red and throbbing again."

"Like a ripe tomato with a pulse."

"Should I even pretend to be surprised or appalled that you'd say these things?"

"Save your energy, sweetie," she said, grabbing onto his arm, and resting her head affectionately on his shoulder.

The restaurant/bar was busy, so when Newt and Crowley went up to the bar to retrieve four cocktails, the psychic and the former angel had a fair bit of time to talk.

"So, am I to understand that buying that suit was one of the more significant events of the week?" she asked.

"I suppose so," Aziraphale told her. "It was definitely an interesting day."

"A bright red and throbbing sort of day?"

"Well… yes. For both of us. You might be interested to know that we purchased some new accoutrements for me, as well. Modern ones."

"Really?" she asked, delighted.

"Yes. Apparently, it's the twenty-first century now… had you heard?" He giggled at this.

She laughed in turn. "I had, actually. Though, I'm like you – modern clothes are just soulless."

"That's what I thought, but Crowley actually managed to find me some very fine garments that did wonders for me. You'll get to see them next week at the Seen Queen recital."

"It's a concert," she corrected. "And it sounds like you guys had a lovely day shopping."

"Well, Crowley turned the whole thing into a burlesque, by making me leave the store wearing the new clothes, and with the champagne, and telling me to demand things, and involving Craig Huling…"

"Who's Craig Huling?"

He looked at her with surprised worry, somewhat unable to believe he had said the name out loud in front of her. Rather quickly, and with exasperation, he told Anathema the brief story of Huling: frequenting his shop over the past few years, being propositioned by him, Crowley joking (but only sort of) about having him on holiday with them, tempting him into selling them a larger quantity of White Gold cheese, and ending with the post-coital conversation he and Crowley had had about inviting Huling in to sample the Colheita.

"He joked about having a ménage à trois with this guy?" Anathema asked, simply to clarify. Azirapahale detected no judgement in her voice (and he was a master at detecting judgement).

"Yes."

"And a couple nights ago, he started beating that drum again?"

"Yes, if I can read his innuendos. And I believe I can. It's not like they're subtle."

"Are you afraid that Crowley likes this guy just a bit too much?"

"No, I'm not. It's just…"

"Well, that's good, because I'd have to tell you that you're crazy, because it's Crowley, and it's you, and come on, now," she commented. Then she said, "Well, far be it from me to tell a six-thousand-year-old man what to think, but if it were me, I'd consider it."

"Consider what?"

"Inviting Huling in… seeing what happens. You know, we all have needs and desires that deserve to be at least heard out by the people who love us most."

Aziraphale blinked a few times with realisation, and said, "Well, it's hard to argue with that."

"I'm just saying," she shrugged.

The four of them had their drinks, and then made their way up to the Mezzanine, chattering away, each couple holding hands like adolescents. Aziraphale, once again, could not contain his almost indecent pride over being the one standing, walking, sitting beside Crowley. He had conflicting desires of wanting both to keep his partner in that suit forever, and wanting to slowly peel it off him until they were both vibrating with anticipation.

He had thoughts of both, and had to consciously shake them off, in order to keep himself grounded in the moment. He knew that everything he was feeling was like a neon sign to Anathema, but perhaps tonight, it might be a neon sign to everyone who looked at the two of them. Although, perhaps tonight, he realised, he was rather glad of everyone knowing about it.

"'The Rite of Spring' is divided into two parts: The Adoration of the Earth, and The Sacrifice," Aziraphale whispered, now seated in a front-row Mezzanine seat between Crowley and Newt.

"The Adoration of the Earth," Crowley mused. "Can't fault anyone for that."

"It was written as a ballet, and was harshly criticized upon its première as a wanton, pagan piece of art," he continued, more for Newt's benefit than anyone else's. "And of course, social mores have relaxed over time, and it has become one of the most influential pieces of music of the twentieth century – at least, influential as far as its own ilk, I suppose – but it is still quite outside of the traditional, classical paradigm. It is definitely still possible to hear its experimental nature."

"I'll take your word," Newt said, uneasily. "I know virtually nothing about music. I've never even attended a live performance before – I'm just happy to be here at all."

Aziraphale patted his hand, and settled into his seat with a wiggle of his bottom as the concert hall darkened.

"Lights are down, angel. Want to have a snog?" came the breathy voice, right into his left ear.

"Shush, you. We're here to appreciate the music," Aziraphale answered, with a coy smile and a frisson shimmering up and down his spine.

A single, soft woodwind began the Introduction, and a melancholy, but hopeful, melody emerged. It suggested morning uncovering itself after the dark of night. Within two minutes, there was a veritable orgy of woodwinds – no particular rhythm, but the original melody still underlying it. Toward the end of the Introduction, the winds and brass proclaimed the new day, almost in a reveille-style, then sliding back into the original melody, but with accents of string instruments being plucked ever so lightly…

Those light plucks segued quite suddenly into a deep, booming rhythmic pulse of bass and cello. When Crowley had discussed the pounding, insistent nature of the music and upper-crust women of the early twentieth century clutching at their pearls, this was the bit he'd meant.

He leaned his head in and asked Aziraphale, "Are you scandalised?"

"Shh."

Crowley then reached his hand over and rested it on Aziraphale's thigh and squeezed. And suddenly, movement II of 'The Rite of Spring' took on a whole new meaning.

Some high-pitched woodwind work cut across the rhythmic strings, like screams, or big flashes of light, shocking in places. Each phrase of music was a message…

Movements III and IV provided a softer rhythm, but still reflective of the beats of life, love, youth. Movements V and VI returned to more upbeat themes, brass instruments, loud and celebratory. But the theme was more in the spirit of revelry – festivity, dancing, song. Movement VII was a segue back into brassy, seismic violence, passionate, grounding, Earthy.

Part 2's Introduction began with a gentle rhythm, swelling into a fleshy, dramatic version of itself, and ending with some lighter-hearted flute work – soaring notes, hanging like clouds. Movement II had some experimental, dissonant chords, but overall, a heartfelt bit of music, easy on the ears and soul. It was another section in which every musical phrase seemed to be speaking its truth.

Movement III in part 2 was quite famous. The hard, driving rhythm returned, coupled with some truly surprising, experimental rhythms, quite jarring to a human who wants to identify a time signature (even when one does not know what a time signature is). The violent up-and-down of brass, strings and percussion was reminiscent of blood spilled, or disaster tearing through.

The entire piece lasted no more than thirty-five minutes. The traditional classical repertoire was hinted at, and certainly an impish nature came through in Stravinsky's revolutionary creation, but one thing was clear throughout: the gut-level, visceral, pulse of life, Earth, humanity. It was a pulse upon which Crowley and Aziraphale had had their fingers, even as supernatural beings.

And it was almost as if that pulse had its fingers on them tonight.

As the music ended they looked at each other, both with the same breathless disbelief in their eyes. They both stood with the rest of the audience and applauded. Aziraphale leaned over and said, "I've heard it before, of course, but this might have been the first time I've fully appreciated it."

"I'm very glad to hear that, angel."

Anathema Device enjoyed few things more than reading people. Their auras were telling, of course, but coupled with body language, voice intonation, Freudian slips and the like, there were certain people who might as well rent out space and run adverts about themselves. Even (or perhaps especially) Aziraphale, who had spent millennia repressing his feelings, and never saying what he meant.

The first segment of the evening was, of course, 'The Rite of Spring,' which was less than thirty-five minutes long from beginning to end. There would be two more segments, two more Stravinsky masterpieces with two intermissions – the first was to be a twenty-minute break, the second was to be ten.

Crowley was seated on the aisle, so he stepped out first when the lights came on, buttoned up his suit coat, like the debonair bad boy that he was, and addressed the group of them, "Well, I need to visit the loo."

"Me too," Aziraphale was quick to agree. Uncomfortably, he added, "These blasted bodies."

"Me too," Newt chimed in.

"No, you don't," she said, grabbing his hand.

"What?"

"Or, if you do, then whichever bathroom they go to, choose a different one. You'll thank me later," she instructed him, under her breath.

"Why?"

"Just trust me."

By then, Crowley and Aziraphale had disappeared from the vicinity, and Anathema had seen them leave the room through the door at the top of the aisle, the naughty former demon leading his companion by the hand.

"Well, now how am I supposed to know where they've gone?"

Anathema rolled her eyes. "Let's just get some drinks."

"Drinks? Instead of a trip to the toilet? Yes, very practical," he commented.

And so, they got drinks. They purchased four red wines, and drank two of them at a high cocktail table, while discussing the music. Newt had definitely noticed a couple of movements, quite famous patches of music that had been used in 'Fantasia,' and other pop culture phenomena.

"Those bits are distinctive to the human spirit, because they mimic our heartbeats when we are aroused, excited, frightened, and whatnot. It's the power of humanity, the power of the Earth," Anathema told him, quite seriously. "And it's clearly gotten under Aziraphale and Crowley's skins."

Newt's eyebrows went up, and he looked at her with a bit of wonder. "Wow. Sometimes I forget who you are."

They made their way back to their seats in the auditorium with two untouched glasses of wine when a dual-tone alarm went off, signalling three minutes until the second set.

This time, Newt went down the row first, placing them in opposite seats from each other, as compared to where they had begun. This was not discussed, just accepted.

"Where are they?" Newt asked, sitting down, noticing that the two seats on the aisle were empty, and their friends were nowhere to be seen. "They're going to miss the beginning."

"I don't think they're going to be heartbroken," she said, patting him on the leg.

The orchestra returned to their seats, and the conductor emerged last, and there was applause. They spent about twenty seconds tuning their instruments, and then Stravinsky's Symphony in E Flat began its intriguing first movement.

It wasn't until almost ten minutes into the piece that the door at the top of the Mezzanine opened, and two men stepped through. Anathema, like many people, turned to look, but she was the only one who did not take her eyes immediately off them. She was also the only one who smiled upon seeing them, rather than frowning and wondering what the Hell was wrong with them.

One of the men was dressed, of course, in a fastidiously put-together Victorian ensemble, the other in a tightly-fitted black Armani suit. Both of them, however, had a bright pink, and glittering gold aura. She watched them as they made their way down the aisle, softly apologising to people, and sat down in the two seats at the end of the row.

Anathema handed the glass of wine in her hand across to Crowley, and Newt handed his to Aziraphale.

"Figured you might not have time to grab drinks," she whispered to Aziraphale.

"Yes, thank you so much," he said, taking a sip. "Sorry we're late. Something… er…"

"Came up?" she asked.

"Er, yes."

"What, did you guys meet the conductor, and get offered the opportunity to visit backstage?"

"Yes, exactly."

"In the bathroom?"

"Well… yes, erm…"

She chuckled. "Oh, shut up. Have you forgotten who you're talking to, Mister Pink-Aura-Post-Orgasmic-Gold-Glow?"

That was when the woman behind them shushed them, Anathema chuckled again, they turned their attention back to Stravinsky. All in one go, Aziraphale downed most of the rest of the wine.

Three things:
1) Of course, please leave a review! I don't hear from very many people, and feedback is always a pick-me-up!

2) As you can see, I'm still sort of working on the threesome-with-Huling idea, as is Aziraphale. He and I are both grappling with it, but leaning towards a 'yes,' but it has to be organic, and we can't have it damaging anything, including Aziraphale's sense of security.

3) Don't worry - we WILL get to see what happened with our boys during intermission! ;-)

Thank you for reading!