At a very young age, Anthony J. Crowley was introduced, like many children are, to fairy tales. Knights in shining armour, true love's kisses, and love at first sight. Little Anthony cherished those stories so much that he learned to read before his peers could even say the alphabet in the correct order without having to sing it.
Then he met Charlie and fell head over heels in love. It was an innocent infatuation that set off a chain reaction for the rest of little Anthony's life.
Anthony had been too shy to approach his boyfriend at first. That's what he called Charlie and, no, Charlie did not know he was secretly spoken for. Because little Anthony barely had a frontal lobe at the time, he did what any child might do to get his boyfriend's attention; make a fool of himself. Anthony did succeed in gaining Charlie's attention, but he also gained it from the rest of the class and his teachers. Little Anthony saw a lot of corners during that time, always getting into trouble.
On the outside, the only thing all the grownups and other kids saw was a mean little menace who never behaved. If only someone with a fully developed frontal lobe had sat down with him and asked him what was wrong, his life probably would have turned out differently. Alas, no one saw what was on the inside, a little boy who just wanted a special friend, a friend to love and laugh with. A friend to push on the swings, and play pretend. A friend to hold his hand and give him hugs.
It stands to reason that because Anthony fell in love so young, he'd also experience heartbreak in those pivotal years of development. And he did. Even though many tears were shed, it did not dissuade Anthony from believing his one true love was out in the world somewhere, at least not until "one true love" number three. But before Anthony experienced how messy love could be, he had hope. He was willing to wait for his soul mate, and while Anthony waited, he read books. The kind of books one might be embarrassed to share, especially when one is male and expected to be a certain way.
Anthony's mother pretended not to notice her romance novels disappearances. She encouraged his hobby by frequently trading in old books for new ones and leaving them discreetly out in the open. She thought it was cute. His father did not. So, Anthony learned to keep his romantic notions to himself and act like a man.
When Anthony actually became a man, he quickly realised that fairy tales were just that, fairy tales. After meeting and loving soulmate after soulmate, well, he lost hope. Anthony was still too young to be bitter about love, but by age twenty-three, he'd had it. Anthony donated all of his romance novels to a library. The love between him and books, at least, was dependable. So although he didn't give up reading entirely, he did replace his love stories with stories about adventure, mystery, horror, religion, atheism, and textbooks.
It was no surprise to anyone that A.J. Crowley became one of the most influential book critics in the country. It was also no surprise that he also became a bitter, miserable arsehole. A bitter, miserable arsehole to anyone, even his plants. The only being on the planet who ever saw his soft side, was his nephew, Warlock.
Soft, little Anthony became the hardened, cold Crowley. Only family kept calling him Anthony, no one else was allowed. It was his conscious buffer against letting anyone get too close. His other shield was his sunglasses, which he wore about seventy-five per cent of the time.
He never wore them when alone, in his barren, grey flat, while watering his emotionally abused plants. He didn't wear them while watching telly on his sleek but uncomfortable sofa. Crowley especially did not wear them while chatting anonymously with the closest thing he'd call a friend; a fellow book lover online. The only other clever person in a book forum chock full of idiots. At age forty-two, Crowley was still a bachelor and the only truly meaningful relationships in his life were with his nephew and a username; AngelCrepes75.
Dear demoneyes666,
I'm afraid I disagree with you entirely. Romance novels, albeit not all or most of them nowadays, have a much more important role than to plant seeds of impossible expectations in people's heads. They can serve to teach people about healthy relationships, and show them what real love could be like. In a world so full of misfortune, sadness, and broken relationships, it is vital for us to have some hope. I believe romances–even the horribly predictable drivel that most consume–can help a person feel like they can carry on in this world. A promise of happily ever at the end of a book can truly have a powerful impact on mental and emotional health. Not to mention, romance novels have been a pivotal medium for feminists. Most romance authors are written by women, after all.
Respectfully, AngelCrepes75.
Crowley scoffed and shook his head fondly as he reread the message from Angel for the third time. They usually never disagreed regarding most things, but love, a higher power, and food? Always. For some reason, that never really bothered Crowley. Maybe it was because Angel was always so damn polite, even when being a complete snobbish bastard. Angel could hold their own, that was for sure, and Crowley respected people who stuck to their guns–no matter how wrong they were.
There were other replies to Angel's comment, but Crowley did not bother to read those. Their opinions didn't matter to him, and they all hated him for it, the dull sods.
Not for the first time, Crowley wondered if he should extend an invitation to meet in person. All he knew about Angel was that they lived in the UK. They were always carefully vague about everything else. But Crowley lived in London, and he would have been willing to make a short trip to meet the mysterious Angel.
Crowley's fingers hovered over the mousepad, hesitant to reply. Finally, he clicked on Angel's profile and then clicked on the private message button. He took a deep breath, and then his fingers typed out his message quickly.
Hey Angel,
I saw your comment, and I guess we will have to agree to disagree yet again. Bantering with you is always a pleasure, no matter how mistaken you are.
;)
It's been over a year now, and there still isn't anyone else I'd rather disagree with...
Crowley's heart hammered in his chest. With sweaty fingers, he continued on with his message.
I was wondering if you'd like to meet up sometime? I know we've been keeping things very close to the vest, but I've come to think of you as a friend. Believe me, that's saying something coming from me. I'm not the easiest person to get along with. No surprise there, I'm sure. Anyway, you can turn me down, no pressure or anything. Just thought I'd ask.
Best Regards,
Demon
Crowley read over his message until his amber eyes dried up. He rubbed them, pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Then he highlighted everything and deleted it all. This was also something he'd done many times before.
It's not that Crowley didn't want to meet Angel. He definitely wanted to, but he was old and wise enough to know the signs of infatuation. The only thing keeping him from falling in love with Angel completely was the sanctuary of anonymity. Even if Angel turned out to be an old hag, Crowley would probably jump straight into their arms at the earliest opportunity. Sex, gender, presentation, none of it kept Crowley's heart in check. So, the only way to not dive head-first into another crippling heartbreak was to stay well enough away from pretty much everyone.
Anyway, he was pretty sure that Angel would not be interested in a lanky, cynical old ginger, no matter how successful he was. Crowley still dressed modern and dyed the grey out of his hair, but once the sunnies came off, it was clear he was over the hill. At his age, he was lucky to find a one night stand, which were few and far between even before he turned forty.
Crowley's watch sounded off, letting him know it was time to head for work. With a groan, he closed his laptop and took one last look around his empty, always cold flat. He nodded curtly and sniffed as he stood.
"Better alone than badly accompanied," he grumbled as he made his way out the door.
Fell and co, merely referred to as the bookshop around the corner, was as old as the hills. It had been passed down from Fell to Fell without fail since eighteen-hundred. Unfortunately, the Fell legacy would probably end with Aziraphale Z. Fell, because, at age forty-three, he was still a bachelor and gayer than a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide. His very Catholic parents, seemingly old and frail but definitely not, never failed to ask him when he would settle down with a nice lady and give them grandchildren. Aziraphale would patiently remind them that he came out to them while still in the army, and that he'd be lucky to find a man to settle down with, especially with him being past his prime, such as he was.
Fell senior would pointedly disregard the reminder and then suggest Aziraphale lose the gut and dye his white-blond hair and "Bob's your uncle." Being a bit of a bastard, Aziraphale's usual response to that would be somewhere along the lines of "I'd much rather Bob be my husband who doesn't mind the gut, but to each their own, I suppose."
Aziraphale loved the bookshop, he really did. It was his home, figuratively and literally because he lived in the flat just above it. His fondest memories were made in that shop, surrounded by his beloved books. The smell of old pages, the taste of dust in the air, the feel of a hardcover in his hands, even the soft murmuring of customers filled his heart with a lovely sense of peace.
However, what Aziraphale did not love was dealing with customers. People were a constant interruption to the work he actually wanted to do, which was to write his novels—romance novels, to be precise, which is why he hired the self-proclaimed witch, Anathema Device to take some of the load off. Anathema would take the helm, and he would wander to the backroom, sit before his ancient type-writer, and clack away.
Anathema had been due to arrive to open the shop with him, but Aziraphale had time to accomplish one more thing in his morning routine; check to see if he had any replies to his comment on the Online Book Club. Or rather, check to see if a particular demon responded with their usual cheek.
It always took about five minutes for Azirphale's computer to boot up, which never really bothered him. He honestly wasn't even aware newer computers were capable of "waking up" faster. Aziraphale was not a tech-savvy man. He hardly ever used his mobile of the flip-phone variety, and his computer ran on prayer.
Beeps and boops of the computer sounded off just as he sipped the last of his cocoa. Aziraphale didn't bother checking his emails or the news, no, he went straight to the forum and scanned for his thread.
There it was, a short reply from demoneyes666, an awful username Aziraphale believes was put to use just because his own username had "angel" in it. His chosen moniker had nothing to do with Aziraphale's beliefs, but rather with his favourite crepe stand as a boy, Angel Crepes. Unfortunately, it no longer existed, and the only crepes that came close to that heavenly taste were all the way in Paris.
Aziraphale took a deep breath and began to read.
angelcrepes75 oh angel, angel, angel. It seems that one of us is wrong and I will humbly and graciously be the one to say that it's you.
Aziraphale could not help but chuckle and reread the first sentence several times before moving on.
The genre of romance is not only full of the drivel you mentioned above, but also addles the minds of the poor humans who still believe in true love. I agree with you that those useless stories inspire hope, except it is a false hope that spreads like a plague, sending people off into the world looking for their non-existent soulmate. I'd rather live in reality and have no such expectations. Hey, if I'm wrong, then at least I'll be pleasantly surprised instead of being monumentally disappointed.
By the way, angel, I finally got around to rereading Hamlet, and I must say... it's as depressing as I remember. You are positively BARMY if you think it is superior to Midsummer or ANY of the funny ones for that matter!
"Lord," Aziraphale breathed with amused exasperation, "the one who doesn't believe in love finds Hamlet too depressing."
He shook his head and sighed. He was used to the demon's cynicism, but whenever they discussed love, Aziraphale couldn't help but feel rejected. It was a ridiculous notion, but he couldn't help it. Aziraphale had been so close to asking the demon if they could meet in person almost right away. Everyone else found him to be a bother, but the demon knew their stuff. They were intelligent and witty, and even though they were snarky and rude to the others, the demon was always kind to him. In fact, the demon was a bit of a flirt.
Alas, Aziraphale's hopes of meeting his anonymous friend were dashed the moment he realised the demon found the notion of romantic love abhorrent. It should not have stopped Aziraphale from trying to make an "in real life" friend, but he dreaded finding out if the demon was a man. Aziraphale had been under the impression that the demon was, in fact, male. Then what? Undoubtedly become infatuated with someone who most likely wasn't gay, near his age, and who scorned romance?! Absolutely not. No. Aziraphale would not do that to himself. Better to keep things as they were, he thought sensibly.
His online friendship would have to be enough to satisfy some of the empty space he longed to fill. The love of his life could one day walk through his door looking for a book, or maybe he'd bump into him at a cafe, or maybe he'd never meet him at all. Aziraphale didn't necessarily believe in soulmates, but he did believe that in a world that held almost eight billion people, there was bound to be someone out there, maybe even several someone's, who wouldn't mind his old fashioned ways, or his snobbish taste in food, wine and books. Someone who had the patience to put up with a boring older man. Someone who would cherish his flaws as much as they admired his strengths, especially the flaw that protruded a bit over the belt.
A knock at the door jolted Aziraphale out of his sad musings. He looked at his watch. Anathema was right on time. With a pop of his weak knee, Aziraphale stood to greet the witch and get to work. Love or no, it was an exciting day. Aziraphale would finally finish the last of the rewrites of his novel.
"What are you going to do with it when it's done," Anathema asked for the umpteenth time since he'd started it.
"Well, I still haven't had any luck with finding an agent. Self-publishing would be too much of a project for me, I'm afraid."
"You could always send it to The Morningstar Paper, to that critic you're always talking about."
Aziraphale gasped, scandalised. "Send my book to A.J. Crowley? So the foul fiend can tear it to pieces and ruin my chances of ever getting published? No, my dear. No."
Anathema groaned and rolled her eyes. "Aziraphale, from what you've let me read, your book is amazing! You've said so yourself that a good review from that prick has gotten hundreds of authors published! I have no doubt your book will knock his socks off, and you'll be famous before you can finish saying your whole name."
"The day I sprout wings is the day I will let that devil critique my work, dear. Not a day sooner."