It was half an hour past Adam's bedtime and Crowley had just picked his palette back up when someone knocked on his door again. He sighed and put it back down, stalked to the door, yanked it open and said:

"Whatever you're selling, I don't want it."

"Good evening to you too," said Ezra who, in his vintage jumper, vintage shirt… vintage everything looked extremely out of place in the sterile white hallway of the modern apartment building.

Crowley bumped his forehead against the doorframe in frustration. Ideally, he would have gone for slamming, but he knew the other wouldn't approve.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me today," he mumbled. He hadn't meant to sound so desperate, but his mind was so overflowing with thoughts that raced too fast for him to grasp them, it might as well have been empty. It had bothered him all day.

Ezra just smiled his usual gentle smile. "It's okay, we all have off-days sometimes," he said. "If it's any consolation to you, I brought you this." He held up a bottle of wine that had a thin yet persistent layer of dust on it. He must have had it for a while.

Crowley carefully took the bottle and examined the label as he stepped aside to let the other in, only to come to the conclusion he had no idea what the words on the bottle actually meant. "As long as it doesn't taste like cork or vinegar, I'm sure it'll be fine." After all, years old wine wasn't the worst thing Crowley had drank. "I'll get some glasses and a corkscrew. You make yourself at home in the meantime."

Once in the kitchen, Crowley smacked his head against the cabinet a little harder. What on Earth was Ezra doing here? Better yet, why hadn't Crowley just sent him away?

Then again, there was no use dwelling on it now. And who knew, a little alcohol might actually slow his thoughts down enough to firmly grasp one by the balls and demand to know what it wanted from him.

With newfound resolution, he took two wine glasses from the cabinet, produced a corkscrew from the drawer under his pristine cooktop and returned to the living room.

"Sorry I took so long, I usually get the bottles with the screw—"

Crowley stopped dead in his tracks when he found Ezra standing at his drawing board, smoothing down the crumpled and discarded sketches with gentle hands and glancing at the canvas on the easel next to it. He heard the man murmur to himself, but didn't catch a single word of it. What did catch his attention were his eyes. Striking blue, creased with fondness, but still sparkling with youth. He knew Ezra was a little older than him, but it never made him any less charming.

He realized a little too late he was staring. Ezra turned to him and smiled.

"Ah, sorry my dear, I was just admiring your handiwork," he said, beaming more brightly at Crowley than he had all day. He considered putting his sunglasses back on.

"Oh, that? That's nowhere near where I want it to be," Crowley scoffed in a weak attempt to play it cool.

"That's okay. There's more than enough time to figure it out."

"If you say so," Crowley mumbled, yet he couldn't help the smile creeping to his face. He picked the bottle of wine from the glass salon table, twisted the corkscrew into the cork and pulled. And pulled. And pulled…

Ezra chuckled. "Here, let me help you," he offered and reached to take the bottle, brushing against his hand.

Crowley dropped it, Ezra caught it.

"See, the trick is that you need to twist the cork while you pull it out," he said as he did just that, pulling out the cork with a satisfying pop. "There we go. Now, I believe you were holding some glasses?"

"What? Oh, right," Crowley stammered as he tried to regain his composure. He held out the glasses and Ezra poured. And poured. And poured…

"Are you sure you know how this works?" He dared to venture when the wine was nearing the rim of the glass. Ezra stopped pouring with one millimeter to go.

"I do. I just figured you could use it," Ezra shrugged as he poured himself the normal amount.

"I was that much of a mess, wasn't I?" Crowley asked before carefully slurping some wine from the top of his glass. It tasted like what he imagined a mouldy gym sock to taste like, but still, he persisted. It wasn't so bad once you got used to it.

"If I'm completely honest, you still look like a mess."

"Of course I do."

"I don't care that you do. And I don't know what all that in the bookshop was about and I can imagine that you absolutely won't feel like it, but if you want, you can always talk to me."

Crowley groaned. What he had said and done in the bookshop was the last thing he wanted to think about right now. He placed his wine on the table and sat down on his white leather couch, his back hunched slightly.

Ezra followed suit.

"These last few days, I've been thinking a lot. There are things in my life that you've made me reconsider and I just don't know how to cope," he admitted, masterfully dancing around Ezra's quest for answers. Crowley gazed up, and Ezra seemed to be taken aback.

"I'm sorry dear, but I'm afraid you're giving me too much credit."

An exasperated laugh escaped Crowley's throat and he took another swig from his wine. It seemed to taste better this time around, but then again, perhaps that was only because it was starting to work.

"I'm really not. You were right about my job. I'm actually glad to be out of the office for a while. Lucy seems to be the only redeeming factor. My work is boring, and Hastings and Liggett, the head of studios and head creative, they make my life a living Hell at every chance they get. It gives me security, but it drains me. And it certainly doesn't make me happy…"

Ezra reached and took his hand. It was soft and warm. Hot, even. And yet, Crowley didn't recoil. In fact, he squeezed back.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel this way," he whispered.

"No, it's… It's okay. I needed that wake-up call, I think. I mean, now that I'm drawing and painting and having fun again, I'm actually realizing how shit my job is," Crowley smiled, but it quickly faltered. "Except if I were to quit I would have to figure out how to make a viable income from my art."

Ezra raised his hand to make a suggestion.

"Drawing portraits in the park for tourists is an absolute last resort," Crowley insisted.

And Ezra immediately lowered his hand again.

"I appreciate it, though. And you in general, you know." He took another swig from his wine for courage. "You," he started, "are very…"

A little voice in his voice in his mind that, had this been a cartoon and not real life, would have manifested as a tiny angel on his right shoulder, shouted as it worked itself into a panic and hid its face into the collar of his shirt.

Oh, God, Crowley, what were you thinking?! You literally just reconnected with him two days ago, shut uuuuuuup!

Another little voice in his mind that, had this been a cartoon and not real life, would have manifested as a tiny devil on his left shoulder shouted kicking, screaming and pulling at his hair.

Just fucking say it you fucking coward, you started this, now with God as my witness, you're going to finish it!

"Persuasive?" Crowley tried.

Ezra quirked an eyebrow.

Wrong word. Try again.

"Learned?"

He frowned.

Fuck. Third time's the charm.

"Wise," Crowley finally settled on.

Ezra smiled. "Thanks, but I'm not that much older or smarter than you."

"Since when does that matter?"

Ezra shrugged. "They say wisdom comes with age."

"As do wrinkles, but you still look like one of those, whatchamacallit…" Crowley wracked his mind for his hungover art history lessons. "Cherubs, was it?"

"That's what I get for not smoking," Ezra smirked.

Crowley placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. "You're too harsh, angel."

"There it is again. Are you planning to keep calling me that?" Ezra asked. Nothing in his tone remotely suggested any objection to this.

"Is that a challenge, angel?" the taller man teased again, leaning closer.

Ezra, on the other hand, leaned backwards. "What are you trying to do here, Crowley?"

There was a pause. Crowley's breath caught in his throat. The realization that he had no idea what he was trying to do hit him like a brick wall.

Well.

Of course he knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to have a nice evening with a good friend whom he also had a crush on. Why was that so hard?

"I'm sorry," Crowley said as he pulled himself back. "Just, kinda… I don't know…" He glanced away. He couldn't bear to look at Ezra any longer. It was like the angel on his shoulder said, they had just started to reconnect, and now Crowley was going too far too fast. "Forget I ever said anything, I guess."

Ezra laid a sympathetic hand on Crowley's back and rubbed firmly between his shoulder blades. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come uninvited. You made it quite clear that you needed space and I didn't respect that…" he said as he gave Crowley's back another pat. However, upon likely realizing the irony of the situation, he quickly removed his hand and scooted further away on the sofa. "I should go. You can keep the wine. Consider it a gift."

Crowley didn't move an inch as Ezra got up and made his way back to the door. He only buried his face in his hands with a deep sigh.

"Until tomorrow." he heard Ezra mumble before the door clicked shut.

He'd fucked up.