It was a very good thing that they'd finished off most of the snacks in their dorm room, because Brian's mother had attempted to send them back with enough leftovers in sturdy plastic storage containers to feed them for months beyond the two weeks of school left in the semester. After filling their small refrigerator until the door barely closed, they'd begun eating their way through the surplus. But Aziraphale wasn't complaining; after months of campus dining, Brian's mother's cooking tasted like gourmet cuisine (though it was also just delicious on its own merit). They left their door open, and Brian offered a container of cranberry sauce or turkey and gravy to anyone who passed by on their way back to their room.
Relishing the remaining downtime before the plunge into finals, Aziraphale found his Walkman and popped in some classical music as he finished unpacking. When he was done, he stretched out on his bed, feeling his body relax as he exhaled slowly.
He hadn't had much time to think about his conversation with Anathema over the Thanksgiving weekend, too distracted by the chaotic bustle of Brian's home. As Brian had predicted, his father and Steven had coaxed Aziraphale into tossing a football with them after the meal. The game had turned into a throwing lesson when they discovered that Aziraphale had never played football and wasn't terribly coordinated. By the time the sky had darkened, though, he could at least make a passable—if wobbly—toss to whomever was nearest.
Now, he replayed the conversation with Anathema for the umpteenth time in his head, trying to reconcile her words with what he'd been told over and over again, directly and not-so-directly, that it was wrong to feel this way about someone else of the male persuasion. That instead, he would grow up, graduate, follow in his father's footsteps, and find a nice, godly woman to be his right hand and help him create a family.
He still wanted that, mostly. But now, there were new desires competing with that bucolic image of the future.
He wanted to know what Crowley's thin torso felt like under the padded tips of his fingers. He wanted to brush those long red curls loose with his own fingers to see if they felt as warm and soft as they looked. He wanted to know what it felt like to be kissed by that sly, grinning mouth, what Crowley would taste like…
But he never would. He might be able to find peace with his feelings, but acting on them was another story. That sobering thought shoved aside the memories of odd glances and hesitations, small things he'd noticed in Crowley's behavior when they'd been together. Aziraphale told himself that the chances were slim that Crowley was attracted to men, fine with others knowing that he was attracted to men, and—most unlikely of all— in any way attracted to himself as anything more than a friend. A close friend. Yes, that's what they were, and that's all they would be.
Even if it broke Aziraphale's heart.
Somehow, it had slipped his mind that Christmas was so near. After his nutrition final (which he was fairly confident he'd passed), he took the bus downtown for a bit of shopping. He and his siblings didn't exchange gifts, but he found cheerful cards for each of them and his father at the drugstore, and grabbed one for Brian's family as well.
At the music shop, he found new tapes for Brian and Heather with help from Zedd. He'd visited with his friends enough now that the grey-haired proprietor pointed him in the right direction, picking two for each of them from the selections Aziraphale brought to the counter.
Bag in hand, he made his way to the plant shop and browsed for something for Anathema that would tolerate the low light in her office. He finally settled on a bird's nest fern in a terracotta pot adorned with blush-colored paint. The odd whorls and coils of the fern's leaves were unusual, an attribute he thought she'd appreciate. It wasn't as expensive as he'd thought, leaving him a bit of money left… and one friend left to find a gift for.
He had absolutely no idea what to get Crowley. What did one buy for a friend (yes, that's what he was, of course, that's all he was, his mind reminded him helpfully) who was wealthy enough to buy himself anything he desired? Aziraphale didn't have the skill to make Crowley anything, and he couldn't just get him a plant—that would be far too easy, and Crowley already had plenty of them.
An hour of browsing through shops later, he finally found something at the bookshop: a notebook for music composition. Its left-hand pages held regular lines for lyrics, facing right-hand pages with blank staff lines for jotting down musical notes. A thin gold ribbon was attached to mark the current page, a compliment to the notebook's creamy red-gold leather cover. He winced at the price, but let out a fond sigh and purchased it, along with some gift wrap and ribbon. Hopefully his father planned to send some more spending money soon, or he'd be living even more frugally for the foreseeable future.
He'd spent most of the day out, but it had been a welcome distraction from his nervous anticipation of his fencing tournament the next evening, an anxiety that returned when he was off the bus and back on campus. What if he lost? What if he won? Sitting quietly with a book wouldn't quell his nerves, so Aziraphale changed into his training clothes, forced himself to eat a solid meal, then headed to the gym for a light, final practice.
If nothing else, he at least had the Battle of the Bands to look forward to on Friday. He hadn't been to any of Crowley's shows since the night they'd met. Perhaps Brian would lend him some clothes again, so he could dress up for the occasion. Maybe if he looked the part, Crowley would notice him, see how well he could fit into his life, his hobbies… Aziraphale shook his head to clear the treacherous trail of thought from his mind. He finished stretching and began to move through the forms, now familiar after a semester of repetition. Focus, he reminded himself, and feinted and dodged and thrust until his mind was empty, his body was layered with sweat, and his breath came in winded gasps.
He was startled awake the next morning by the hard, punchy sound of a song that Brian presently informed him was "The Eye of the Tiger" from the movie Rocky. Laughing at Aziraphale's flailing limbs and wild eyes, Brian turned off the boombox and mimicked a boxing announcer's tone:
"Ladies and gentlemen, it's the day of the big tournament! In the right-hand corner, Mr. Aziraphale Fell, with the might of the Lord on his side. In the left, everybody else! Does Aziraphale have what it takes to outfence his opponents and seize victory?"
"I don't think fencing has those announcers," Aziraphale grumbled in reply, as he got up and rummaged for a sweater and trousers to wear to breakfast. He was too tired to also complain about the blasphemy.
"Shush, let me have my fun," Brian replied sternly, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes and waved his hand to him. "Fine, continue then."
"Nah, that's all I have for now. I've been up since seven finishing this essay, and I'm starving. Figured one of us might as well have a good start to their day."
At the dining hall, Brian piled toast and bacon and eggs on his plate and Aziraphale followed suit, albeit in smaller quantities. While he sipped a scalding cup of earl grey, Brian frowned and tossed a few pieces of his own bacon from his plate to Aziraphale's. "You gotta eat up, man. Gotta keep up your energy, y'know."
"I suppose," Aziraphale replied, scooping up some eggs and chewing them slowly. "Do you know if Heather is coming tonight still?"
"Last I heard, yeah. Hey, you're gonna do great, man. You've been practicing like, every night."
"I've never been much of an athlete. I don't think I like getting this much exercise," Aziraphale grumbled good-naturedly, smiling at Brian's laugh before popping a piece of bacon into his mouth.
The rest of the day went by in a flash. He filled out all of the holiday cards he'd purchased and wrapped each gift—using scissors to curl the ribbon like Judith had shown him ages ago—made some progress on his essay, and then it was time to head over to the gymnasium.
On the way to the locker room, he peeked into the main gym and saw more people than he'd expected waiting in the bleachers. Many were old enough to likely be parents, come to watch their children in the tournament, but there were a surprising number of students lounging with their friends.
The contestants had received copies of the tournament brackets before the Thanksgiving break. Aziraphale was scheduled for the third bout, so he changed into the breeches, chest protector, and jacket, and made his way to the side of the piste to sit with the other fencers. He gripped his mask tightly, eyes scanning the crowd for Brian and Heather. Her bright hair was easy to spot amidst the sea of blonds and brunettes; she and Brian were chatting with the students sitting behind them. The sight of them was simultaneously reassuring and nerve-wracking.
The first bout was quick and decisive, with the required five points scored in just under a minute. The second was longer, but only because one of the competitors, a small, wiry boy Aziraphale had spoken to a few times during class, was able to dodge his larger competitor's attacks until she adjusted to his style of movement and won the bout with a score of 5-3.
And then it was Aziraphale's turn. He made his way onto the piste, working with one of his instructors to attach the cable to his épee and don his mask. A shrill whistle came from the bleachers, and he looked up to see Brian and Heather grinning and waving. He nodded to them, then took a deep breath and stepped up to salute his opponent, a dark-haired boy he'd practiced with a few times outside of class.
They stepped back to their en-garde lines, confirmed that they were ready, and began.
The three minutes passed in a blur. Aziraphale dodged and parried and thrust, remembering that the boy, Kevin, had a difficult time protecting his left hip and focusing his attacks there. After two minutes and fifteen seconds, his attention paid off. He'd done it: a 5-2 victory.
He could hear Heather cheering for him from the stands (in her trademark shriek that made her audible in the largest of crowds). He shook hands with Kevin and made his way to the locker room on shaky legs to splash cold water on his face and catch his breath.
His second bout was more difficult. The tall girl he faced was unsurprised to be fighting someone left-handed, and she was quick, parrying with seemingly easy movements of her long arms. Ignoring the pounding of his heart, Aziraphale took advantage of any and every opening. When the referee called "Halt!" at the end of the three minutes, somehow he had won, 3-2.
The longer he stayed in the tournament, the more anxious he became...but alongside the anxiety within him was an ever-so-small spark of hope that he might actually make it through to the end. It was an utterly alien feeling. Michael had done well at sports while in school, adept at tennis as he was at most things, and even Luke played basketball in the church youth league on Wednesday nights. But Aziraphale took after his father, more studious than athletically inclined. Wouldn't it be something, to be able to include a photograph of himself with a medal on a crisp ribbon around his neck in his next letter home?
This pleasant imagery distracted him from the remaining bouts, even as his conscience told him that too much pride would be a mind helpfully supplied Galatians 6:4 to assist: "Each one should test their own actions. Then they can take pride in themselves alone, without comparing themselves to someone else" and he resisted the urge to duck his head as if God was concerned with his prideful imaginings of victory.
Regardless, he had somehow made it to the final four contestants, and it was time for his next bout. If he could somehow win this one, he'd make it to the final bout and have a chance at victory. Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to sneak a look over to his friends; he kept his eyes on the wooden floor of the gym as he rolled his head on his tense shoulders and shook his arms loose. He hadn't been able to look at them at all since his last match, afraid seeing them might make him even more nervous.
In a blink, he was at the line, and the referee had called "Fence!" and the bout had begun. He couldn't hear the beeps, if there were any, from the electronic scoring box; he had no time to think; all he could do was dodge and parry and try to score a point on his opponent as he felt his own breath on his face inside the mask.
And then it was over...and he had lost, 5-2. In two and a half minutes, his dreams of victory had evaporated. He removed his mask, shook his opponent's hand, and made his way off the pitch in a daze. There were no medals, no ribbons for fourth place...but, he told himself as he wiped a sweaty curl of white-blond hair out of his eyes, he'd made it so close. Him, the bookish, quiet boy whose childhood classmates had called horrible names for his lack of athletic prowess.
Just outside the door, he was practically tackled by a red and black blur. Heather planted a kiss on his cheek and laughed. "Aziraphale, you were amazing! Congrats, dude!"
"Oh, thank you. I mean, I lost, but—"
"You stuck 'em with the pointy end, though, that's something."
Aziraphale froze at the sound of that voice, wholly unexpected and yet utterly familiar, then turned. Crowley, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, strolled up with Brian beside him.
"Crowley? You came?"
"'Course I did. You did tell me the date and everything, and I figured it'd only be polite, since you're coming to my little ol' show."
"Heather's right, you were great," Brian interjected, with a friendly slap to Aziraphale's padded shoulder. "All that practice paid off."
Aziraphale's heart swelled as his friends chatted about his bouts and helpfully reenacted key points with two pens Heather had dug out of her purse. He and Crowley watched, grinning.
"I'm, ah, sorry you came out here just to see me lose," Aziraphale said, turning to Crowley. "But thank you."
Crowley frowned slightly, his brows furrowing behind his dark glasses. "Hey, don't apologize, angel. You looked great out there. Er…hey, d'you all have any dinner plans? I'm famished."
"We were gonna go get tacos. You wanna come with?" Heather replied helpfully.
"Tacos sound great," Crowley replied.
Aziraphale excused himself for a quick shower, and they headed to dinner. To his surprise, Crowley offered to drive all of them in his Porsche. He tried to let Heather take the front seat, but she snorted and climbed into the back, so he was left up front with Crowley. Brian and Crowley chatted about music, with Heather interjecting now and then, and Aziraphale listened with a small, content smile on his face. These were his friends, and they had come to support him, win or lose.
And though the thought of being so close and yet so far from winning made his heart ache, the pain was lessened by the sound of cheerful arguing and laughter as Crowley drove breakneck through the streets to dinner.
