The poster crumpled and ripped so easily in Crowley's hands. The words Junior-Senior Prom and the image of a disco ball became unrecognizable in only a few seconds. He needed something that would put up more of a fight. Something more solid. Something more satisfactory to crush.
Besides, the poster advertising the prom seemed a little on the nose.
"What? Can't find a date or somethin'?" Beez flicked the back of his head. Ashes fell from their cigarette and Crowley quickly ruffled them out of his hair. Aziraphale wasn't fond of the smell-
Why should he care? The bitter voice in the back of his head jeered. He obviously doesn't care about you.
"None of your beeswax, bitch," Crowley hissed.
"Damn," Beez raised an eyebrow, unaffected. "Someone didn't take their nap today?"
"Do you need a ride or not?"
"Yeah. I do. Tattoo shop. There's literally no other reason why I would be hanging around this dump after I've already graduated. Come on, toss the stupid poster, and let's go."
Crowley tossed the poster. Cause he wanted to, not cause Beez told him to. They started down the empty hall. She had had to wait for detention to be over for her ride. "When is your car done?"
"Not for another week. Maybe more. I got fucking T-boned, AJ."
"How are you- nevermind, I don't want to know."
"Know what?" The two kicked open the double doors and pulled their leather jackets tighter around themselves against the lingering chill. Spring was taking its good sweet time this year.
"How you're paying for all these repairs. I don't want to have to lie to the police when they come 'round."
"Atta boy, AJ. Deny, deny, deny."
Crowley rolled his eyes as he unlocked his car. "You've got to stop calling me AJ. That's such a baby nickname, I'm eighteen."
"I'm twenty. You're basically a baby to me. AJ. Hurry up, I'm going to miss my appointment."
"Give me a damn second," Crowley growled, finding the right tape.
"I can't believe you can't even put a fucking CD in this old-ass car," Beez said.
"I like my cassettes, thank you very much. Roll down the window, would you?" Crowley put his sunglasses on and pulled out of the parking lot, tires squealing. The beginning chords to My Melancholy Blues floated from the open window along with the smoke from Beez's cigarette.
Another party's over
And I'm left cold sober
"Okay, what's wrong?" Beez put her cigarette out and tossed it out the window.
"Nffmrgh." Crowley kept his eyes on the road. Beez loosely translated this to nothing, what's wrong with you?
"I know we've never been... like, touchy-feely, none of our friends are. But there's something wrong with you, dude."
"Nfmmddk."
"AJ."
"No."
"Anthony."
"Mmnkf. Leave me alone."
"Anthony Janthony Crowley if you don't tell me what's wrong right now-"
"I don't want to talk about him."
"Oh, so it's a him."
"Beatrice, for the love of whatever is out there. You'll have to hitchhike the rest of the way if you don't shut up."
"You wouldn't."
"I would."
I'm permanently glued
To this extraordinary mood so now move over
Let me take over
With my melancholy blues
Beez glanced over at Crowley. She would never tell him, but he was the closest she ever got to a little brother. Someone to hang out with, lowkey bully, and instill bad habits in. She knew Crowley. There was only one he that could be bothering him this much. A certain someone who had been the center of his universe for over two years.
There was no mistaking the way he looked at that Fell guy.
Honestly. If Crowley thought that he was in any way discreet about being gay- or bi, or whatever flavor of LGBT he was- then he must be the second most dense person Beez knew. The first being Aziraphale Fell himself for not picking up on it.
Freddie Mercury continued to croon. Crowley drove like an absolute asshole but somehow didn't hit any curbs. Maybe they would be early. If they got there alive. "You know," Beez said, trying to sound nonchalant as if they weren't gripping the side of the car, white-knuckled, fearing for their life, "a more upbeat song might help your mood. At least something angry."
"I'm done being angry."
That was sort of a lie. Crowley pulled into the parking lot of the tattoo shop and settled in for a long wait. He wasn't angry right now. He had been. Didn't mean he was done, he might be later. His pitiful few hours of sleep weren't sufficient. He was too tired to feel much right now.
It was the worst fight he had had with Aziraphale in- well, all the time they'd known each other. They had bickered before, debated, snapped, and doled out silent treatments that lasted up to a full day.
But they had never fought like this before. Crowley was sure Beez wouldn't understand it. Nobody would.
...
"Hey, 'Zira! Aziraphale!" Crowley whisper-shouted, chucking another pebble in a perfect arc. It pinged off a bedroom window on the second floor of the Fell house.
His best friend appeared in the window. Crowley grinned his too-many-teeth smile. Aziraphale rolled his eyes, put a finger to his lips, and motioned for Crowley to climb up. He clambered from patio furniture onto the small ledge offered by the trim around the bathroom window, stretching his arms out so Aziraphale could lean down and grab his hands. Aziraphale grabbed him quickly- he had waited too long once and Crowley had lost his balance, knocking the wind out of his lungs by falling straight backward onto the back porch. Crowley giggled as he was hauled into the room, feeling breathless like he did every time he was reminded just how strong Aziraphale was. How easily he could toss around the weight of someone as lean and scarecrow-like as Crowley.
"You're ridiculous," Aziraphale whispered, watching his best friend fall over himself in his hurry. "Absolutely ridiculous, Anthony."
"You love me for it," Crowley replied flippantly, sprawling across the bed. There was the L word. He hadn't used it directly- not, like seriously, not yet- but Aziraphale never argued with it when he said stuff like this. Only sorta joking.
"Shoes."
"Right, sorry." He had the decency to look sheepish as he kicked off his boots. While he was at it, he peeled off his jacket and draped it over the end of the bed. "We don't have to whisper. I saw your parents leave."
"They won't be gone for long. Look, I have to tell you something."
"Me too. I had the best idea for prom. We should get our ears pierced before. Wouldn't that be something?"
"Anthony."
"Everyone would be shocked. And we could pull it off, you would look great with silver studs."
"I found a date."
Aziraphale sank into his desk chair and watched Crowley blink. Then his smile started to fade. "Huh?"
"I'm taking Tracy Richardson to the prom."
"Wh- b- why?" Crowley sat up, his red hair now slightly disheveled.
"Because she didn't have a date. So I asked her."
"I thought we were going together."
Aziraphale sighed. "We were, as friends. Because we didn't have anyone else to go with. Now I do. Aren't you looking for a real date?"
"'Ziraphale, we were each other's real dates. That's how I understood it. We were going together."
"Anthony... no." He hated the way the other boy's expression continued to fall as he went on, but this was necessary. The bandage had to be ripped off. "That's not possible. We could never go as... as dates."
"Why not?" Crowley demanded. Aziraphale tried to shush him- Gabriel was downstairs and he would not hesitate to tell their parents everything- but Crowley went on at the same volume, heedless of any potential consequences. "Why couldn't we have gone as dates? You know how I feel about you, and I know how you feel about me."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I- ngk- Aziraphale, we've known each other a long time now. And at some point, it stopped being just friendly. I think we both know that."
Aziraphale felt heat begin to creep up his neck and he shifted in his seat. It was true, he thought, guilt weighing heavily on his heart. He had never felt for someone the way he felt for Anthony Crowley. Which was why this hurt. "Well, even if that's how it's been, it can't last forever. We're almost ready to graduate-"
"And then we can go off! Together!" Crowley stood, arms flailing out to gesture to something, somewhere, as he began to pace to room. "We've talked about it before. Eighteen years old, we can move out and start living our own lives. I'd go anywhere with you, wherever you went to college, I could find a job- fixing cars, landscaping-"
"That's ridiculous. Those- daydreams aren't feasible."
"Is it though? It's not the fuckin' seventeenth- fourteenth century or whatever, there wouldn't be anything wrong with-"
"With what?" Aziraphale snapped. "Nothing wrong with going against my family, going against God-"
Crowley let out a derisive snort. "God? You really believe God would have a problem?"
"Well- I don't- maybe not God specifically, but plenty of people who believe in God. People around here. People all sorts of places."
"We could find our own place. It's not impossible, plenty of people are like this, plenty of people are gay-"
"I can't- Stop. Just stop, Crowley. I can't listen anymore, have you- have you even asked anyone? Plenty of girls would go with you to prom." Aziraphale closed his eyes. He couldn't stand the sight of Anthony's breaking heart.
"I don't want any girl, I want you! And this isn't just about prom, it never was. I don't care about prom. This is about us."
"Those kinds of feelings- I shouldn't have them. You are my best friend." He kept his eyes scrunched closed as if maybe the whole problem would go away.
"And we could be more, I want to be more to you."
He heard something hit the carpet.
"Aziraphale, my dad hates me already. He knows. I never had to tell him, he knows. And even if your family hates you for it, is it really worth pretending all your life? And- and maybe they'll come around. You're a good kid, you go to church with them... maybe they'll change their minds..."
He didn't respond. He was afraid of what he might say if he did. What kinds of confessions. (That he could never imagine being happy with a wife. Or a girlfriend. He couldn't imagine having much fun with his female date to prom, at least not as much fun as prom would be with Anthony. The idea of spending his entire life pretending that he didn't have these feelings made his chest constrict and made him want to scream, but he didn't see any other option. No matter what he chose, it would be hard.)
"I love you."
Aziraphale opened his eyes. There was Crowley, kneeling on the carpet, those light brown eyes- beautiful eyes- still shining with hope. It was almost like some mockery of a proposal.
They could never get married anyway. Not in the eyes of the law.
"I love you," he repeated, louder as if baring his soul even further would fix this, would fix the world for them.
"You don't. That's not- we can't."
"But I do, and we can."
"Come on. Up," Aziraphale stood, offering Crowley a hand up. He didn't take it.
"I love you."
"There are people at school who would beat the living hell out of you if they heard that, Crowley. This isn't like other love, we can't do this." Aziraphale pulled his best friend to his unsteady feet. There. The job was done. He'd broken Crowley's heart. He didn't feel any relief or satisfaction. He tried to keep the greater good in mind. It was hard. "There, now," he let go of Crowley's hands, "nothing more to say-"
Crowley's mouth crashed into his, warm and soft and desperate. Aziraphale stumbled backward a step, a surprised noise getting muffled in Crowley's mouth.
Please work, please work, Crowley prayed in his head, holding tight to Aziraphale's jacket and trying to pour as much love into this stupid kiss as possible. He had never actually kissed anyone before in spite of all that big talk he talked. He hoped he was doing it right. The way they did in the movies. Except one of them was always a girl in the movies. Please, God, if you're real let him change his mind.
He felt a hand on his shoulder blade. Quick as it had landed, it was gone. Then there, then gone again, hovering, unsure of whether to pull Crowley closer or not.
Aziraphale had been kissed before. It had never felt like this. He had never wanted so badly to sink into it, to never come up for air, to feel Anthony's freckled nose pressed into his cheek again, and again, and again-
He had to stop this. Before he broke and never stopped kissing him.
He managed to pull away with a gasp. Oh. When had he started crying? Didn't matter. There were tears on his cheeks- Crowley's too, but he was sure who those belonged to. There were tears on their cheeks and no taking them back. Aziraphale tore his gaze away from Crowley's lips and forced himself to look his favorite person in the eyes.
"Get out."
Crowley was frozen, stunned. "I'm sorry," he started to mumble, not entirely sure what he was sorry for.
"Get out of my room, now."
In a flash, Crowley was moving, scrambling to retrieve his boots before he started crying. He could feel it prickling behind his eyes. As fast as he could- faster than was safe for being on the second floor- he hauled himself back out the window and landed on his feet on the porch. He didn't look back, didn't take the time to put his shoes back on. He ran around the side of the house, and out into the street, and kept running.
Ever since then, he had been operating in a daze.
Nothing mattered anymore. He had ruined his friendship with Aziraphale by being stupid. He should have kept his feelings locked up in his chest where they belonged. What was he thinking?
That maybe he would choose you, even if it turned part of the world against him. Maybe he cared about you as much as you cared about him.
Stupid. His family still liked him. He had more to lose than Crowley did. And Crowley could never be enough to make up for that loss.
He blinked back a rush of new tears. It ached to cry now. His eyes were physically tired of it. From deep inside the glove box, Crowley found a carton of cigarettes from months ago. It was weird that he hadn't finished them yet. That was what hanging around Aziraphale did. Put everything else from his mind. And he hated getting into Crowley's car when it smelled like smoke, and Crowley liked Aziraphale in the passenger seat. Back when he would look at you. Now he won't even do that. You don't even exist to him.
He found a lighter in Beez's jacket pocket and tried to focus on watching smoke spiral instead.
After Crowley had disappeared, Aziraphale wanted to go after him. To call him back. To undo what had happened and do it again but right. Which made no sense, he had done the right thing just then, yes?
If it was the right thing, why did it feel wrong?
Crowley's jacket lay at the end of the bed, forgotten in his rush to get away. Aziraphale picked it up and felt something heavy. Overturning the jacket sent a ridiculous amount of knick-knacks spilling out of the pockets.
You love me for it.
Aziraphale shook his head. He did. He shouldn't. There were a couple of crumpled receipts. Paper clips. A lighter. Some shiny rocks. Gum. A CD.
A CD? Crowley didn't listen to CDs, his car didn't even have a way to play them. Aziraphale turned it over. There was a date scrawled onto it, about a month ago. He popped the case open. For Zira, was scribbled in permanent marker on the shiny new disk. Nothing else.
Aziraphale "borrowed" Uriel's CD player, and gently inserted the disk.
A couple of these songs were his favorites. Ones Crowley would have heard him hum along to countless times over the years they'd known each other. Love songs. There was some Queen, of course. Ballads. Love songs. A few that Aziraphale had never heard before.
They were all love songs.
He listened until the end. Then he started it over. The other things from Crowley's pockets ended up on the floor, and Aziraphale ended up curled at the foot of his bed, face pressed into the jacket. It smelled like smoke and cologne and a little like hairspray around the collar. It smelled like having Anthony's arm around his shoulder and being the only one allowed to call him Anthony, dear when they were alone and it smelled like being in the passenger seat of his car, quietly praying they wouldn't pass any cops and having this same jacket around his shoulders when he got cold at football games. It was soft and it muffled the awful sobs that wouldn't stop.
If this was the right thing, why did he feel like he was dying?
Why couldn't he let go of the stupid jacket?
Why did the thought of the scent fading- the jacket eventually smelling like lemon cleaning spray and nothing like his house- make him start crying all over again?
By the time his parents got home, Aziraphale had washed his face with cold water and managed to quit crying. The jacket was folded up in his backpack, safe for now. The CD, back in its case, was taped to the top of his closet where not even his snooping little sister would find it. His mother did a once-over of his room before she said goodnight. Aziraphale was always a little bit irrationally afraid that she might gain a sixth sense for telling when Anthony had been there. As always though, there was no need to worry. He had checked the windowsill for scuff marks and got rid of them, closed and locked the window back up, and his bed was perfectly made, with no red hairs clinging to the sheets. No ma'am, no punk troublemakers have ever been sprawled across my bed, never.
He expected to have trouble sleeping, but the emotional turmoil of the day must have worn him out because he was out like a light. The desk chair was up under the door handle since there were no locks anywhere in the house. He didn't want to risk anyone opening the door and seeing the jacket pressed to his chest as he slept.