𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐍, ineffable husbands

sunkisses and flower feilds

Year four: Time was confusing and strange for Crowley; most likely because he hadn't experienced time in Heaven. It was slow, yet so terribly fast. Before he knew it, he had spent three whole years in this fabricated cottage of sorts. He couldn't tell if he was enjoying himself or if he was terribly annoyed.

Oftentimes he found himself wandering while his mind fell behind his feet, and right now was one of those times. He assumed he gained the habit from the lengths he had traveled in hell, for he couldn't necessarily remember his real human life. Some instances, however, would never leave his mind.

He looked at the world around him. For some reason, his feet had taken him outside again, but he wasn't as hesitant as he was before. The house was a good twenty yards behind him, and he was standing in a field of flowers, all different and vibrant colors. It smelled sweet and fragrant; he couldn't quite remember where he had smelled it before.

With certain hesitancy, he sat down amongst the weeds. The flowers and overgrown grass were now up to his stomach, and it appeared that the closer he was to the ground, the sweeter the scent around him. It was a pleasant change from where he had originally come from.

He mindlessly picked at the flowers, pausing when he came to a pale blue one. There was something about the color blue he had enjoyed so much, perhaps because it was the opposite of the dark red that loomed over hell. He picked it out of the earth, and could almost hear the flower singing back at him.

Footsteps approached, but he didn't really care to look behind him. A figure he was unfortunately familiar with sat next to him, making sure not to flatten any flowers as well. The dimming and orange sky seemed to compliment Aziraphale's skin, kissing every inch that it saw. Crowley wished he was the sky.

For a long while they sat in complimentary silence, observing the evening sunset together as they sat in that same field of flowers. Out of the corner of his eyes, the demon saw the angel fiddle with weeds and flowers; he didn't mind. For all he knew, it was all fake and would come back the next morning.

"So," Aziraphale started, "What made you come back outside? I thought you were still afraid." Crowley rolled his eyes, still staring off into space. "I was never afraid. I just don't quite trust it."

"But you're outside now? How can you be outside if you don't trust it?"

"I don't know," he responded plainly. It wasn't a lie. And while Aziraphale was fiddling with grass and flowers, the both of them returned to the comforting silence that cloaked them with the feeling of velvet.

The wind breezed through their hairs and their clothes, and the clouds were scarce enough to never block the setting sun that seemed right in front of them. Listening closely, the flowers sang with a silent hymn and the trees joined with their bass voices. The forest wasn't theirs, it was its own life with its own breath and its own voice. And it was beautiful.

As the sky dimmed to a lively red, the angel spoke up. "I have a more personal question, if that's okay. You don't have to answer it though."

"Shoot." Maybe he was in a good mood, but he missed his voice in the silence. It was soothing when he wasn't a prick.

It took him a few moments to gather his wording. "How did you become a demon? They don't tell us how humans become demons." He paused, seeming to wonder if he was crossing a line. "If you are a human turned demon, that is."

Crowley sighed, sitting up and finally facing him. "I am, I was once a human." He looked at the angel and what he was fiddling with; it seemed to be a crown made of flowers. How silly.

He stared at him in silence, seeming to wait for him to go on as he fiddled with his crown. It was an odd mess of rainbow, which coordinated yet clashed at the same time.

"You get sent to hell as a human, and sometimes He will offer you a chance to be revived again. The way you get revived is you have to play a game with him. If you win, you go back to your human life." He paused, giving himself time to forget. "He being Satan, of course."

"And if you lose?"

Crowley looked away. "You become a demon, and most of your memories are ripped from you. The only ones that tend to stay are the worst ones." It was unfortunate he remembered the way he had gotten himself to hell.

"I see." It was hard to take Aziraphale seriously with a flower crown posed in his hands. He placed it beside him, lying down on the grass as it slowly turned darker into the night. "Do you remember any good memories?"

Crowley joined him in laying down; it might be his favorite part of this world. He could lie down whenever he pleased, with no risk to his health. "Let me think." He placed his arms behind his head as he watched a number of stars slowly appear.

He couldn't remember anything great about who he once was, and they both knew that. They settled for the half thought of answer, and laid together in solemn peace once again.

Hours seemed to pass as they watched the sky turn from blue, to navy, to a deepened black. There seemed to be no apparent plan to head back inside, which Crowley was thankful for. It was pleasant to see the nicer side of Aziraphale, the side that didn't wake him up for stupid reasons or throw a pillow at him at random moments.

"What about you?" This was probably the first time Crowley was the one to break the quiet built up between the two. He wasn't trying to be polite; he was curious as to who he was when he was human.

Aziraphale thought a while, then turned to his side to face the other, smiling when he did the same. "I'm not sure," he started. "It's been a while since I died. I've never been one to dwell on the past, but I remember how I died. I'm pretty sure that I was murdered, but it was faked as a suicide."

The demon was quiet again, remembering the torment of his past life. "A murder, huh?" He tried to hide the rising of his voice, desperately fading his fear. "Why?"

"Dunno. I was alive in the middle ages, so sometimes people got murdered for no reason." The angel turned to his back again, and so did the demon. "The guy who murdered me was probably part of an organization, or it was his job. I did a pretty good job of pissing people off back in the day." He ended his sentence with a laugh, but Crowley simply stared at the sky in fear.

The stories and memories matched up, for the worst memory Crowley had of his human life was his last paid murder. He had been assigned to kill a man with white hair, pale skin, and beautiful hazel eyes. He had screamed and cried for mercy the entire time, almost refusing to die, unlike every other person he had killed.

The last thing he remembered was the lights dying out in his eyes, and his hands being coated in crimson; the whole thing had taken around an hour. He shivered, and wondered if Aziraphale remembered, or if his memories were deceiving him.

They laid in silence once again, but it lasted until daybreak, when the stars had faded and the sun rose behind them. When he looked over, Aziraphale was asleep. There was no doubt he had killed him when they were both human.

He carefully stood up and walked towards the cottage, wondering if there was a way out of the program. He belonged in Hell.