𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐍, ineffable husbands

softened heart

Year nine: This was the longest the odd pair had been silent towards each other in quite a while. It had been a month since they last talked, and three days since they physically saw each other.

It hurt. It hurt a lot.

Crowley found himself staying in his room, sometimes struggling to read those scattered books in his bookshelf, and sometimes staying in bed under covers for elongated periods of time. The covers were soft and felt like feathers, but they never seemed to be dirty. Come to think of it, he wasn't dirty at all either. He wondered how he suddenly got cleaned; didn't he come here covered in dirt?

He sighed, turning over on his bed. It was a difficult barrier to cross; neither of them wanted to seem too needy or too affectionate. Almost battling their pride, they refused to acknowledge their love and their loss interchangeably. And it wasn't like he was going to swallow his pride, either. He decided upon sitting and sulking, just like how Aziraphale was probably doing.

Thinking as he lay in bed, he reflected marginally on how he had changed. Whereas the first year he was cold, never touchy and strong, he seemed to have softened up. He couldn't decide if this was a good or bad thing; God, he used to be so strong. Maybe he wasn't a highly sought after demon in Hell, but he did know how to get his way out of any situation that came.

He was weak now.

Forcing himself out of bed (it had probably been a week since he first got in it), he dragged himself to the kitchen. He didn't know what he'd find, but he'd find something to entertain himself.

Inconspicuously enough, there was a set of kitchen knives apparently used to cook something. Chuckling to himself, he remembered that he didn't need to eat anyway. He picked up one of the smaller knives; he didn't quite know what it was for.

It was flimsy and cheap, sporting a sad plastic handle and a dull, somehow unused blade. Without exactly thinking, he chucked it at a wall like he had not only in Hell, but many centuries ago as well.

Surprisingly, it stuck. He was slightly bemused, sporting a small smile that hadn't appeared since he last talked to Aziraphale. There were two other knives and without recollection, he threw them at the wall too.

Thunk. Thunk. They both landed exactly beside the first knife, both about two inches apart and at the same height. Knife throwing was a small passion he had that ended up becoming a handy skill in his previous home. He collected them and threw them again. It was almost soothing, tossing them in quick patterns only to retrieve them again.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. He wondered how Aziraphale was doing.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. He wondered what would happen next year when he was finally reformed.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. He stopped thinking for a while as he calmly threw knives at the wall, never considering how the holes would be repaired. That was a problem for future Crowley.

He paused as he saw a faint pale figure moving in the halls. The said figure then came out to greet him, sporting a confused smile. He forgot how much he loved that stupid grin.

"You need something?" he asked, about as friendly as he could. He hoped Aziraphale didn't interpret it as a shot to the heart, it was a genuine question. He hadn't seen him in what felt like years, after all.

Aziraphale cocked his head to the side, a very cute habit he had when he was confused. "Why are you throwing knives at the wall?" Crowley threw the three knives at the wall again in a perfect triangular shape. "And how are you so good at it?"

"A couple centuries of knife throwing makes you good, I suppose." He'll ignore the fact that he suddenly cares about the angel's senseless questions. Usually just ignore them and continue without a passing thought.

A moment of silence passed; it was sweet and undisturbed.

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Eventually, the duo found themselves apologizing for their long absences and laying together on the couch in the living room as they have many times before. Crowley's head was resting in the angel's lap as the two cuddled for a sort of protection against a seemingly invisible world.

He missed this. They missed this.

There was a sort of silence perpendicular to the mood of the scene. Of course, the little objects made their little sounds; the house rested, his hair was mused, and the floors creaked their soprano songs. He decided to interrupt with his own countermelody.

"Do you love me?"

Crowley could see the walls melting with his question, bleeding a sort of tempo that went against his own. While everyone else was in triple feel, he was stuck in double. The lover musing with his hair paused, if only for a second.

"If this is about us not talking for a bit, it's-"

"I know, but do you love me?"

A horrible silence filled the room, pausing the glorious orchestra of domesticity. Ghosts and demons and fools seemed to fill the space, drowning the two in a hymn of misery.

"Of course I love you." The song rose to a crescendo. "I think I've loved you since your second year here. I love your looks, your wit, and who you've come to be since we've met." Crowley turned to look at him, eyes slightly wide and almost teary.

They met eyes for a glimpse of a moment, the foam of the sea meeting the clay of the earth. They parted as soon as they were greeted, with Crowley gently nudging his head into Aziraphale's chest.

"I love you too." It hadn't been said for months, but there it was, the perfect dissonance to the ensemble of lights and sounds and movement.

He felt his head carefully lifted from the nape of his neck and he obliged. The ocean met the land once again.

They slowly and carefully leaned into a kiss. It was a beautiful ending to a beautiful piece.