you'd like to stay in heaven (but the rules are too tough)

bite your tongue until it tastes like blood

Hi! Back with another chapter... I don't even know how many weeks I've missed at this point. However, if you're feeling deprived, you can always go on AO3, where I've already posted this whole story, haha. My username is tigerlilycorinne and I'm much more present on AO3!

Friday the 13th, 2033

"You can't possibly be surprised," Aziraphale said to Crowley, matter-of-fact, as if this was not the single most excruciating sentence Crowley has ever heard in his six-thousand years alive.

"I am surprised." They were sitting in Crowley's—well, living room is a generous word for it. They were sitting in his... room, where he's got one huge, elaborate chair made of dark wood. He liked the way it framed him; it made him look cool, especially with the sunglasses. Right now, though, he had very much regretted the choice, because the last thing he wanted to do is look even more evil and demonic than the red hair and the black suit and the dark sunglasses suggested.

He thought about taking his sunglasses off. He decided against it. The only thing worse than dark, obscuring shades were bright, piercing snake eyes.

Aziraphale sniffed and looked away from Crowley, his mouth quivering in an unhappy line. He'd clasped his hands in front of him tightly. He'd miracled himself a chair, white and simple, which only served to make Crowley feel more ridiculous.

Aziraphale said the thing Crowley hated hearing him say, the thing Aziraphale seemed near-obsessed with: "I'm an angel! And you're a demon!"

Crowley suppressed a groan. Aziraphale might as well have recorded that line and pressed a button whenever he wanted to say it, and that would save him a good deal of breath. Sure, they had good conversations sometimes, but again and again and again, they found themselves back here.

"I thought we were on our own side," Crowley grumbled. He may as well have recorded that line himself and pressed it every time he wanted to say it, and that would save him a good deal of breath. Crowley was a broken record and Aziraphale was a broken record. They were two broken records in conversation.

"Well." Aziraphel's lips pouted. "Well." And then, like he didn't want to say it but he had to say it, "Apparently not."

Actually, Crowley thought about saying, you don't have to say it. By the way.

"It doesn't have to matter," Crowley tried lamely. Very lamely. "It might not even be true. Hell gave out some false matches, you know."

"Seems like quite a coincidence, don't you think?" Aziraphale still wasn't looking at him, still.

Per usual.

Crowley didn't say anything. He didn't have anything to say. Also, every time he tried to make a noise out of his throat, he felt tears stinging the back of his throat. It was absolutely ridiculous. Snakes didn't even cry. Did snakes cry? He was pretty sure they didn't.

Aziraphale didn't like long, tense silences. (Crowley liked them as a way of provocation; long, tense silences are great tools for sowing discord.) He said tentatively, "Your houseplants are lovely."

"Yes, thank you," Crowley said shortly.

Aziraphale tried again: "I didn't think you'd have such a—a green thumb."

Crowley wanted to be anywhere but there. Antarctica would be better. Alpha Centuri. Why did he reject Alpha Centuri again? Because Aziraphale wasn't there, that was why. And now he here was, going through the worst (and only) break-up of his life, and it wasn't even a list of grievances that separated them, but Hell's latest press release.