Chapter Text
Instead of sneaking out of the house at dawn while Azi was still asleep, as he had intended, Crowley sat down in the small, dark kitchen and watched the day slowly awaken outside the window. Inside the kitchen, it smelled like grease remover and melted butter.
When he heard Azi get up, he went out and hid behind the church. Wisps of mist hung in the surrounding treetops, and dead leaves from the previous year covered the meadow. In daylight, the church no longer looked menacing, but crude like the other religious buildings that could be found on every street corner in the urban districts. Soon, men and women in neatly ironed clothes and waterproof jackets approached along the alley as if on a pilgrimage, their hands folded over the prayer books on their chests. They formed small groups on the forecourt, talking and laughing, or entered the church directly through the front gate. Crowley could think of nothing better to do than hide his sunglasses and leather jacket behind the cemetery wall and comb his hair as best as he could with his fingers. For once, he would try not to attract attention.
He sat down in the furthest corner of the back pew. He hadn't been to church since the day he had flunked out of school. The quiet, echoing chancel; the reverent whispers of the worshippers; the smell of incense; everything gave Crowley goose bumps. He felt the urgent need to wash himself. He inspected the walls, decorated with white stucco and capitals, painted light blue and pink, and the lavish flower arrangements on the altar. There was no doubt that Azi felt at home here.
A bell rang. Everyone stood up. Azi, in a flowing white robe with a purple stole, entered the chancel through the side entrance, followed by two altar servers dressed in red and white. He had pursed his lips and raised his chin, smiling at the people in the front row. His face wore that stilted, slightly arrogant expression he always had when he was convinced he was in the right. Given what had happened the previous evening, Crowley had expected to see guilt, shamefaced looks, uncertain steps. Instead, Azi's eyes shone with self-assurance.
The organ played, everyone sang in unison, and then fell silent to allow Azi to speak. He recited the liturgical text through a microphone, confident and routine, but without sounding bored. There was warmth and kindness in his melodious voice. Since Crowley had first met him as a deacon, Azi had visibly put on weight, but he no longer looked pale and overtired. He really seemed to love what he was doing. As he held up a sumptuous leather-and-gold bound Bible, the congregation crossed themselves like a flock of obedient sheep following the commands of their shepherd.
After what seemed like an eternity - only an hour and a half according to Crowley's wristwatch - he stepped outside again. He took a deep breath of the cleansed air and refrained from sinking to his knees and kissing the unholy ground. The fog had lifted and a hazy sun sprayed its white glow over the churchyard.
~
They lay together on the sofa, which was barely wide enough for both of them. Outside, it had stopped pouring, and a silent, pitch-black night now reigned over the world. Azi's hand sometimes played with Crowley's hair, sometimes scratched his scalp.
"Did you want this all along?" Azi asked.
"No. Not the whole time."
Crowley buried his face against Azi's shoulder. He had suddenly become afraid of what he had done. Of the person he was. Azi should have burst into tears, or cursed him, or run away and left him alone forever. But Azi remained calm like Christ on the cross. That only frightened Crowley more.
"You're shaking," Azi whispered. He covered Crowley's upper body with his arms. "Don't worry, my love. It's all right."
Crowley didn't want to see or hear anything. He bathed in Azi's infinite mercy.
~
After the service, he met Azi again at the cemetery. Azi said he had to plan a funeral for tomorrow. The grave had already been dug. They stood in front of the deep pit and looked down at a black, reflective surface. During the night, the grave had filled with water that looked as if it would no longer drain away.
Azi frowned. "I'll have to call the gardener. Hopefully he has a machine to pump it out. If not, we'll have to scoop."
Crowley walked back to the vicarage alongside Azi. He eyed the graves they passed. He had always hated graveyards, but it had nothing to do with his youthful, satanic aberrations. Rather, the graves gave him the feeling that they were waiting for him, luring him in with their sweet silence and peacefulness, only to snap when he got too close. At open graves, he always felt like they had been dug for himself. In several dreams already he had been trapped alive in a coffin under the earth.
"Angel," Crowley said, trying to distract himself from the gravestones. "You've broken your vow of celibacy."
"Ah. Yes. You don't have to remind me."
"But you look like you don't mind."
Azi stopped in front of the cemetery wall. He looked around to make sure no one overheard them. Then he stepped closer to Crowley and whispered, "That wasn't the first time."
"What?"
"Shh, not so loud."
"I mean, what?"
"Back in seminary, not everyone was as pious as they pretended to be. Some say that the Catholic Church is the biggest homosexual organisation in the world. They're not wrong. But don't tell anyone you got that from me."
Crowley stared at Azi. His face must have shown a funny expression, because Azi held his hand in front of his mouth and snickered. Although Crowley remembered, and would always remember, how the soft skin on the inside of Azi's upper arms felt like, or how his fast and then slower beating heart sounded like up close, he doubted the reality of his memory. Perhaps last night had only taken place in a spiritual realm where angels and demons ruled. For a split second, he imagined himself reaching out and caressing Azi’s face, but eventually he made a reserved, polite gesture, inviting Azi to walk with him some more. They sat down on a bench next to the shrine of the Virgin Mary, which was embedded in a moss covered stone pillar in the shade under a large lime tree.
"Does that mean you would consider yourself gay?" Crowley asked.
Azi rolled his eyes a little bashfully. "If I wasn't a priest, I would."
Interesting, Crowley thought. After all these years, he was still discovering new sides to Azi. It really never got boring with him. Crowley was already looking forward to many more Friday dinners.
"But no matter which path we choose," Azi continued, "we have to make one sacrifice or another."
There he was again, Azi the philosopher. He sat on the bench with his legs crossed, all innocent and saint-like, and surveyed the churchyard like a prince overlooking his domain. Crowley grinned and stretched. He felt his sunglasses on his nose again, thank Satan. The smell of grass and damp earth was in the air; it was going to be a beautiful and long spring day.
~
Crowley travelled back to Southport by train. After making himself comfortable in his seat, he checked his phone, which he had switched to silent mode yesterday. Twenty-seven missed calls. All were from Michael. Crowley pressed the call-back button and waited. After the second dial tone, Michael answered.
"I have a confession to make," he blurted out before Crowley could even blink.
Crowley ran his hand over his mouth. "Where are you right now? Are you all right?"
"I-" Michael faltered and cleared his throat. "I broke your vase."
Crowley opened his mouth. Closed it again. He scratched the back of his neck, wondering what to say.
"I was so angry yesterday. I took it and threw it against the wall."
"It doesn't matter," Crowley said.
"They'll probably make a new one if I call the company. I'd also pay them and - what? Are you serious?"
"Where are you?" Crowley stood up. The train had arrived at Southport Station. "We can meet if you want."
He stalked along the promenade with its renovated half-timbered buildings. The sun glinted in the window panes to his right, and on the other side behind the fortifications, far out in the sea. From a distance, he recognised Michael as a pink spot. Hesitantly, he raised his hand and waved. He was not used to the queasy feeling in his stomach that had come over him during the train journey. He had never apologised to anyone before - he didn't even know how to do that.
But he didn't get round to it this time either, because when he reached Michael, the man immediately started gushing about how sorry he was. He shouldn't have tried to control Crowley; Crowley was complicated and he had no chance of understanding him. Michael spoke so quickly and excitedly that passers-by looked at him with concern. His eyes were puffy and his lips red and chapped, but Crowley still thought he was pretty, in his own pale, nerdy way.
"Do you want to stay with him?" Michael asked after he had caught his breath. He didn't look at Crowley and instead looked towards the sea, whose slow, steady glittering seemed to calm him a little.
"Of course I don't. He's a priest. How is that supposed to work?"
"I know I'm not as sweet and clever as he is. I'm so sorry."
"Shut up, Michael. It's not your fault."
Crowley wasn't stupid enough to think he'd become a better person overnight. New bouts of deadly boredom could come back to haunt him at any time. He was the same Crowley as before. Michael was the same. The world was the same. All he could do was try to mend this man's broken heart. When you wanted to do good, you had to start with the small things, right?
"Why are you here again?" Crowley asked. "With me, I mean."
Michael finally looked at him. "Do you think I'll find someone better than you?" And more quietly, he added: "I don't deserve any better."
"Ouch," Crowley said.
They walked on together. At one point, Michael reached out and took Crowley's hand. "I saw they have a nice vase in the new antique shop round the corner," he said. "Simple and very expensive. I'm sure you'd like it."
Crowley sighed. It was truly going to be a long day.