Chapter Text
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Since Eden, Crowley had begun to express and write down his emotions. Little poems, even hymns of praise. First on parchment, then on paper, and then finally on his own blog, which he had lovingly named “SinfullSinner666”. His real goal, however, was sinking them directly into Aziraphale's skin. Memorizing every single poem, whispering them into the smooth, soft spots of Aziraphale's skin – one verse would drown in the distorted corners of his mouth, another in his ear, he would whisper the next verse against the sensitive skin of his neck, and with another deep breath he would finish the final verse against his full lips.
And Crowley knew them all by heart. It didn't matter whether the poem was just a single week or six thousand years old – every single word wandered around in his mind, wrapped around his brain and pushed him to finally say them out loud. But he preferred taking the safer route, the quieter one. The route that would save him the trouble of having to expect rejection, or an embarrassed laugh. He knew how much his angel loved literature, and his fear of being incapable of keeping up with it (especially not with Oscar Wilde!) forced his bravery to its knees every single time.
Shakespeare probably would have punished him with laughter if he told him that he was writing poems for his enthusiastic companion, who enjoyed shouting good-spirited comments up to the stage, and never even thought about reciting them to him. Although the thought of standing on a big stage underneath the halo of a spotlight and speaking these words directly towards the angel in the audience did speak to Crowley's inner drama queen. No matter how kitschy or painfully romantic these poems might be, Shakespeare would definitely be the last person to judge him for his choice of words. For a brief moment back then Crowley even thought that Aziraphale might not even find his poems that terrible. This thought, however, vanished from his mind just as quickly as his fascination for Shakespeare.
But the worst thing was Crowley's acquaintance with the modern age. The internet was such a huge platform for a poor, misunderstood artist like him, and not only did it offer him an opportunity to be heard but it also gave him inspiration. Inspiration, however, had never been something that Crowley lacked as an author. Aziraphale only had to look in his general direction, or sweetly smile at him because he had made a stupid joke, and immediately, Crowley came up with a million new ideas. He was willing to accept an audience that was offered to him, however. At least for now. It was nice to know that his poems were devoured by his readers' greedy eyes, that these thousands of years worth of practice hadn't gone to waste and that at least someone was reading them – even if these people weren't Aziraphale.
Terrible, however, were these encouraging comments; small attempts to make the author finally confess to his beloved person. Even worse, perhaps, were the people that told him to tell him everything so that the world would finally be liberated from this awful kitsch. At some point in the future, Crowley would personally take care of the person who wrote this comment. And yet, none of these comments helped convince Crowley to place one of his works in front of Aziraphale's eyes. Most times he just shook his head, closed his laptop and opened up his notebook. Perhaps he would delete his blog. After all, the approval of these people wasn't really what he was looking for.
That was until Crowley was killing time inside Aziraphale's bookstore one day. He had gotten comfortable in one of his wing chairs and placed his feet on the small table in front of him, in spite of Aziraphale's repeated pleas not to do so. At least the angel had managed to convince him to take off his heavy shoes, so that the wood wouldn't be damaged. Crowley's eyes were pointed at a book in his hands. Recently, he had been trying to appear willing to educate himself. Aziraphale was stunned by Crowley's newly acquired fondness for reading and, passionately, told him about all of his favorite works and recommended other books and authors to him. The only reason behind Crowley's interest for books, however, was just that passion of Aziraphale as well as getting another easy chance to inconspicuously visit the bookstore and watch his angel more often. And so it happened that Crowley got to listen to a heated conversation between Aziraphale and one of his customers. Apparently, they were talking about Brecht's love poems, and the customer wanted to know whether the angel had a collection of them in stock. Of course he did, but Aziraphale was the last person who would admit that. The customer's small disappointment ended in a deep discussion about romantic literature, and Crowley could see his angel's eyes light up in excitement every now and then from where he was sitting. He tried his very best to hide his smile behind his book.
“Ah, remember the good old days, when 'love' still had a meaning? Yes, when love and nature were united, when the girls turned into flowers and everything rhymed!”, the customer mused.
“Oh yes, the rhymes. Sometimes I do miss them, yes. Ever since the days of the Trümmerliteratur there has been a certain lack of a pattern, and I can't quite figure out what to think of it. I really liked all these schemes, they always gave poems a certain...something. Or maybe I just haven't read into it enough yet, maybe that's it. I must say that I am a bit of a fanatic when it comes to the old classics”, Aziraphale smiled as he conscientiously placed some books back in their respective shelves.
The customer followed his moves with his eyes and snorted. “Surely. I just can't seem to get into modern literature. Now that everyone can put their scribblings online, seeking for some sort of validation.”
Wondering, the angel raised one of his brows. “How do you mean that?”
“Surely you have visited literary blogs before, on the internet?”
Aziraphale shook his head. “I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you. I'm no good with electronics and such.”
The customer understandingly patted his shoulder. “Oh, it'll come to you eventually. At some point, it becomes inevitable. Sadly. I haven't found a single piece of literature worth reading there before. But if you'd like to have a good laugh, I could definitely give you some recommendations. “
“I absolutely am not one to judge the literature of others”, spoke Aziraphale, returning to his counter with the customer right behind him.
“Don't worry, this is far away from discussing whether Franz Kafka was a good author or not”, laughed the customer. “Here, I'll write some things down for you. Literature fanatics like ourselves should be allowed to rant about things like these sometimes, I should think.”
Aziraphale traced the swift writing of the customer with his eyes and definitely couldn't deny that even he had gotten a little curious about this. “These are authors?”, he asked confusedly as he read the note.
“Wannabes”, the customer corrected him, and left the store with a nod of his head.
Crowley had quietly watched the scene unfold before him, his heart weighing heavily in his chest. He put on a critical look when Aziraphale walked towards him to get another cup of hot chocolate. He wanted to say something, something to defend Franz Kafka maybe, or something to show him that he had actually been reading the book he was holding in his hands. But before he could think of something, his voice failed him and his world shattered before him.
“'Sinfullsinner666? Is this how people call their children these days?”, Aziraphale spoke under his breath as he went past Crowley.
With a loud bang, Crowley closed his book, disappeared into his home and opened up his laptop.
~×~×~
& i think to myself
with you dies all beauty
& pierced by cupid's arrow
before you, I drop to my knees.