Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

September 1960

Ezra Fell took a sip of his tea. Ugh, cold. He was supposed to be preparing his lesson materials – classes were starting up in two days, after all – but he’d gotten so absorbed in re-reading Hamlet that he’d neglected to drink his tea while it was hot. And that had been his last teabag. He tried to get back to work, but the craving for a hot cup of tea had sunk its claws in too deep. Oh bother, he thought to himself, taking off his reading glasses and rubbing his eyes. He’d have to go to the kitchen for more tea bags. Normally he would just borrow one from Elijah, whose flat was just down the corridor, but that wasn’t an option anymore: Elijah had retired at the end of the last term. Him and Elijah had been... not friends, exactly – his colleagues were not known for their friendliness – but they’d gotten along well enough. He would miss the older man’s company at mealtimes, their discussions of classical literature and their shared interest in renaissance art. He sighed. Perhaps the new teacher would be worth befriending? He hoped so, or mealtimes and staff meetings would become even more intolerable.

As he left his flat, he was surprised to hear music playing. This was pretty unusual; in fact, Ezra couldn’t recall ever hearing music in the halls of Tadfield outside of ‘official’ occasions such as chapel services. And certainly not music like this. It was some sort of bebop or something, some atrocious modern thing, and it was coming from Elijah’s old flat. So much for a potential new friend, he thought to himself. He doubted he would have anything in common with someone who listened to that kind of music.

As he drew closer, he noticed the door to the offending flat was half-open. Good; he would introduce himself and perhaps ask the man to turn his music down a bit. What he saw when he peeked in the door made him pause for a moment. The flat’s occupant had his back to the door, but he was singing along (poorly) to some song about a hound dog, dancing goofily while watering what looked like a small jungle on the windowsill. He seemed to be dressed all in black – black trousers, black sweater, black fluffy socks poking out of black bedroom slippers; he would have been entirely monochrome if not for the vivid auburn shade of his hair. The man had long, skinny legs and arms that were waving about all over the place, seeming only vaguely acquainted with how human anatomy normally worked. Stifling a giggle at the display, Ezra rapped on the door frame.

The stranger spun around so quickly that he splashed water all over himself. “Shit,” he hissed, looking down at the mess.

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry,” fussed Ezra. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Here, let me,” he said, fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief.

“Thanks,” said the other man, putting down the now nearly empty jug and using the proffered square of fabric to dry himself as well as he could. Ezra took the opportunity to have a good look at the other man’s face. He looked young – younger than Ezra, at least; mid-thirties, maybe? He seemed to be scowling at his wet shirt, but his expression was a little difficult to read owing to the tinted glasses covering his eyes. They were not quite as dark as sunglasses, but they were still quite opaque enough that it was impossible to read the man’s eyes. Ezra briefly wondered whether they were for some kind of medical condition.

“Sorry, let me just...” the red-headed man leaned over and shut off the record player. “Sorry, didn’t know anyone else was around. Hope I didn’t bother you?”

“Not at all, dear boy,” Ezra assured him, “I only heard it because I was walking past in the corridor. I, erm, assume you’re the new history teacher?”

“Yes, sorry, where are my manners today, acting like a cave man. Anthony Crowley,” he said, extending a hand for Ezra to shake.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Crowley,” replied Ezra, taking the proffered hand. The man’s fingers were as long and skinny as the rest of him.

“Please, none of this ‘mister’ stuff, Crowley will do. Or Anthony, if you must. I prefer Crowley, though.”

“Crowley it is, then,” said Ezra; Anthony seemed altogether too soft a name for the angular, black clad man. “I’m Ezra Fell, I teach English.”

“Nice to meet you, Ezra.” One corner of Crowley’s mouth twitched up into a smile, and oh, wasn’t that lovely? Ezra couldn’t help but smile in return.

There were a few moments of slightly awkward silence. Ezra was just about to excuse himself when Crowley piped up, “Is this place always so quiet? I haven’t seen another living soul except for the groundskeeper. I was beginning to think I’d gotten my dates wrong.”

“I think you’ll find we’re generally a quiet bunch.” Ezra said. “The faculty, at least; everyone tends to keep to themselves. It’s a different matter once the students arrive. Put a few hundred pubescent boys in one building and chaos is inevitable.” Ezra shuddered slightly at the thought, but Crowley just laughed.

“Well, I’m looking forward to it.”

“That makes one of us,” Ezra replied drily. “Personally, I’m enjoying my last day or two of peace.”

The mention of the impending start of term reminded him of the pile of work still waiting on his desk. “Well. I’d better get along then,” he excused himself. “Lots of preparation to finish for the new term.”

“Oh, okay,” Crowley said, seeming vaguely disappointed at this turn of events. “Guess I’ll see you around, then.”

“Of course,” said Ezra, smiling. “If you need anything, my flat is just three doors down.”

As Ezra walked down the hall, he heard the music start up again. Oh dear, he probably should have warned Crowley to turn it down. He hoped it wouldn’t cause trouble for the newcomer. The teachers at Tadfield tended to be downright hostile to anything they perceived as disruptive, and Crowley didn’t look like he would conform to their status quo in the slightest. To his surprise, he’d found that he rather liked Crowley, and he’d hate for him to be made to feel unwelcome. He resolved to take the younger man under his wing. He would talk to him next time he saw him, give him the lay of the land, as it were; make sure that he wouldn’t get himself ostracised before he’d had a chance to settle in. Satisfied with this course of action, he set off to finish his work for the day.

---

Crowley smiled to himself as he closed the door behind his new colleague. Acquaintance? Friend, perhaps? Fuck knows, he could use one. He didn’t know a soul here. Not that he’d had many friends back in London either, and certainly not good ones. People tended to find him a bit strange, a bit prickly; they never stuck around quite long enough to become close.

Truth be told, he’d been a bit worried about fitting in at Tadfield. He knew its reputation as a school that valued tradition and propriety, and he’d never been particularly big on either of those. Until now, he’d only met Dr. Gabriel, the principal, and he quickly realised that he wouldn’t be forming any lifelong friendship there. The man was just a bit too loud, too smiley, too... immaculate.

His first encounter with one of his new colleagues boded well, though. Ezra had seemed friendly enough, even though he looked almost comically like a teacher from a stuffy private boarding school. Seriously, a bow tie and waistcoat on a weekend? Crowley chuckled to himself as he finished watering his plants, humming and bopping along to Elvis proclaiming that he was ‘all shook up’.

Next thing he knew, there was an angry banging on the door.

“Would you turn down that infernal racket? Some of us are trying to work!”  bellowed an angry voice.

Crowley fumbled to turn down the music before opening the door to apologise, but he was just in time to see a white-haired man angrily rounding the corner of the corridor. He felt his spirits sag a little. Perhaps Ezra was more of an outlier than he’d hoped. Still, one friend was better than none, right?

As he went to pack up the record player, he spotted Ezra’s handkerchief still lying on the table. He smiled as he draped it over a chair to dry: a perfect excuse to go visit his new friend again at some stage.

---

Ezra had been right: as soon as the students arrived, the school erupted in chaos. And since it was the first day, the place was swarming not only with boys of various ages but also with cars and anxious parents. At the moment they were all crammed into the auditorium: students and their parents filling the seats and spilling over into the aisles, teachers seated on the stage behind the podium.

Crowley was listening to Gabriel’s speech with half an ear, surveying the faces of the students in front of him. He idly guessed at their personalities, trying to pick out the nerds, the troublemakers, the popular boys. His musings were interrupted by Ezra elbowing him in the ribs. Crowley had been relieved when Ezra came up to him before the assembly started, offered to sit with him and show him the ropes. Now, he caught Crowley’s eye and then looked pointedly at Gabriel.

“- will be taken up by Anthony Crowley, who recently completed his PhD in history at Oxford.”

Shit, was Gabriel introducing him? He stood up out of his seat, gave an awkward wave at the audience. He could feel the parents staring, weighing him in the balance. It made him squirm, and he dropped back into his seat, trying to shrink away from their attention. Ezra gave him a small smile, seeming to pick up on his discomfort. Somehow, that small gesture made him feel a bit better; it felt like he had at least one person on his side.

“So. Doctor Crowley?” asked Ezra with a grin as they were leaving the auditorium.

“Don’t you dare,” Crowley hissed in reply. “Doctor is just for when I need to intimidate people.”

This pulled a laugh from Ezra –a lovely laugh, bubbling and tinkling like Christmas bells.

“What’s so funny?” asked Crowley.

“Oh, just trying to imagine you intimidating anyone,” Ezra giggled.

“Hey, I’ll have you know, I can be very intimidating,” said Crowley with mock indignation. He was trying for a scowl, but his face insisted on smiling instead.

“Yes, I’m sure you’re ever so terrifying,” teased Ezra.

 “Hey Mr. Fell!” greeted one of the boys walking past them.

“Oh, hello Adam,” replied Ezra. “Who’s your friend?” he gestured to a dark-haired boy next to Adam. The boy seemed shy, just glancing up through the hair hanging over his eyes. Gabriel would have something to say about that, no doubt.

“Warlock Dowling; he’s my roommate this year. This is Mr. Fell,” Adam said to the other boy. “He teaches English.” He turned back to the teachers. “Warlock’s new here.”

“I gathered as much. Pleased to meet you, Warlock,” said Ezra politely. “And I’m sure you know, this is Dr. Crowley, your new history teacher.” Crowley greeted the boys with a nod.

“We have to go get our room sorted out. See you tomorrow, Mr. Fell!” said Adam, loping off with a cheerful wave.

“Seems like a nice kid,” remarked Crowley.  “Are they all like that?”

Ezra hummed in assent. “Adam’s a sweet boy. A bit hot-headed sometimes, full of mischief, but he means well.”

“I like him already,” grinned Crowley.

---

Ezra was relieved when he could finally retire to his room after dinner. Meeting all those boys and their parents had been exhausting. A nice cup of tea was what he needed now.

He was surprised when he heard a knock at his door; doubly so when he opened the door to reveal Crowley standing on the threshold.

“You left your handkerchief in my flat yesterday,” said Crowley, holding up Exhibit A. “Forgot to bring it this morning."

“Oh, thank you,” Ezra said, taking it. How thoughtful

“No trouble,” said Crowley, turning to leave. Ezra wasn’t sure he liked that idea.

“Would you like to come in? I was just making tea.”

Crowley turned back to Ezra, looking rather surprised at the invitation. “Sure,” he said, and followed Ezra inside.

Crowley gave a low whistle as he looked around Ezra’s flat. “Did I take a wrong turning and somehow end up in the library?” he said with a teasing grin.

“Well, I do teach English,” said Ezra. “Reading is par for the course. Although, admittedly, I tend to overdo it a bit.”

“You think?” said Crowley, eyeing the books that covered every flat surface. “Although, I suppose there are worse things to be obsessive about.”

“Precisely,” said Ezra. “Tea?” he asked, as he made his way to the kitchenette. Tea was his defence mechanism, in a way; something to do when he was feeling unsure of himself.

“Thanks,” replied Crowley.

Crowley sat down on one of the chairs and picked up a random book lying on the side table, paging through it as Ezra fixed their tea. He noticed the man was still wearing his tinted glasses. Surely they would make it difficult to read in this light?

“Crowley,” he said, as he handed over a cup. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why do you wear those dark glasses? It’s not as if the light in here is very bright.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Crowley with a chuckle. “My eyes are very sensitive to light; I get the most awful headaches if I don’t wear them. I’m so used to them by now, I just forget I’m wearing them. Even got into the shower with them yesterday.”

Ezra chuckled at that mental image. “I can turn the lights down, if you’d prefer? Maybe just have the lamp on?” he offered.

“Nah,” said Crowley, “’m fine. Like I said, I’m used to them.”

“Oh, okay,” said Ezra. For some reason, he was a bit disappointed.

“So, ready for classes tomorrow?”

Before they knew it, they’d spent an hour talking about this and that, and nothing at all. “That’s my cue,” chuckled Crowley, when Ezra gave an almighty yawn. “Early day tomorrow, better rest up.”

“Hmm, guess you’re right,” said Ezra. He got up and walked Crowley to the door. “Sleep well,” he greeted Crowley, and got a “You too,” in return before closing the door.

Chapter Text

Ezra was glad when classes started; life could finally settle back into the familiar routine he’d been accustomed to for so many years now. He was good at his job and he generally enjoyed it, although marking could be a bit onerous. He had been teaching the same curriculum for so many years, he could probably do it in his sleep.

He smiled as his second period class filed in; it was Adam’s class, the seniors in their final year of school. This was by far his favourite class to teach. By this age, the boys were expected to have mastered grammar and vocabulary, and the year was spent focusing on literature, poetry and writing – his favourite subject areas.

“Settle down, boys, settle down,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the din. When he had their attention, he continued: “You all know by now, I like to start the year with a small test to make sure you’re all up to date and ready for the coming term. So please pack away your textbooks and get out a pen.” There was a general groan. “Now, now,” he chided as he walked between the rows of desks, passing out test papers. “You know this doesn’t count toward your final mark. However, you will receive extra homework for revision of any topics you have not mastered. You have until the end of this period. You may start.” With that, he settled back at his desk, letting his mind wander as he kept an eye over the boys.

He wondered vaguely how Crowley was getting on with his first day. He’d seemed pretty excited to start teaching. He thought back to his own days as a young teacher with a twinge of nostalgia. He’d fallen into teaching more or less by accident: he’d wanted to stay on at Oxford for postgraduate work, but things hadn’t worked out. One of his professors had recommended he apply for the teaching position at Tadfield. He’d gotten the job easily, and had been here ever since. How long was it now – twenty years? Good Lord, now that made him feel old.

The shrill ring of the bell interrupted his thoughts, and he went to stand at the door and collect the tests. “We’ll discuss the test results tomorrow. If there was anything you struggled with, please review it this evening,” he said as the boys filed out. He idly scanned through the paper on top of the pile as he waited for the next class to arrive. He had the juniors next. It was his least favourite class; honestly, was there anything more painful than trying to get thirteen-year-old boys to focus on grammar? Fortunately, he had a free period between them and lunch; he looked forward to recovering with a quiet cup of tea in his flat.

---

As Ezra was making his way down the hall later, feeling that he’d thoroughly earned his tea break, he noticed a group of boys standing in the foyer on the ground floor. What were they doing out here during class time? He was just about to say something when he heard an already familiar voice: Crowley. Peering down over the balcony, he realised that it was the entire senior class standing in the foyer, facing Crowley, who was... teaching? Ezra strained to hear, trying not to let himself be seen. Crowley seemed to be saying something about the photos on the wall – group photos of every graduating class of the last 60-odd years.

“Come over here; take a look at the faces from the past,” Crowley was saying to the boys. “Come on,” he gestured, as they shuffled forward. “Look at them. What do you see? They’re not so very different from you, are they?” A few of the boys were leaning forward, peering intently at the photographs; two were sniggering in the back.

“Now, why do you think I brought you out here to show you these old photos? Anyone?” The boys looked at each other in confusion; one or two shrugged. “Mr. Young was it?” he said, gesturing at Adam. “ – what’s your best guess?”

“Erm...” Adam said, clearly uncertain. “Because history is full of dead guys like these?”

To Ezra’s surprise, Crowley barked out a laugh. “How old do you think these are?” he grinned. “I’ll bet most of them are still alive. But you did hit on one important point: history is full of people like these – ordinary people, people you wouldn’t necessarily recognise if you saw them on the street. People just like you.”

He paused a moment to let that sink in. “You see, what you don’t know, is that there are quite a few great men on these walls – politicians, doctors, inventors, writers. But they all started out right here where you are today: young men with their lives before them and the world at their feet. And fifty, thirty, ten years from now, your photos will be on this wall. How do you want history to judge you?”

Ezra found himself entranced by Crowley’s speech. He knew he should probably not be eavesdropping, but he couldn’t quite bear to tear himself away. Suddenly, Crowley looked up to the balcony; Ezra wouldn’t have been sure that Crowley saw him, thanks to those ever-present tinted glasses, but Crowley shot him a quick smile before looking back down to the class. Ezra felt his cheeks heat as he hurried off down the corridor.

---

Crowley was pleased when Ezra came over to him at lunch. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to the empty chair next to Crowley.

“Go ahead,” answered Crowley with a smile.

“So, how’s your first day going? Regretting going into teaching yet?”

“Not yet,” said Crowley. “I’m actually quite enjoying it. Not that I’ve done much teaching yet.”

At this point their conversation was interrupted by Gabriel saying grace. Crowley rolled his eyes behind his closed lids; the man prayed as if he were giving a sermon in the Vatican. Once he’d stopped pontificating, they spent a few minutes passing around dishes and helping themselves to food.

After a few bites in silence, Crowley piped up again: “So, tell me: do you usually spy on new teachers? Or am I special?”

“I wasn’t spying!” Ezra huffed indignantly. “I just happened to be walking past. And the boys certainly weren’t supposed to be out in the foyer, so I stopped to find out what they were doing. That’s all.”

Ezra seemed strangely defensive about the whole thing, Crowley thought. He’d just been teasing, after all; he really didn’t mind Ezra listening in on his class. “And?” he said, in an attempt to defuse the tension; “What do you think? Do I pass muster?”

Ezra looked a bit surprised at this question, and Crowley winked at him. That seemed to do the trick, pulling a chuckle from Ezra. “Well, as you said, you were hardly giving a history lesson. So I’d best reserve my judgement, or I’d have to give you an F for not sticking to the curriculum.”

“How kind,” said Crowley sarcastically. “I suppose you’re an expert at teaching, then? Been doing this long?”

“Well, since you ask, yes. Just about twenty years now.”

“How does that work? Were you some sort of child prodigy?” said Crowley, his brow creasing with the effort of mental arithmetic.

“How old do you think I am?” chuckled Ezra.

“I don’t know. Bit older than me, I guess. Late thirties, maybe?” he said.

“I turned forty in May, so you’re not that far off.” Ezra said. “Finished school at seventeen, as we did in those days, got my BA at twenty, and started working here right away. See, twenty years. How about you? What did you do after school?”

“Well, I only started university at twenty,” said Crowley. ”Spent a few years working after school, saving up for my studies. Got my Masters, taught for a few years, went back for my PhD. And now I’m heartily sick of research. Which brings me here.”

“And that makes you...?” prompted Ezra

“Thirty-three,” said Crowley

“Good Lord, you’re an infant,” teased Ezra.

“That’s doctor infant to you, grandpa,” Crowley retorted, peering sternly at Ezra, which caused him to laugh out loud. One of the grumpier old men at the table glared at  them, but Crowley just flashed him his most winning smile. God, Ezra really did have a lovely laugh. It seemed to light up the whole room. Crowley resolved that he would have to make him laugh as often as possible.

---

Here's a picture of these two, just because

---

Chapter Text

By the middle of the first week, classes were going in full force. Crowley found that he quite enjoyed teaching, albeit on his own terms. He’d abandoned the carefully crafted lesson plans he’d been given almost immediately; he preferred to use his own methods to get the message across. As long as the students still mastered the curriculum, no-one could complain, right?

For his senior class, the first term would mostly be spent covering the World Wars. Before they jumped into the material, though, he had a point to make. He picked three names at random from the class register. “Dowling, Wensleydale, Smith. Come up here.” He waited as the three boys came forward. “Take a stroll around the room. Go on,” he said when they looked at him in confusion. “Walk around the perimeter. No rush, just walk.” The three boys set off obediently, quickly synchronising their steps and falling into an easy rhythm. Before long, someone started clapping in time with their march, and the rest of the class soon joined in.

“I don’t know but I’ve been told...” he started, and the boys echoed him exactly like a squad of soldiers doing basic training. “History is dead and cold...”

Halfway through their second line, the door was flung open with a shout of “what on earth is going on in here?!” It was Ezra, brimming with righteous anger. His eyes flitted around the room before lighting on Crowley; he’d been half-hidden by the door. Crowley raised a single eyebrow at him, trying not to laugh.

“Oh,” said Ezra, in the voice of someone who’d just had the wind knocked out of him. “I thought... I didn’t know you were here.”

“I am,” said Crowley, allowing himself the tiniest of grins. He hated to admit it, but he found Ezra’s discomfiture extremely amusing.

“Right. Erm. So you are,” said Ezra, still rater stunned. “Ah. Excuse me,” he managed, before backing out and closing the door behind him.

Crowley shook his head, laughing silently to himself. “Sit down, you lot,” he gestured to the boys. Right, he had a lesson to finish. “Okay, so what was the point of that exercise?” he started.

---

Ezra leaned back against the wall next to Crowley’s classroom door for a moment, catching his breath. What the heck was going on in Crowley’s history class? He realised he could still hear Crowley’s voice through the door. Feeling only a little guilty, he strained to make out the words.

“That little exercise was meant to illustrate the concept of conformity. When you boys started walking, you each had your own pace. But how long did it take you to fall into step? All of ten seconds, maybe? Each of you, adjusting your own stride just a bit so that you could fit in with the others. Sacrificing your individualism to conform to the average.

“Yes, I see the rest of you looking smug; like you’re thinking ‘ah, but I would’ve walked in my own way’. But then asked yourself: why were you clapping?”

Crowley was silent for a few beats, presumably to let this statement sink in.

“You see, boys; we live in a world that constantly pushes us to conform to the norm.  And we do it, because we all want to be accepted, we all want to feel like we belong. But one of the most important things you can learn from studying history is this: you must think for yourself. Question what you’re told, examine your own beliefs, and speak up for what you believe, even if that means you have to stand alone. When we stop questioning, awful things happen. That’s how you get nonsense like Nazi Germany and the Russian revolution and millions of innocents dying in wars that have nothing to do with them.

“And just so we’re clear, this doesn’t just count for big, global events. It’s even more true in your everyday life. Unthinking conformity is how people end up living a life they hate, just to keep everyone else happy. Don’t ever let that be you.

“Now, to work. And remember, don’t just study this work so that you can regurgitate the facts back to me; think about what you’re learning. Open your textbooks to-“

Ezra shook his head, realising that he’d been standing still for quite a while. Really, Ezra, he scolded himself in the privacy of his own mind. Eavesdropping again? Surely you’re better than this. And yet...

As he hurried away, Crowley’s words still rang in his ears. Think for yourself. Stand up for what you believe, even if it means you stand alone. Don’t even let that be you...

Why did it feel as if that speech had been directed straight at him?

---

Crowley was pleased – and a little relieved – when Ezra sat down next to him at lunch. Truth be told, he’d been a little worried that his classroom antics may have scared Ezra off. Now that would have been a true disaster – alienating the one person in this place he could actually be friends with. He smiled at Ezra as he sat down, getting a small smile in return.

They made awkward small talk for a while, until Ezra finally spoke what was obviously on his mind. “That was quite an... erm... interesting class you were giving today,” he said, almost questioning.

“Ah, yes. Dangers of conformity and the importance of thinking for yourself. One of the most important things to learn from studying history. Sorry if my teaching methods were a bit... unorthodox for your tastes.” Crowley grinned mischievously.

“Well, I’ve certainly never seen a class like it,” Ezra said. “But... do you think it’s a good thing to teach them? All this business about questioning authority?”

“Well, yeah, ‘course I do,” said Crowley. “Wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”

“And what if that gets them into trouble?” Ezra asked, concern in his voice. “Rules and laws are there for a reason, you know.”

“Well, we’re not talking about breaking the law.” Crowley countered. “Just... thinking for themselves, you know?”

“Thinking for themselves? At seventeen?” Ezra huffed. “Sounds like a recipe for disaster, if you ask me. I know you think you’re doing them a favour, but when they get into trouble for making waves, they’ll hate you for it.”

“Really?” retorted Crowley, regarding him thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t have pegged you as a cynic.”

“Not a cynic,” countered Ezra, considering his words carefully. “Just... a realist. Look, I enjoy a good triumph-of-the-underdog story as much as the next man, but those things are best left between the covers of my books. In real life, if you step out of line, you either get slapped back into place or you get run over.”

“You really believe that?” asked Crowley.

“I’ve seen it happen too many times to doubt it,” answered Ezra.

---

That evening

Ezra sighed, letting his book drop down to his lap. He had been trying to read, hoping to distract himself, but his mind kept circling back to the conversation he’d had with Crowley at lunch. A cynic, the man had called him. Was that really how he came across? He considered himself a realist, certainly. He meant what he’d said, too – trying to swim against the stream had never brought him anything good. He’d been full of dreams once – romantic notions, grand ideas; convinced he could make people listen, could change the world. But it hadn’t taken him long to find out that life didn’t work like the stories in his beloved books; no, life was cold and cruel and held nothing special for an ordinary man like him. And so he had learned the way of the world, the shape of it: keep your expectations reasonable, keep your heart’s desires carefully under lock and key, play the role that was set out for you. It was the only way to avoid disappointment, and it had worked for him so far.

But, said that treacherous voice he wished he could silence, an absence of disappointment is not really the same thing as happiness, now, is it? “Damn Crowley and his philosophies,” muttered Ezra as he slammed the book shut. He had been quite content with his life. Sure, it was nothing spectacular, but he had his job, his books, his routine. He had been perfectly comfortable, and suddenly this virtual stranger was rocking his boat, dredging up thoughts and memories he thought he’d buried beyond recovery. How was that possible?

He put the book down on the bedside table, turned off the lamp, and sunk back into the pillows. Alone in the dark, there was nowhere to hide from the truth: he was lonely. He had been lonely for so long that he hadn’t even been able to put a name to it anymore; it had simply become a part of him as year after interminable year passed by without so much as a friend. But now, for the first time in so long, he saw a chance to cure the disease, as it were, rather than just sticking on a band-aid and ignoring it. He could have a friend. Hope, warm as a smile, wrapped around his heart as he drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

The first monthly staff meeting had just ended, and everyone was gathering their things and hurrying out of the door. Why Gabriel insisted on having these meetings on a Saturday morning, he would never understand, Ezra mused to himself. Clearly, the man had no life outside the school. Then again, he supposed, neither did he.

“Oh, Mr. Fell, before you go,” the school secretary piped up, “a package arrived for you.” She handed him a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper and bearing a London postmark.

“Thank you, my dear lady,” he said, taking the package. He smiled when he saw the return address. What an unexpected treat!

“Who’s sending you presents in the mail?” Crowley’s voice piped up behind him.

“What makes you think it’s a present?” Ezra countered.

“Oh, come on,” Crowley said, “you look like a kid on Christmas morning.”

“Okay, you’re right,” Ezra chuckled. “It’s from an old family friend. She and her husband run a bookshop in Soho, and every once in a while, she sends me something that she thinks I’ll like. I can’t wait to see what this is.”

”Well, go on then, open it,” Crowley urged him. “You’ve got me curious too, now.”

Ezra had been planning to peruse his gift in private later that evening, but he was spurred on by Crowley’s excited grin. Everyone else had left the room by now; it was just the two of them. He carefully peeled away the paper and slid the book out.

“Oh, it’s Shakespeare’s sonnets,” he said, delighted, stroking a loving hand over the leather binding. He opened the book, and his face lit up: “Oh, look, it’s illustrated!”

“Muh. Never liked Shakespeare much,” Crowley said

“You what?” said Ezra, incredulous. “How can anyone not like Shakespeare?”

“Dunno,” Crowley shrugged. “Just never saw the point, I guess. I prefer to read a version of English I actually understand.”
“But, my dear boy, you cannot mean that!” Ezra was quite horrified. “Besides, Shakespeare isn’t at its best when you read it; it really should be acted. His work has a certain rhythm to it; like music, you need to hear it to truly appreciate it.”

Crowley chuckled, and Ezra looked down bashfully, realising he had perhaps gotten a bit carried away.

“Go on then,” Crowley said. “Read me something. Convince me.”

“Okay.” Ezra couldn’t suppress a smile as he paged through the book. No, not one of the romantic ones; that wouldn’t do, now, would it? Hmm. Where was that one... ah, here. “Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, but sad mortality o’ersways their power; how with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, whose action is no stronger than a flower?”

Ezra glanced up at Crowley. His friend was watching him with an inscrutable expression. “Maybe you have a point.” Crowley said softly. “Keep reading?”

Clearing his throat, Ezra resumed his reading. “O! how shall summer’s honey breath hold out, against the wrackful siege of battering days? O fearful meditation! Where, alack, shall Time’s best jewel from Time’s chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? O! None, unless this miracle have might: that in black ink my love may still shine bright.”

Ezra closed the book gently and turned to Crowley, meaning to ask his opinion. The question died on his lips when he saw Crowley’s face. He was leaning his elbow on his knee, chin resting in his hand, and his expression was enraptured. “Beautiful,” he murmured.

Something warm bloomed in Ezra’s chest at the praise, and he felt a blush rise to his cheeks. “I told you,” he said, somewhat flustered. “Shakespeare is meant to be spoken aloud.”

“Erm. Yes. Shakespeare, yes,” said Crowley, looking like a man surfacing from a daydream. “Ah. Perhaps you can... read me some more some time?”

“That sounds lovely,” Ezra said, smiling shyly.

Crowley suddenly sprang up out of his chair, picking up his notes and making to leave. “We should probably head to lunch, yeah?” he said. “Gabriel will have our heads if we walk in late.”

“Of course,” replied Ezra. “I’ll just go put this in my room. Meet you there.”

As they walked off in opposite directions, both men found themselves wondering why they were blushing.

---

In the days and weeks that followed, Ezra found himself spending more and more time with Crowley. They seemed to be drawn into each other’s orbit. Or at least, he felt himself drawn to Crowley. He assumed Crowley chose his company simply because he didn’t have any better options; none of the other staff members had been particularly keen to befriend the unusual younger man. Be that as it may, Ezra wasn’t about to complain. He quickly became used to the constant presence of a black-clad figure in the background of his life.

Tonight, they were sitting at the table in Ezra’s flat, each busy preparing their lessons for the next week. “Say, Ezra,” Crowley piped up. “Do you have any stories or poetry or something about war?”

“Of course, books and books full. What sort of thing are you looking for?” he asked, already moving toward one of his overstuffed bookshelves.

“Well, the seniors are learning about the World Wars at the moment, and today’s class turned into a massive debate about whether war is ever justified.”

“I bet you loved that,” smiled Ezra; he still remembered the last time he walked in on of Crowley’s classes.

“Oh. Yeah, it was a hoot,” grinned Crowley. “But these kids... they’ve never lived through a major war. They have no idea what it’s like. So, I thought maybe if I could give them some stuff written by people who were there, who lived through it – well, it might give them a better idea of the realities.”

“Hmm,” said Ezra, pulling a book off the shelf. “I think Wilfred Owen will be your friend there. He wrote a few very good poems about his experiences in the first World War.”

Ezra flipped a few pages, finding a specific poem, and started reading. “If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood, come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs;  obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud; of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues; – My  friend, you would not tell with such high zest, to children ardent for some desperate glory, the old Lie: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.”

“What’s that mean?” asked Crowley, “That Latin bit?”

“It is a sweet and noble thing to die for one’s country,” said Ezra, bitterness lacing his voice. “Originally from one of Horace’s Odes, I believe.”

“And the poet disagrees, yeah?”

“Yes. I’m inclined to agree with him,” said Ezra softly, his mind a million miles and some fifteen years away.

He turned to Crowley. “How old were you, during the second World War? Did you ever fight?”

“No, I was lucky,” replied Crowley. “They signed the peace treaties just before I came of age. How about you?”

“No,” Ezra said. “I was medically unfit due to an old childhood injury, so I never got sent to the front, thank God. I was at university when the war broke out, prime age for a soldier. So many of my friends went. Family, too. And... well, too many never made it back.” Ezra paused for a few breaths, not trusting his voice.

“I’m so sorry, Ezra,” Crowley said softly. “I can’t even imagine...”

“So, by all means.” Ezra interrupted, not wanting to go any further down that particular branch of memory lane. “Teach your boys about the true horrors of war. Maybe, if we’re lucky, their generation won’t make the same mistakes ours did. Now, let’s see what else I have for you...”

Chapter Text

Crowley was excited for the next class – a double period with the seniors. In addition to the poetry he got from Ezra, he had also set up a slide projector.

As soon as the last boy had taken his seat, Crowley shut off the lights, plunging the room into darkness. A few seconds later, the projector whirred to life. He’d cleared one wall to use as a screen, since the dark chalkboard probably wouldn’t let them see very clearly. Said wall now displayed a horrific scene, and Crowley took some satisfaction in the gasp it elicited from the boys. Yes, he thought, that’s it – look right into war’s face and see it for what it is.

The scene on display was a painting in four panels. The largest central panel showed what was presumably a battlefield strewn with the corpses of the fallen – one still in a gas mask. To the left, a group of soldiers was marching through a misty field in full battle gear; to the right, a soldier was helping a wounded comrade. Below the central panel was a narrow fourth panel depicting soldiers lying down – sleeping? Dead? It was difficult to tell.

After giving the boys half a minute to take it in, Crowley spoke. “This was painted by Otto Dix, a German artist who fought in the First World War. He was a decorated war hero, and yet – do you see any romanticism in this work?”

A mumbled “no” sounded in the class.

“Dix wrote in his diary,” Crowley continued, and held up a page in the projector’s light so that he could read from it. “’Lice, rats, barbed wire, fleas, shells, bombs, caves, corpses, blood, liquor, mice, cats, gas, artillery, filth, bullets, mortars, fire, steel: that is what war is! It is all the work of the Devil!’. Much later, he described his own art like this: ‘I depicted primarily the horrible consequences of war. I believe no one else has seen the reality of that war as I have: the privations, the wounds, the suffering. I chose a truthful reportage of war; I wanted to show the destroyed land, the corpses, the wounds.’ ”

“Now, let’s talk about this. Look at the painting, and tell me what you see”

Adam’s hand shot up almost immediately. Crowley grinned inwardly – he could have put money on Adam being the first to offer an opinion; he almost always was. At Crowley’s nod, Adam started talking: “It’s horrible. I mean, in the middle, right, you have this battlefield or whatever. And it’s not this glorious scene of victory, it’s just gruesome. And then those poor buggers on the left – they’re just marching off to the same place. And they’re gonna end up dead, just like the ones that went before them. And I’m wondering why? Why the hell would they willingly walk into a death trap?”

“Ah, yes, you’ve cut right to the heart of it. Why, indeed?” He flicked the light on and picked up one of the anthologies Ezra had lent him; opened it at the bookmark. He handed the book to the nearest boy. “Please read this aloud for everyone to hear.”

He leaned back against the wall as the boy read Dulce et decorum est; the same poem he had discussed with Ezra. When the reading finished, he asked. “Who of you knows what that bit of Latin means?” A few hands shot up. “Michael?”

“Dulce et decorum est: it is sweet and proper to die for one’s country.”

“Right,” said Crowley. “Clearly you’ve been paying attention in Latin. So how does this help us answer Adam’s question of WHY? Anyone?” His eyes scanned the room. Since no-one was volunteering, he picked a boy. Ah yes, that one; he’d never so much as opened his mouth in Crowley’s class before. Crowley wasn’t sure if he was shy, stupid or just completely indifferent. “Warlock? Care to give an opinion?”

“Um. Er. I... I don’t...” The poor kid looked like he was about to have a nervous breakdown right there – shy, then. Crowley wasn’t a sadist, so he picked a different target. “Brian?” he asked, indicating one of Adam’s rowdier friends. “Here’s a clue: read the last three lines of the poem again.”

“My friend, you would not tell with such high zest, to children ardent for some desperate glory, the old lie: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,” Brian read. “Well,” he said after a moment’s thought, “it sounds to me like he’s saying these soldiers are going off to the war because they’ve been told that it’s the right thing to do – it’s ‘sweet’ and ‘noble’ or whatever. But he’s saying that it’s a lie, and that no-one who has seen what he’d seen on the front would ever say such things.”

Crowley beamed with pride. “Exactly!” he said. “Young men – kids, really – go off to war because people who should know better convince them that it’s glamorous, it’s heroic. They conveniently leave out all the bits about death and suffering and trauma that haunts you for the rest of your life.

“Now that poet – Wilfred Owen – he’d fought on the front lines. He’d seen the death and devastation right up close, that’s pretty clear from his writing. And he chose to write about it, as a warning and a reminder to those who came after.”

Crowley picked up a piece of chalk and wrote on the board:

Those who cannot REMEMBER the past are condemned to REPEAT it.

“George Satanyana wrote that, back in 1905. Since then, we’ve had two world wars. The Americans are decimating Vietnam as we speak. Every major power is scrabbling for nuclear bombs. So I ask you: are we learning from history?”

These was a hush in the class. “Um, no?” Adam offered tentatively.

“And why is that, do we think?” Crowley challenged. When no answer was forthcoming, he continued, “I think at least a part of it is that people simply don’t know their history. If you don’t make an effort to find out the truth, you’ll believe whatever line the powers that be is trying to sell you; you’ll fall for all sorts of manipulations from the government or the military or the church.

“That’s why I like the arts – visual art, but also poetry, and literature, and music. They tend to be a lot more honest; to give you the missing parts of the picture. They give you a chance to see the past through the eyes of people who were there.”

Crowley walked back to the door and switched the light off again. “Let’s continue our exploration of World War I art, shall we?” He clicked the projector over to the next slide: a line of soldiers, walking blindfolded, fallen comrades surrounding them. “This one is by John Singer Sargent, and it shows the aftermath of a mustard gas attack – the same thing that was happening in that poem we just read, by the way.”

-click-

“This one is by CRW Nevinson.” A painting of two doctors tending to the injured. “He was an army medic – can you tell?”

-click-

“Another Nevinson. This one is titled, quite appropriately, The Harvest of Battle.” A battlefield, pock-marked and strewn with bodies, injured soldiers struggling forward to some unknown destination.

-click-

-click-

-click-

The lesson progressed in this fashion, with Crowley occasionally stopping to read another poem or let the class discuss something. After going through all the slides, he finished off with a final poem.

“This one is by Siegfried Sassoon, another World War I survivor – he was actually a friend of Wilfred Owen, who we read about earlier. It’s entitled ‘To the warmongers’, and it’s sort of a ... protest, you might call it, or a call to action. He wrote it in 1917, while the war was still on, trying to explain to whoever would listen just how brutal it all was. Jeremy, you do the honours,” he said, handing the book to a bespectacled boy.

“"I'm back again from hell, with loathsome thoughts to sell; secrets of death to tell; and horrors from the abyss...” he began. The poem went on to describe the battlefield in gory detail, pulling no punches. Finally, it ended with “... the wounds in my heart are red, for I have watched them die."

An uncomfortable silence settled on the room after this grim reading. Crowley said nothing for a few seconds. Let them feel it, he thought. Then he put out a question: “So, boys, taking all this into account; what have we learned today?”

A number of hands shot up, and he pointed to the first boy. “The First World War was hell,” the boy opined.

“Quite right,” said Crowley. “But what can we learn more broadly? About how we think, how we live, how we look at history?”

Brian yelled out, without even bothering to raise his hand: “Think for yourself!” The class burst out laughing – that line had become something of a motto in Crowley’s class; he tended to say it at least once every period.

Jeremy gave the next opinion: “Dig for the truth. Don’t just believe everything you hear; go an find out from the people who were there. And if they’re dead, well, look at art and poetry and suchlike.”

“Because the bastards who should know better will just lie to you,” Adam added darkly.

“Oi, language Adam!” said Crowley, and then smiled. “But yes; people, especially people in power, won’t hesitate to lie if it promotes their agenda. Find the truth for yourselves.”

Crowley saw a tentative hand being raised in the corner of his vision. To his surprise, it was Warlock. “Yes?” said Crowley, with an encouraging smile.

“Well,” said the boy softly, “I suppose, once you know the truth, you should tell it, yeah? Like the artists and poets did. Otherwise, how are people to know?”

“Exactly,” said Crowley. “You got the most important part. Because the knowing is just the first step; what you do with it is what really counts.”

The ringing of the bell brought their lesson to an abrupt end. “Homework, you lot, before you leave.” said Crowley. “Go dig through the library, and each of you find one poem or artwork or song describing any of the historical events you’ve covered in this history class over the years. It doesn’t have to be about a war, but it does have to be by someone who was there and who gives a first-hand account. Bring it to class on Monday and we’ll discuss.”

Crowley watched the boys as they filed out. He was growing very fond of them, especially Adam. The boy had a mischievous streak a mile wide and a healthy disregard for authority that Crowley admired. He was also as charming as anything; seemed to be friends with absolutely everyone. What a force for good that boy could be, he mused, if he put his gifts to good use.

Chapter Text

“Oh, look at that.” Ezra looked up from the newspaper he was reading. “The London Philharmonic is doing a Beethoven festival.”

“Hmm?” said Crowley noncommittally. Classical music wasn’t really his thing.

“Such a shame I can’t go see it,” Ezra said wistfully

Crowley looked up at him. “Why on earth not?” he asked.

“I do have responsibilities here,” said Ezra. “I can’t just bunk off for an evening.”

Crowley picked up the paper, examined the advert. “We could see the lunchtime matinee on Sunday. Plenty of time to drive out to London after breakfast, and we can be back in time for dinner.”

“You’d want to come with me?” asked Ezra, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Well, I can’t say that I know much about Beethoven,” said Crowley, “but maybe it’s time I learned, eh? Besides, an outing sounds like fun.”

“Well, it would be nice to get out a bit,” Ezra conceded. “And I suppose we wouldn’t miss anything important here if we go on a Sunday.”

“That settles it, then.” Said Crowley decisively. “I’ll square it with Gabriel, if you phone and book us tickets.”

“Deal,” said Ezra, beaming.

“And in return,” Crowley said, grinning mischievously, “I’ll introduce you to some proper music. You know, something recorded in this century.” He laughed and dodged as Ezra swatted at him with the rolled-up newspaper.

---

And then it was Sunday, and they were driving into London. Despite Crowley’s indifference to Beethoven, he had been looking forward to the concert more and more with every passing day. He was pretty sure it was because of who he was going with, more than anything else. Okay, and maybe just a bit the fact that he could drive them there. His car – a beautiful old Bentley he’d inherited from his grandfather – had been gathering dust in the school’s garage since he arrived, and he’d been itching to take it out for a spin again.

They arrived at the theatre, parked the car and went off in search of the box office to collect their tickets. It was half an hour until the performance would start, and the auditorium doors were still firmly shut. “How about a drink?” he asked Ezra, gesturing toward the bar. Ezra nodded.

“Wine?” asked Crowley.

“That sounds splendid!” said Ezra, looking absolutely delighted. “I haven’t had a glass in far too long.”

“Oh? Why not?” asked Crowley.

“Well, it’s not exactly against the school rules, as such,” explained Ezra, “but Gabriel disapproves. Just doesn’t seem worth the bother of getting on his bad side.”

“Well, we aren’t under his eye now, are we? We can have a bit of fun.” He winked at Ezra and made his way over to the bar.

--

Ezra looked around as he waited for Crowley to return with their drinks. He’d always enjoyed the orchestra, and was looking forward to today’s performance. To his surprise, Crowley returned bearing two glasses of champagne.

 “And this?” Ezra asked with a chuckle as he took one of the glasses. “Are we celebrating something that I don’t know about?”

“Well, it seemed appropriately festive,” Crowley said. “It’s not often we get to enjoy a day out with good company.”

“And good music,” Ezra added.

“I’ll reserve judgement on that,” Crowley replied drily.

Ezra laughed. “To good times, then,” he suggested.

“And to good friends,” Crowley replied, clinking their glasses together.

It wasn’t long before their conversation was interrupted by the chiming of a bell, indicating that the performance would start soon. Ezra led the way as they shuffled along the row to their seats – right in the middle of the front row of the balcony, his favourite spot to see and hear everything happening on the stage. Ezra breathed deeply, relishing that particular scent that you only find in theatres. God, how he had missed it. Why didn’t he do this more often? He found himself feeling grateful for Crowley; it was a feeling that was becoming very familiar. Really, sometimes he wondered what he had been doing with himself before the man showed up.

--

The house lights dimmed as the conductor introduced himself and announced the first number. Crowley heard the words – Beethoven’s fifth symphony, apparently – but they didn’t mean much to him. It only took about four notes before he recognised it, though. Well wouldn’t you know it, he actually liked this one. As the dramatic notes swept over them, Crowley glanced over at Ezra to judge his reaction. He had to bite back a smile at what he saw: Ezra was sitting with his eyes closed, smiling faintly, his right hand making gentle movements over his lap in time with the music. Crowley had sudden a mental image of Ezra swinging his arms around dramatically, conducting an invisible orchestra. He bit back a giggle at that mental image, and settled back to enjoy the music.

They stayed in their seats during the interval, discussing the music. Ezra was very pleased – and a little smug – learn that Crowley had enjoyed the first part of the show.

“You see,” he said. “I told you: Beethoven is magnificent.”

“Yeah, okay, you win this one,” Crowley conceded. “But there’s still a whole half to go.”

The second part of the performance kicked off with some sort of Violin Concerto. Crowley found himself leaning forward, mesmerised by the movement of the first violinist’s hands. That was followed by something called the Coriolan overture. “A lot of people think Beethoven wrote this for Shakespeare’s Coriolanus,” Ezra had told him during the interlude. “But it was actually for Von Collins’s version of Coriolan.” Crowley wasn’t sure what the difference was – he’d never heard of either. But he rather enjoyed the music. It was dramatic, much like the symphony they’d played earlier. Even the conductor was losing himself in the performance, swaying and gesturing like a man possessed.

Finally, as the programme wound down, a young lady in a long black gown situated herself behind the piano. As she played the opening notes of the Moonlight Sonata, he glanced over at Ezra again. He still had his eyes closed, a wistful smile on his face. After a few bars, the strings section joined in, violin and cello picking up the mournful melody. Crowley was surprised when Ezra leaned over to whisper something in his ear.

 “This is usually a solo piano piece. I’ve never heard it played by a full orchestra,” he whispered. “It’s simply... delightful,” he added, giving a pleased little wiggle, before he settled back to enjoy the rest of the performance. Crowley, for his part, found himself suddenly unable to focus on anything happening on stage; his entire mind was occupied by Ezra’s closeness, by the goosebumps he could feel crawling down his neck from where Ezra had breathed against his ear. Oh no, he thought to himself. Not now. Get it together, man. He screwed his eyes shut and forced himself to concentrate on the music, losing himself in the haunting melody.

The audience burst into applause as the final notes died away, jolting Crowley back to the here and now. He opened his eyes and turned to his companion, only to find Ezra already looking at him with an amused expression. “Looked like you were enjoying that,” he grinned as he clapped enthusiastically. “Erm. Yeah,” agreed Crowley, joining in the standing ovation. “Guess you’ve convinced me on Beethoven.” He really, really did not want to go into the real reason why he was smiling so broadly.

On the spur of the moment, they decided to have a late lunch in London. They lingered over the meal, talking and laughing, neither wanting the day to end quite yet. The sun was low in the sky when they arrived back at Tadfield, relaxed and happy after their outing. As they mounted the steps to the entrance, Ezra looked back over his shoulder, and halted. “Just look at that,” he breathed, almost reverently. Crowley turned to look, and had to stifle a gasp. The sun had reached that exact spot above the horizon that transformed it into a ball of red fire peeking through the trees. The clouds were bands of rose and gold slashed across the grey sky, glowing with an otherworldly light.

The two friends stood, mesmerised, until the glowing orb of the sun finally dipped below the horizon; watched as Venus, then Jupiter blinked on.

“Beautiful,” murmured Ezra.

“Beautiful indeed,” agreed Crowley, thankful that his dark glasses were hiding the fact that he was glancing sideways as he said that, watching Ezra’s face bathed in golden light.

Ezra turned to face him, and they smiled at each other. He placed his hand briefly on Crowley’s arm. “Thank you for joining me today, Crowley. It was... wonderful.” He gave a quick squeeze, then turned to go into the building. Crowley  still for a moment more, willing his pulse to slow down, before turning and following his friend inside.

---

Ezra was still humming Beethoven to himself on Monday morning. What a perfect day yesterday had been. Honestly, he couldn’t remember the last time his life had been so... full. He couldn’t fathom why Crowley kept seeking out his company, but he wasn’t about to question it, lest the younger man realise he could do much better than spend all his free time with an old fuddy-duddy like Ezra.

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? He knew himself – knew he wasn’t fun, or interesting, or remarkable in any way. And Crowley... Crowley was all those things. Charming, clever, scathingly witty. And yet, for some unfathomable reason, he was happy to spend his evenings with Ezra, listening to him prattle on about whatever took his fancy at the time. And sometimes he would look up mid-monologue and catch Crowley just... looking at him; smiling faintly, almost as if...

Ezra stopped his train of thought right there. He was on his way to the dining room for lunch, where Crowley would undoubtedly be waiting, and he was terrified that his thoughts would be written on his face for everyone to see. Not that anyone ever had, before. But Crowley was unusually perceptive, at least as far as Ezra was concerned. Sometimes he felt as if those hidden eyes could see right into his soul, and he’d let them, wouldn’t even want to hide...

No! Stop it! There was no way he could let himself go there. Crowley was his friend, and he wouldn’t risk losing him. No, no, no. He’d promised himself, years and years ago, that he would never, ever go there again. It never ended well.

Chapter Text

Monday morning dawned bright and sunny, matching Crowley’s mood as he hummed to himself all through his day. After the last period, they had the weekly school assembly. Crowley took his usual seat next to Ezra and they exchanged a quick hello before Gabriel started with the formal proceedings. Crowley wasn’t really paying attention to the proceedings; sitting next to Ezra in the auditorium reminded him of their outing the previous day, and he was lost in a pleasant daydream. Besides, Gabriel had a gift for turning the simplest announcements into a monotonous soliloquy that could put anyone to sleep.

Suddenly, something like a scratchy recording of a bomb exploding sounded in the hall, and a group of men’s voices started singing “Hiroshiiiiiiiii-ma, Nagasaki, Alamogordooooo, Bikini!”

“What the?” Crowley cursed under his breath. He recognised the song – he had the record somewhere – and he couldn’t imagine that this was an authorised performance. So what the heck was going on?

“Well, I'm gonna preach you-all a sermon 'bout Old Man Atom,” a hillbilly drawl started up, “And I don't mean the Adam in the Bible datum.”

“What the hell is that?” roared Gabriel. Some of the staff members were already hurrying out of the auditorium, looking for the source of the disruption, as the record went on about having to stand up against the A-bomb.

The music scratched to a halt, and a few moments later one of the teachers entered, dragging a smug-looking Adam by the arm.

“Fuck,” hissed Crowley under his breath.

“Crowley?” came Ezra’s voice next to him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, my dear!”

“Stupid, Adam. Bloody stupid,” Crowley muttered.

By this time, the entire auditorium was in uproar.

“Assembly is dismissed,” snarled Gabriel. “Mr. Young, I’ll see you in my office. The rest of you, to your rooms.”

Ezra was pushing his way through the crowd of boys, trying to catch up with Crowley. His friend had gone pale when Adam was brought in, and had wasted no time hurrying out of the auditorium, carefully avoiding eye contact. Ezra was worried about him; he really hadn’t looked well.

Lost in thought, he bumped into a student, both of them nearly toppling over. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” he said. He recognised the boy as Warlock Dowling, Adam’s roommate.

“Warlock, do you have any idea what Adam was trying to do there?” Ezra asked.

“No, sir,” replied Warlock. Ezra noticed he was avoiding eye contact.

“Really?” he asked again, fixing Warlock with a stare. “I’m not trying to make trouble for him, my boy. But Dr. Crowley looked really upset by the whole thing, and I’d appreciate anything I can tell him to set his mind at ease.”

“Oh,” said Warlock, looking rather surprised. “Well, I don’t know if it helps, but we had this one history assignment about art and war, and Adam found some poetry by a Japanese guy who survived the bombing of Hiroshima. Since then, he’s been on a bit of a thing about nuclear disarmament. He found a whole bunch of information on the A-bomb, and nuclear testing and whatnot. Spent hours at the library in town, talking to that mad American woman who runs it. So, I don’t know, maybe he wanted to make a statement?”

“Hmm, that makes sense,” said Ezra. He was well aware that this bit of news wouldn’t make Crowley feel any better. “Thank you, Warlock. Run along now.”

“Mr. Fell?” asked Warlock, tentatively

“Yes?”

“What’s going to happen to Adam?” Ezra could see that Warlock was clearly worried for his friend. He sighed. Gabriel wasn’t known for tolerating rebellion – quite the opposite.

“I have no idea, dear boy. But I’m afraid he will most definitely be punished.”

“Do you think... will he be expelled?”

“I certainly hope not. Go to your room now, all right? Wait for Adam. Whatever happens, he’s probably going to need a friend.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you,” said Warlock, and then added, “I hope Dr. Crowley won’t get into trouble.” Ezra was surprised to see that Warlock was looking almost as distressed over this possibility as he had over Adam being expelled.

“I’m sure he won’t,” he murmured, not feeling entirely sure at all.

---

Ezra eventually found Crowley in his classroom, pacing back and forth and muttering to himself. His hair was in disarray, as if he’d been running his hands through it. Ezra burst in through the door, causing Crowley to jump in surprise.

“Fuck, Ezra! Knock, won’t you? Nearly gave me a heart attack!” he snapped.

Ezra must have looked taken aback, because Crowley’s expression immediately softened. “Sorry, sorry,” he said, his tone conciliatory. “I’m just... having a bit of a moment. Didn’t mean to take it out on you,” he continued, looking apologetic now.

“Quite alright, don’t worry about it,” Ezra said reassuringly.

Silence fell, neither man sure of what to say.

“So. Um. That was something,” Ezra finally said, deciding that he had to address the elephant in the room. “You could say that,” Crowley said with a frustrated sort of laugh. “I can’t believe Adam could be so reckless. Doesn’t he know what’s at stake? Throwing away his education, his future, for the sake of a laugh? God!” Crowley was starting to pace again.

“I don’t think it was for a laugh,” said Ezra quietly. “I think he was trying to make a point about something that’s important to him. He just did it in an irresponsible way.”

“Oh, great!” said Crowley. “That’s just fucking peachy. Makes it all better, that does. You know it’s my fault, right? I started it with that whole art and poetry lesson. Me and my stupid ideas.”

Ezra reached out and placed a hand on Crowley’s arm as he walked past. “Calm down, Crowley. You can’t seriously think you’re to blame?”

“No? You said it, way back at the start of term: I’ll get them into trouble for making waves, for breaking the rules.”

“They, Crowley. Adam. Not you. You’re teaching them things that are important, that are right. You mustn’t blame yourself when they take good advice and do something stupid with it. They’re teenage boys; recklessness is almost part of the definition. And Adam’s just a magnet for chaos, you know that; I bet he would have gotten himself into trouble one way or another without any help from you.”

Crowley seemed to be calming down, so Ezra continued without a pause. “And think of the good you’re doing. The boys love your classes, they love you. You’re the best thing that’s happened around here in years.”

By this point, Crowley had stopped pacing and fidgeting completely, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He was looking at Ezra with an expression that was unreadable, almost... wistful?

Ezra suddenly realised his hand was still on Crowley’s arm, and he dropped it like he’d been burned, suddenly embarrassed.

“Ah. For the boys, I mean. Um. Best thing that’s happened for the boys.” He stuttered, looking away, feeling himself blush as his brain caught up with what he had just said. He turned around, looking for a distraction.

“Tea. How about a cup of tea? Just the thing after all that drama,” he babbled, making his way to the side room off the classroom.

“Sure,” agreed Crowley, following him.

Before long, they were both crammed into the tiny room, teacups in hand, laughing over some silly story. Ezra was glad that the tension had dissipated, and his friend seemed to be back to his usual self. But of course, Gabriel had to barge in and ruin the moment, demanding to talk to Crowley. As usual, the headmaster completely ignored Ezra, and he was left standing in the side room as the other two men talked in the classroom.

He wasn’t eavesdropping, exactly, but it was hard not to overhear Gabriel’s pompous speech. The man always talked loudly, as if he was doing the world a favour by sharing his opinions.

“I'm hearing rumours, Anthony, about some unorthodox teaching methods in your classroom,” came Gabriel’s voice. Ezra cringed a little; Crowley hated to be called by his first name.

“I’m not saying they’ve anything to do with the Young boy’s outburst...” Gabriel went on.

Like hell you’re not! Ezra thought to himself. He felt a sense of dread, mingled with anger, at the patently insincere tone of Gabriel’s voice. Would Gabriel try to pin this on Crowley?

“You must remember, boys this age are very impressionable,” Gabriel went on.

“Well, your reprimand made quite an impression, I'm sure,” came Crowley’s voice, and Ezra could hear the suppressed smirk in Crowley’s tone. He had to stifle a chuckle at his friend’s sass. Fortunately, Gabriel didn’t seem to catch the sarcasm. He simply went on berating Crowley for something he had seen in one of the man’s lessons. Was Gabriel spying on Crowley? How very unbecoming. But then he remembered bursting into a classroom full of marching boys, and he had to admit that his friend had a way of drawing attention to himself.

”I always thought the idea of education was to learn to think for yourself.” Crowley’s voice broke in on his thoughts; reminding him of the time they’d had this same conversation weeks ago.

“At these boys' ages?” Gabriel burst out. “Not on your life! Tradition, Anthony. Discipline. Prepare them for college, and the rest will take care of itself.”

Ezra winced slightly, realising how very nearly he had expressed the same sentiment. Now, the thought left a bad taste in his mouth. Had his worldview really changed that much in such a short time? The truth was, he had never seen a group of students as motivated to learn as they were for Crowley’s classes. And the magic seemed to spill over into the rest of their days; he had never known a group of students to be so cheerful. Had never known himself to be quite so cheerful.

Crowley walked back into the side room, having seen Gabriel out. “Ugh,” he commented. “I feel like I need to wash my brain out with soap after listening to that. Some days I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle.” Crowley’s shoulders were sagging now, his smile gone.

“Well, I don’t know,” Ezra replied, wanting to cheer his friend up. “I imagine the lessons in this classroom are very different from what they used to be. I can’t imagine old Elijah using a history class as an excuse for an art exhibit and poetry reading.”

“Yeah, that was fun,” grinned Crowley. “And it clearly got the point across, although I might have to plan in a discussion on appropriate forms of protest.”

“Probably a good idea,” agreed Ezra. “The boys adore you, you know? They’ll listen to you, whatever you say.”

“Thank you, Ezra,” Crowley smiled at him, then turned serious again. “I’ll have to go talk to Adam, won’t I?”

“Yes, you probably should. He respects you; he’ll listen to you. I’m sure you’ll make more of an impression than Gabriel’s reprimand.” Ezra waggled his eyebrows, emphasising this last word and drawing another chuckle from his friend.

“Really, Crowley,” he said with a chuckle of his own, “You’re lucky that Gabriel can’t recognise sarcasm even if it bites him in the face.”

---

Crowley found Adam and his gang in the common room.  Adam seemed to be giving a blow-by-blow recounting of Gabriel’s punishment. By the sound of it, the punishment had included a thorough paddling.

“That was a pretty lame stunt you pulled, Adam,” he said.

“What?” said Adam. “I thought you’d like that!”

“I didn’t. It was reckless.”

“You’re taking Gabriel’s side?” Adam said in disbelief. “What happened to thinking for yourself? To standing up for what you believe in?”

“I didn’t say you were wrong, I said you were reckless. Standing up for yourself doesn’t mean shooting yourself in the foot. Getting yourself expelled from school doesn’t serve any good purpose.”

“So what do you want us to do?” asked Adam, sulkily. “Just shut up and play our parts like good little sheep?”

“Of course not. Just use your common sense, okay? Try not to get yourself kicked out of school.”

“Okay,” conceded Adam.

“And next time you want to make a point about something, maybe check in with me first, yeah?” Crowley added, giving Adam a knowing look over his sunglasses.

“Yeah. Okay,” said Adam. At least his grin was back now.

“That goes for the lot of you,” said Crowley, looking from boy to boy. They responded with variations on the theme of “yessir.”

“Good,” said Crowley, before he turned on his heel and strode out. He felt a bit calmer, now; at least Adam knew he could talk to him before pulling any other crazy stunts.

Chapter Text

It was the last Saturday of November, and Ezra was decorating a Christmas tree. It was little tradition of his to decorate his classroom for the festive season, one he’d kept up since he started working at Tadfield. And this year, for the first time in almost two decades, he had someone helping him.

”Where do you want this lot?” Crowley asked, walking through the door with a box of ornaments he’d been sent to get from Ezra’s room.

“Oh, just put them down anywhere,” Ezra replied. “Come help me untangle these lights, won’t you?”

Crowley regarded the tangle of cables sceptically. “What did you do, just shove them in there?” he asked.

“Oh, shush,” Ezra chided good-naturedly. “It’s an indisputable fact of the universe that strings of Christmas lights, no matter how carefully you coil them, will twist themselves into an impenetrable knot the moment your back is turned. They’re sneaky like that.”

Crowley chuckled at this needlessly verbose response, and went to help Ezra untangle the lights. Once that was done, they draped them on the tree, followed by several strings of gold and silver streamers.

“Okay, now you can pass that box of ornaments, and we can get started,” said Ezra

“Started?” responded Crowley. “I thought we were almost finished. I feel like I just sorted out enough cable to rewire half of London.”

Ezra laughed. “Tell you what, once we’re done, I’ll make you some hot cocoa. As a thank you.”

“Deal,” said Crowley, and started pulling out the ornaments.

The worked comfortably side by side, banter flowing easily between them, and soon the tree was covered in glittering baubles. Just one thing left.

“What goes on top of your tree, a star or an angel?” asked Crowley.

“Angel,” responded Ezra. “It’s in that blue box over there.”

Crowley opened the box Ezra had indicated and pulled out the angel carefully. Ezra was quite fond of it. It was one of the most beautiful objects he owned: the angel’s face and hands were made of porcelain, it was dressed in robe of white satin, and its wings were made of genuine white goose feathers.

Crowley was running his fingertips reverently over the angel’s robe. “It’s beautiful,” he said, lifting it out of the box.

“Thank you,” said Ezra. “It used to belong to my grandmother.” He reached out to take it. “What are you doing?" he asked, amused. Crowley was holding the angel up in the air, and Ezra could see just enough of his eyes behind the dark glasses to tell that his gaze was flicking between Ezra and the ornament.

“It looks just like you,” he finally declared.

“What?” said Ezra, surprised. He’d never thought of it like that.

“Blonde curls, blue eyes, beatific smile. If we put you in a white dress and stick a halo on your head, you’d be twins!” Crowley was smirking as he said that, and Ezra wondered if he was being toyed with.

“Ha ha, very funny,” he said trying very hard not to dwell on Crowley’s expression as he gazed at the angel, as he called it beautiful. No way did that apply to him, lookalike or not. “Now either hand it over, or put it on top of the tree yourself.”

“Whatever you say – angel,” Crowley replied with a wink, and moved to put the angel atop the tree.

“Fiend,” said Ezra, giving him a light smack on the arm as he walked past.

“Oi! No hitting the help, or I won’t help you again!”

“Heaven forbid,” said Ezra, smiling and rolling his eyes. “Now come on, let’s go have some cocoa.”

---

Ezra had made good on his promise of hot cocoa, complete with chocolate biscuits. Afterward, Crowley suggested they move to his flat, so that they could put on some music. “I still owe you some twentieth-century music after our Beethoven concert,” he’d said. Truth was, he just wanted an excuse – any excuse – to keep Ezra hanging around. Fortunately, Ezra had agreed without hesitation.

“What are you in the mood for?” asked Crowley, flipping through his records. “Jazz? Crooners? Rock and roll?”

“You’re asking me?” said Ezra. “Those are all just words to me.” He came up behind Crowley, peering over his shoulder.

“Ooh, how about that one?” said Ezra suddenly, his hand shooting out to stop Crowley’s flipping.

Crowley pulled out the record in question. “Elvis’s Christmas album,” he chuckled. “I should’ve known.”

“What?” said Ezra. “We spent all afternoon trimming the tree. It seems appropriate, don’t you think? Besides, I like carols.”

“Of course you do, Christmas tree angel,” Crowley teased. He slipped the record out of his sleeve and turned to place it on the turntable. “Do you even know who Elvis is?” he asked with a grin.

“Well, I know he’s a singer,” Ezra admitted. “But isn’t that the point of this whole exercise? To introduce me to new music?”

“Indeed,” said Crowley, positioning the needle on the vinyl. “Prepare to be amazed.”

Christmaaaas, crooned Elvis. Crowley grinned to himself, still standing with his back to Ezra. Christmaaaas. Wait for it...

After the third Christmaaaas, a distinctly Elvis-ey, rock-and-roll drumbeat started up, and Crowley twirled around right on cue.

“Well, it's Christmas time, pretty baby, and the snow is fallin' on the ground,” Crowley sang along with the record, dancing and swaying his hips in his best Elvis impersonation. (Christmas, Christmas). Ezra was trying to stifle a giggle.

“Well, it's Christmas time, pretty baby, and the snow is on the ground,” Crowley went on, shuffling across the room to where Ezra was sitting. (Christmas, Christmas) Ezra was snorting around his hand now, trying to contain his laughter.

“Well, you be a real good little girl,” he tapped Ezra on the nose with his finger, “Santa Claus is back in town!” Crowley gave an overly-dramatic twirl, ending up in a pose with one hand on his hip and the other in the air.

Ezra was outright laughing now, not even bothering to try and suppress it. Bingo! Thought Crowley.

“Sit down, you clown,” Ezra giggled, grabbing Crowley by the arm and pulling him into the chair next to his, as Elvis continued singing.

Crowley plopped down in the chair with a laugh. “Hey, you picked it,” he said.

“The music, yes,” retorted Ezra. “I had no idea I’d be getting a show with it.”

Crowley laughed. “It’s Elvis. Can’t sit still while listening to Elvis, it’s against the laws of nature. They don’t call him Elvis the Pelvis for nothing.” Crowley wriggled in his seat, trying to do an imitation of Elvis’s signature hip roll without actually getting up off his butt. This caused Ezra to start laughing again, which made Crowley glow with joy.

“Hey, how about a drink?” said Crowley a few moments later. “I’ve got a nice ruby port. Very... Christmassy, yeah?”

Ezra looked like he was about to refuse. Oh, right; Gabriel didn’t like alcohol. “Come on, angel” pleaded Crowley, “I really want some, and you know what they say about drinking alone.”

“Trying to tempt and angel, are you?” asked Ezra, grinning mischievously.

“Depends,” Crowley grinned back. “Is it working?”

“Oh, all right. Temptation accomplished, you... you serpent.”

Crowley laughed and went to fetch the bottle and a couple of glasses. On the way back, he turned on the lamp, and walked to the door to flick off the main switch. “Do you mind?” he asked Ezra. “I wanna take my glasses off for a bit.”

“Go ahead,” said Ezra.

Crowley made his way back to the table where he’d left the port. He poured them each a glass and handed one to Ezra before sitting down and pulling his glasses off. He rubbed over his eyes with his hand. “Fuck, that feels good,” he moaned.

He lifted his glass to Ezra. “Cheers,” he said with a smile.

Ezra didn’t react. He was... staring, there’s no other word for it. Crowley raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

“Crowley,” said Ezra. “Your eyes.”

Crowley froze, suddenly realising Ezra had never actually seen him without his glasses. He’d told him about the light sensitivity, but truth was, Crowley wore his dark glasses just as much to cover up the strange yellow colour of his irises. It was something inhuman, that colour. He was teased about it enough at school that he’d always hidden them since.

“Oh, er, yeah,” he managed.  “They’re a bit weird, I know. Sorry, should’ve warned you.” He reached out for his glasses, ready to put them back on.

“No!” said Ezra with unusual force in his voice. “Please don’t. They’re lovely, really. I’ve never seen eyes quite like them.”

“Really?” asked Crowley, a little disbelieving. “They don’t bother you?”

“Why would they bother me? They’re exquisite. Like honey, or liquid gold. I have no idea why I you thought you’d have to hide them.”

“Experience,” replied Crowley wryly.

“Well,” said Ezra, finally raising his glass for a toast. “Not from me. You never have to hide from me.”

“Thanks. You really are an angel,” said Crowley, clinking his glass against Ezra’s. He was pretty sure he was smiling like an idiot, and he couldn’t bring himself to care.

They spent the rest of the evening talking, listening too record after record, and finishing the best part of the bottle of port. They moved on from Elvis to Buddy Holly, and then to The Platters. Ezra’s face lit up as ‘Only you’ began playing. “Ooooh, I actually know this one,” he said happily.

“Only you can make all this world seem right,” Ezra started crooning along, and fuuuuck, he had a voice to match his angelic looks.

“Only you can make the darkness bright.” Crowley wasn’t even trying not to stare anymore. He just settled his chin on his hand and grinned like a fool. Ezra had his eyes closed, and he was smiling faintly as he swayed to the music.

“Only you, and you alone, can thrill me like you do, and fill my heart with love for only you.”

“I didn’t know you could sing,” Crowley murmured. Ezra startled at his voice, almost as if he’d forgotten where he was.

“I guess I’ve never had a reason to mention it. I’m not exactly soloist material. But I sang in the choir in school.” Ezra’s cheeks were pink, although Crowley could only guess whether it was from the alcohol or the compliments.

“Your voice is lovely,” said Crowley, noticing the blush on Ezra’s cheeks deepening. It was at least partly from the compliments, then. Interesting. “You should sing for me more often,” he added, well aware that his voice was oozing an inappropriate amount of affection.

“Goodness,” said Ezra, suddenly flustered. “Is that the time?” He got up, putting his glass down. “I’d better get going, yes?”

“If you must,” said Crowley, not wanting him to go anywhere at all. “This was nice, though,” he said, walking Ezra to the door.

“It was,” said Ezra, smiling softly. “We should do it again.”

Ezra lifted a hand, resting it briefly on Crowley’s arm. “Sleep well, my dear,” he said.

“You too, angel,” said Crowley, returning his smile.

Chapter Text

Ezra always stayed at school for the Christmas break. He didn’t have any family to speak of, and he didn’t see the point of going away on a holiday in the middle of winter when the weather was so miserable. Truth be told, he’d always cherished that fortnite or so of peaceful solitude, which he mostly spent curled up under a warm blanket with a good book and an ample supply of snacks, like a hibernating bear. This year, however, things were different. He was seized by a strange restlessness. The previously comforting silence seemed to smother him, and the solitude he had so cherished just felt like aching loneliness now. What a difference it made, he mused, to have someone in your life whose company you actually enjoy rather than just tolerate.

Lord, how he missed Crowley.

Ezra shook his head as if to clear away these thoughts. Hopeless, that’s what he was. It had only been two days, and he was already pining for his friend. Speaking of Crowley... he reached out for a piece of paper lying on his table. Crowley had asked him to take care of his plants while he was away, and had left a detailed list of instructions. Sure enough, the first plants were due to be watered today. Oh well, that’s as good a reason as any to finally get out of bed, he thought as he shuffled his feet into his slippers. But first, tea. And maybe a bite to eat.

An hour later, Ezra was washed, clothed and making his way to Crowley’s flat. He unlocked the door, flicked on the light, and made his way to the little kitchenette to fill a jug with water. Back in the living area, his eye caught a white envelope propped up against the front-most plant pot. On it, in Crowley’s distinctive scrawl, was written: “Ezra. Open this on the 24^th. C.” What’s this? Ezra wondered as he picked up the envelope. He turned it over, looking for any other clue. The flap was glued down, and Crowley had scrawled “don’t cheat!” on it. Ezra couldn’t help but chuckle at Crowley’s sense of humour. “I don’t cheat,” he said indignantly. “I’m an angel, remember.” Then he realised he was talking to an empty room, and felt a bit foolish.

---

The days crawled past, and every day Ezra had to have a stern talk with himself about not opening Crowley’s envelope. By the time the 24^th rolled around, he was dying of curiosity. The envelope was the first thing he grabbed when he opened his eyes in the morning, not even bothering to get out of bed first. Inside was a folded piece of paper, torn from a notebook, with a simple message scrawled on it: “Look in my classroom’s office.”

Ezra frowned. Trust Crowley to be so cryptic. Well, he wasn’t about to wait any longer. He shuffled into his slippers and set off to Crowley’s classroom. It was still very early – the weak light of dawn was just beginning to filter through the windows – and the school’s hallways were deserted. Thank goodness for small mercies, thought Ezra, dressed as he was in nothing but his pyjamas and a dressing gown. He let himself into the classroom and made his way to the small office in the back.

He couldn’t suppress a smile at what he found on the table there: a small potted plant with long, upright leaves streaked with bands of dark and light green. The pot was adorned with a golden bow and – Ezra chuckled – a small ceramic angel was nestled on the gravel at the base of the plant’s leaves. Another envelope with Ezra’s name on it was sitting next to the pot, and he opened it immediately. Another piece of notebook paper. “Merry Christmas, angel!” he read. “Here’s a friend to keep you company. Her name’s Eve and she’s a snake plant. Put her somewhere near the window and water her only if the soil is dry.”

Ezra stared at the slip of paper in his hand, momentarily overwhelmed by his emotions. Gratitude, yes, but also something... melancholy. It was such a small thing, a potted plant, so why did it awaken such a confusion of feelings in him? Maybe because it had been such a long time since anyone had really given him a Christmas gift. Maybe because Crowley had obviously put a lot of thought into the gift, planning it out and setting it up before he left for Christmas, and Ezra wasn’t used to anyone sparing a second thought for him. Maybe because he missed his friend so dearly, and wanted more than anything to be able to thank him to his face. And maybe... maybe...

---

Crowley smiled as he pulled into the drive at Tadfield. Funny how thigs had changed. The last time he’d found himself in this position, four-odd months ago, he had been feeling  nervous and out of his depth. Now it felt like coming home. In fact, he’d missed the place so much he’d returned almost a week earlier than he’d originally planned; it was only two days after Christmas, and school wouldn’t start until next week.

If he were being honest, though, his decision to come back early had nothing whatsoever to do with the school. It wasn’t because he was getting tired of his family, or wanted to check on his plants, or needed to get some work done before term started. There was really only one reason for his early return, and he was currently whistling as he made his way toward his flat.

He rapped smartly on Ezra’s door, heart leaping in joy at the answering “Coming!” and the shuffling of approaching footsteps. Ezra looked momentarily annoyed when he opened the door, as if he resented the interruption, but he broke into a beaming smile the moment he saw that it was Crowley at the door.

“Crowley!” Ezra was positively beaming. Not for the first time, Crowley thought that that smile might blind him if he weren’t wearing his dark glasses. He didn’t have much time to process that thought, though, because the next thing he knew, Ezra had enveloped him in a hug.

“Mngk,” said Crowley, temporarily losing the gift of speech. Before he could gather his wits about him enough to return the hug, Ezra was pulling back, blushing fiercely.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, that was terribly inappropriate of me,” said Ezra, wringing his hands together.

“’s fine,” managed Crowley. “I don’t mind. ‘s nice.”

“Oh. Good,” said Ezra, smile breaking through again. “I am so very glad to see you, dear boy. Why don’t you come in?”

Crowley didn’t need to be asked twice.

---

Crowley spent the rest of the day unpacking his bags, settling back in and catching up on holiday news with Ezra. Well, mostly it was Crowley sharing news; Ezra hadn’t even left the premises since the holidays started.

“My little cousin is getting married in February,” he told Ezra. “God, that makes me feel old. I used to babysit her when she was still in nappies, and now she’s settling down and talking about having babies of her own.”

“You think you feel old?” Ezra quipped.

“It gets worse,” scoffed Crowley. “She asked me to walk her down the aisle. How’s that for an old man move?”

“Why not her father?” asked Ezra, brow furrowed.

“He passed away a few years ago. I’m the next best thing, I guess. No way I could refuse her, right? Besides,” he said with a shrug, “It’s probably the only chance I’ll ever get to walk down the aisle with a bride.”

“Oh, come now,” said Ezra. “You’re still young. There’s no reason why you couldn’t find yourself a nice wife.”

“I really couldn’t,” retorted Crowley.

“Why on earth not? You’re a charming man, handsome, you have a good job. What’s not for a girl to like?”

“It’s not what they like that’s the problem,” Crowley muttered, then felt his face heat up as his ears heard the words his mouth had just said. Shit!

“I just mean,” he went on, trying to backpedal, “That there’s ever been a girl I liked. Um. In that way.”

“Oh,” said Ezra. Then, after a pause, “Never? Not even once?”

“Nope,” said Crowley. “Never been in love with a girl.” ‘With a girl being’ the key phrase, he thought, but did not say.

“Well. I guess that makes two of us, then,” said Ezra.

And what the hell was Crowley supposed to make of that?

---

The next day, they decided to venture into town to stock up on supplies for the coming term. The sky was dark, threatening snow, so they took Crowley’s car instead of walking. After finishing their important shopping, Crowley dragged Ezra to the music store; he’d seen a new record by Bill Haley and his Comets in the window when they walked past earlier, and he was curious to hear it. Afterwards, Ezra insisted that they stop in at the second-hand bookstore. Crowley wasn’t particularly interested in book shopping, but there was no way he would say no to anything the angel wanted.

He should have known that it wouldn’t be a quick in-and-out. Ezra had found the poetry shelf, and had been immersed in some dusty old tome for the last twenty minutes. Crowley, on the other hand, had perched himself on one of the uncomfortable stools that littered the shop, and was surreptitiously gazing at Ezra over the edge of the magazine he was pretending to read. Ezra was mouthing along soundlessly to whatever he was reading, eyes sparkling as emotions flickered across his face.

Beautiful.

His daydreaming was interrupted by the shopkeeper clearing her throat behind him. “So sorry to interrupt you reading, gentlemen, but I’m about to close up for lunch,” she said.

“Oh, goodness, is that the time already?” said Ezra, and turned to put the book back on the shelf.

“You’re not gonna take it?” asked Crowley. “Looked like you were enjoying it.”

“Oh, no. I have most of these already, scattered across various books,” he said, turning to leave with a last fond look at the book. “I was just... enjoying them like one enjoys the company of an old friend in a new location.”

“Want to grab some lunch?” Crowley asked once they were outside.

“That sounds splendid,” said Ezra happily.

They ended up at a small café, warming their hands around hearty bowls of steaming soup and fresh bread, lingering over dessert (Ezra) and coffee (Crowley). Walking back to the car afterwards, Crowley didn’t miss the longing glance Ezra shot at the bookstore, its doors once again open. He elbowed him in the ribs. “Come on, angel,” he said. “Go get your poetry book. You know you want to.”

“Oh, I really shouldn’t,” said Ezra, in a voice which said I want to, but you’ll have to convince me.

“Okay,” said Crowley, grinning mischievously, “If you won’t, I will.” Ignoring Ezra’s protests, he made his way back to the shelf, picking up what he thought was the right book.

“This the one?” he said “The collected poems of Oscar Wilde?”

He took Ezra’s eye roll as confirmation, and made his way to the counter to pay for it.

The smile he got when he handed it over was enough to keep him warm on even the coldest night.

---

Ezra lay in bed that night, reading his new book. The book Crowley had insisted on buying for him. He didn’t know how to feel about that.

He was grateful, of course – Ezra was a bibliophile at heart and would probably be grateful to the devil himself, if he came with a rare enough book. But his feelings were tinged with a strange sort of sadness, a longing for something unnamed, something he dared not name.

He wanted to feel hopeful – hopeful that the gift was not just a friendly gesture, that he didn’t imagine the soft expression in Crowley’s eyes when he bade him goodnight. That their friendship meant as much to Crowley as it did to him.

But on the other hand, he was terrified. He could not be falling in love with his best friend. He’d made that mistake once before, when he was young and naïve, and... well. The world they lived in didn’t allow for that sort of thing, and neither had his friend. There was no way he could go through the same thing with Crowley.

... it were better we should part, and go; thou to some lips of sweeter melody, and I to nurse the barren memory of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.

With a sigh, he closed the book and turned off the lamp, hoping that sleep would come quickly.

Chapter Text

Before they knew it, the students returned for the new year, and classes were back in full swing. By the end of the first week, both Ezra and Crowley found themselves in need of an evening’s relaxation, and on Friday evening after dinner Crowley lured Ezra to his flat with the promise of a shared bottle of merlot.

“So, you remember I told you about Bee? My cousin who’s getting married?” Crowley was pottering about with his plants, talking over his shoulder to Ezra who was sitting in the armchair.

“The one that you have to walk down the aisle?” Ezra asked, looking up from his book.

“Yep,” Crowley nodded. “I spoke to her today. Well, I say spoke. It was a bit of an argument in the end.”

“What about? Is there a problem with the wedding plans?”

“You could say that,” said Crowley. “She wants me to... well, she wants a father-daughter dance. Except, of course, I’m the stand-in for her father.”

“And this is a problem because...?” Ezra prodded.

“I can’t dance! Well, not any sort of dancing that has actual steps; I can boogie and do the twist with the best of them. But she wants a waltz. A waltz! And she’s refusing to budge.”

Ezra chuckled, amused at Crowley’s discomfiture.

“Don’t laugh at me! Where the hell am I supposed to learn to waltz before February?”

“Are you serious?” asked Ezra. “This is not just a case of you not wanting to? You really don’t know how to waltz?”

“I don’t know how to waltz,” Crowley confirmed. “Who even knows how to waltz anymore? It’s not the fucking eighteenth century!”

“I know how to waltz,” said Ezra. “It’s not exactly a difficult dance.”

“Really?” said Crowley, a hint of surprise in his voice. Then, an idea seemed to strike him. “Ooh, you could teach me!” he said enthusiastically.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ezra said, “I’m not particularly good at it, and we’d need the right sort of music...” What he didn’t say, couldn’t say, was that the thought of waltzing with Crowley, holding his hand and swaying with him in time to the music, was doing something funny to his insides. Crowley had a way of moving his hips, even when he was just walking, that was... distracting, to say the least. Ezra couldn’t begin to imagine what he’d look like waltzing, right there, up close.

“Oh, come on! Aren’t angels supposed to help those in need?” Ezra rolled his eyes.

“Please? Pretty, pretty please?” Crowley pouted at him.

Well, now, how was he supposed to say no to that? “Oh, all right,” he huffed.

“Thank you!” said Crowley, beaming. “I’ll get music. What sort of music do you need for a waltz?”

Ezra chuckled; Crowley really had no idea, did he? “Ordinarily I’d recommend Strauss, but I doubt you have anything like that in your collection.” Crowley’s blank expression confirmed this suspicion.

“Okay,” said Ezra. “What do you have that’s three-time? Like, one-two-three, one-two-three.” Ezra hummed a few bars of the Blue Danube to give Crowley an idea of what he had in mind.

Crowley mulled this over for a while, singing snippets of songs under his breath. “Oh!” he said at last, “I think I’ve got just the thing!”

He fetched one of his records – Elvis again, Ezra couldn’t help noticing – and put it on the turntable. Sure enough, a guitar started strumming a simple three-beat rhythm, soon joined by Elvis’s velvet voice singing ‘are you lonesome tonight, do you miss me tonight...’

“Yes, that will do very nicely,” said Ezra. “Nice and slow, so it will be easy to dance to. But turn it off first, let me show you the steps.”

Crowley complied, coming to stand before Ezra. “Okay, what now?”

First, Ezra showed him the steps. “One-two-three, one-two three. Forward step on one, sideways on two, feet together on three. And then you reverse.” Crowley tried it out.

“That’s it,” said Ezra. “Now, I’ll pretend to be your cousin, so you’re dancing the man’s part. That means your hands go here” he placed Crowley’s left hand on his side, “and here.” He positioned Crowley’s right arm, and took hold of his hand.

Ezra had to will himself to keep breathing normally. Crowley’s hand was warm against his, and this close he could smell the man’s cologne, something spicy and earthy. Since that spur-of-the-moment hug after Christmas, he’d kept a careful physical distance from Crowley, certain that any contact would give him away in the racing of his heart, the hitching of his breath. Oh, this was going to be the death of him, he was sure.

“Okay,” he continued, keeping his voice steady through sheer willpower. “We’ll try it without music first. I’ll lead for now; you just follow me. Ready?”

Crowley nodded, and they set off. It took a few false starts, and a lot of giggles, but Crowley was a quick learner, and before long they were moving in an easy rhythm.

“Excellent!” said Ezra, thrilled at how quickly Crowley was picking it up. “I think we’re ready for some music.”

Crowley nodded, and went to turn on the record player. He started it in the final strains of the preceding song, so that they would have enough time to get into position. Ezra started counting when the music started playing. On the third bar, they started to move.

Unfortunately, they both started to move forward, causing Ezra to headbutt Crowley on the nose and knock his glasses askew. Both of them burst out laughing.

“Sorry,” said Ezra in-between giggles, “That was my fault. Forgot I was supposed to be the girl.”

“No problem, angel,” Crowley replied. “You know what, I’m gonna turn the lights down and leave off the glasses. Just now you break them.”

Ezra stuck out his tongue at Crowley, triggering a fresh round of giggles.

Before long, Crowley had everything sorted out to his satisfaction, and they were ready to try again. This time it went much better, with only a few trip-ups and stepped-on toes. By the time they finished the song a third time, Crowley was feeling confident enough to take over leading, and they were dancing a waltz that might actually pass muster in company.

“Good job!” Ezra praised him. “You’re a natural at this, you know? It took me weeks to get this far.”

“Really?” said Crowley, smiling at the praise. “Maybe I just have a better teacher than you did.”

Ezra ducked his head, not wanting Crowley to see the blush he could feel spreading on his cheeks.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your point of view) the song came to an end just then, and Ezra started to pull away. Before he’d completely escaped, though, the next song started to play.

“Oooh, you’ll like this one,” Crowley said. “It’s perfect for you.” And he unceremoniously pulled Ezra back into a dancing position, swaying in time with the beat.

‘Earth angel, Earth angel, will you be mine’ Crowley crooned along with Elvis, and Ezra was sure his blush intensified thousand-fold. He was still just standing there, not sure what to do with himself.

“Come on, angel, dance with me. This one’s easy. No fancy steps.”

Ezra chuckled, and started swaying as he brought his left hand back up to Crowley’s shoulder.

“I'm just a fool, a fool in love with you,” Elvis continued. Could an inanimate object be vindictive? Because clearly, the record player was trying to kill Ezra stone dead.

Crowley brought Ezra’s other hand to his shoulder, positioned it to mirror the other one, and dropped his other hand to Ezra’s hip. “This okay?” he asked, fixing Ezra in his honey gaze. Ezra found himself completely mesmerised, unable to look away, much less form words, so he just nodded. Crowley closed his eyes then, and resumed singing along with Elvis.

‘I hoped and I prayed that someday, that I'd be the vision of your happiness...’

Ezra followed suit, closing his eyes and allowing himself to sway in time with the music.

‘Oh, oh, Earth angel, Earth angel, please be mine; my darling dear, love you all the time...’

Somehow, without planning to, Ezra had drifted closer to Crowley as they danced – or maybe Crowley had drifted closer to him? – and Crowley interlaced his hands on Ezra’s lower back. Following suit, Ezra slid his hands around until they met behind Crowley’s neck.

How did breathing work again?

‘I'm just a fool, a fool in love with you.’

I am, thought Ezra. Damn me for it, but I am. He let his head tilt sideways until it was resting against Crowley’s cheek.

‘I'm just a fool, a fool in love with you.’

They continued swaying until the music ground to a halt, having come to the end of the record. And then, they just stood there for a moment, eyes closed, in an almost-but-not-quite embrace.

The moment was shattered by a knock on the door. Ezra jumped back as if he’d gotten an electric shock, well aware of what the situation would look like.

Crowley walked over the to the door and yanked it open with a harsh “What?” His demeanour softened when he saw who was on the other side. “Oh, hi Adam. What’s up?” he said, opening the door fully.

“Do you have a minute?” asked Adam. “You said I should talk to you if I wanna do something, remember?”

“um ,sure,” said Crowley, casting an apologetic glance at Ezra. “I guess I have a moment.”

“Oh, yes, I was just leaving,” said Ezra, hurrying out of the door. Now that his head had cleared a bit, he was rather grateful for Adam’s interruption. Who knows what stupid thing he may have done if not for that knock on the door? He dragged a hand over his face as he walked. Get it together, Ezra. That had been way too close.

---

“Take a seat,” said Crowley to Adam, and as an afterthought added, “Tea?”

“No thanks,” said Adam, settling down. He was fidgeting, Crowley noticed; he clearly wanted to say something, but didn’t know how to bring it up.

“Okay, spit it out,” said Crowley. “What’s got you all worked up?”

“Did you see the newspaper yesterday?” asked Adam.

Crowley shook his head. “Did something important happen?”

“They’re re-opening the old airbase down in Lower Tadfield.”

“Is that that old army airfield? The one that’s been standing empty?”

“Yes, that’s the one. Seems the Americans bought the place and they’re turning it into a military base again.”

“Interesting,” said Crowley, “But why does this bring you to my door?”

“I hate the idea of an army base in our town!” Adam burst out. “I mean, what happened if they start getting restless, hey? What if they have nuclear bombs right here? One little accident, and we’re all blown to bits!” Adam was getting quite red in the face.

“Whoa, calm down Adam,” said Crowley. “First off, you have no way of knowing that that’s what they’re planning.”

“Actually, I do,” said Adam. “Warlock’s dad works at the embassy, he’s one of the head honchos there, and he’s been talking about nothing else for the last month. Bloody Americans and their bloody stupid bombs.”

“Oh-kay,” said Crowley. “So maybe there’s something to that. But I still don’t see what it has to do with you.”

Adam pulled a flyer out of his pocket and handed it to Crowley. “This. There’s going to be a protest there next weekend.” Crowley scanned the flyer, recognising the CND’s logo. “We’re going to go.”

Crowley considered this for a moment. “We?” he asked while his brain was still processing.

“Me and Warlock. Brian and Wensley too, probably.”

“Wensley?” asked Crowley, not recognising the name.

“Jeremy,” Adam clarified.

“Oh.” Crowley took a deep breath. “Adam, are you sure you’ve thought this through? Do you know what these protests get like?” One look at Adam’s face told Crowley that no, the boy had no idea. “The truth is, sometimes these things get ugly. Sometimes the police get involved, and protesters end up being arrested. It’s not a place for kids.”

Adam shifted in his seat, but looked Crowley in the eye. “I’m sorry, sir, but my mind is made up. This is important to me.”

Crowley sighed. He’d expected as much. Adam could be stubborn to the point of pigheadedness. He knew there was no use in trying to dissuade the boy, so he decided to try and mitigate the damage.

“Fine,” he said. “But you have to let me go with you to keep you out of trouble. And you have to clear it with your parents.” Adam looked like he was about to protest, but Crowley cut him off. “I mean it, Adam. I’m not letting you get up to mischief without your parents’ knowledge. Get their permission, and I’ll go with you. Heck, I’ll even take you all in my car, just to be sure I can get you all back in one piece. That goes for your friends too.”

“Deal,” grinned Adam, and Crowley grinned back at him. Yes, this was probably a bad idea, but he couldn’t help but be proud of Adam for being willing to stand up for what he believed in.

“Now scram,” he said, waving Adam out the door. “Go speak to your parents.”

Chapter Text

True to his word, Crowley accompanied the boys to the protest, once Adam assured him their parents were okay with it. Fortunately, the whole event had stayed pretty tame; one of the benefits of being in a small town rather than London proper, he supposed. The protesters were huddled together to the side of the air base’s main entrance, playing music and waving signs, talking to anyone who would stand still and listen. It was, in all honesty, a bit boring, and Crowley was certain the day would pass without any incident.

Crowley was only half paying attention to the big black car that had pulled up to the group. He noticed that it had diplomats’ licence plates and was displaying the American flag. Someone from the American embassy, he guessed, coming to do damage control. What he didn’t expect was the man who burst out of the car, shouting in a distinctly American accent, “Warlock! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

“Oh shit,” said Warlock in a small voice. He looked like he was trying to hide behind Adam. “My dad,” he said in response to Crowley’s questioning look.

Mr. Dowling had reached the group by now, and he’d gone quite red in the face. “Warlock, you stop this nonsense right now! What are you doing with this riffraff?” he demanded.

“They’re my friends,” Warlock retorted in a small voice.

“No, they’re not,” said Dowling in a cold voice. “Get in the car.”

“If I may,” interjected Crowley, but he got no further, because Dowling cut him off with a “Who the hell are you?” followed by, “Wait, aren’t you the new history teacher at Tadfield Academy?”

“Not so new anymore, but yes, that would be me,” Crowley confirmed. “Anthony Crowley, at your service.”

“And you’d let our children participate in this ridiculous spectacle?” Dowling was furious. “What kind of a fucked-up school is this?” He turned back to his son. “Warlock! Car. Now. Or else.”

Warlock hung his head and started making his way to the car. Crowley laid a hand on his arm. “Warlock, wait. Just... I’m proud of you, okay?”

He was yanked away roughly by Mr. Dowling. “You stay the hell away from my son, Crowley. Your boss will be hearing from me,” the man growled, before getting into his car.

Crowley was stunned. Hadn’t the boys gotten their parents’ permission to be here? Had they lied to him? Through his shock, he saw Adam heading for the Dowlings’ car, clearly intending to try and argue with the man. Crowley grabbed him by the arm.

“Don’t make it any worse than it is,” he said. The sheer fury in Mr. Dowling’s eyes had unnerved him, and he didn’t want any of the other boys in the firing line. He met Warlock’s eyes through the window, anguish clear on his face, before the car pulled away. Crowley stared after it, worried, and was only pulled back to reality by one of the boys asking, “Dr. Cowley? I think we’re ready to go back now.”

---

Ezra saw Crowley’s car turn into the drive through his window, and decided to go down to greet his friend and hear how their outing was. He arrived in the foyer just as the boys walked through the front door: Adam, Brian and Jeremy, but no Warlock, and no Crowley. Ezra assumed his friend was parking the car.

“Hello, boys,” he greeted them. “How was the protest?”

Adam didn’t even acknowledge Ezra, just pushed past without a word and headed off toward the dorms.

“What’s going on with him?” Ezra asked the two remaining boys. They exchanged a look. Just then, Crowley came in the door.

“Oh, Crowley, there you are!” Ezra said brightly. Then he caught sight of Crowley’s expression and he felt his spirits sag.

“Off you go, boys,” Crowley waved tiredly at Brian and Jeremy. “Go check on Adam, okay?” They scurried off.

“What’s going on?” Ezra demanded. “Wasn’t Warlock also with you?”

Crowley gave Ezra a look made up of equal parts worry and weariness. “C’mon, angel,” he said, as he turned and walked away. “Make us some tea, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Ezra handed Crowley a cup of tea – chamomile, since he seemed rather out of sorts and Ezra thought he could perhaps use something soothing. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on now?” he asked, as gently as he could.

“Dowling,” Crowley began. “Warlock’s dad. Did you know he’s the fucking American military attaché?”

Ezra shook his head no, and then his eyes widened as he realised the implications of what Crowley had said. “Oh dear. I bet he wasn’t too happy with your little exercise today.”

“You could say that,” Crowley said with a humourless sort of laugh. “He showed up at the protest. Came all the way from London, apparently, if that gives you any idea how pissed off he was. Dragged Warlock home with him.”

“Oh,” said Ezra, at a loss for words. That explained a lot. After a pause, he added, “Do you think Warlock will be okay?”

“I guess,” said Crowley, running a hand down his face. “Dowling was pretty furious, though. I think he’s in real trouble.”

Ezra frowned. “And you?”

“Sorry, what?” said Crowley, looking rather dumbfounded.

“I asked, are you okay? You look a little rattled.”

“Yeah, I’m... No. I don’t know. Dowling blamed me for the whole thing. I’m worried he’ll try to make trouble for me.”

There was a tense pause, before Crowley continued. “They lied to me, Ezra.” The look of betrayal in Crowley’s eyes was heart-breaking. “Adam promised me they’d all cleared it with their parents. You know I wouldn’t have let them go otherwise. Fuck,” said Crowley, sinking his face onto his hands, “This is such a mess.”

Ezra drained the last of his tea and put his cup down on the table. He didn’t know what to say to comfort his friend, so he simply laid his hand on the younger man’s forearm and gave a reassuring squeeze, hoping it would somehow convey the ‘I’m here for you, I believe in you, I’m on your side’ that he couldn’t find the words to express.

They sat in silence for a while, each man lost in his own thoughts. Dinnertime came and went, but Crowley claimed he didn’t have an appetite after the day’s drama and Ezra couldn’t bear to leave his friend alone while he was so upset. So he simply did what he always did when he was worried, and made more tea. Crowley gave him a wan smile when he pressed a warm cup into his hands, but still didn’t speak.

“So. What now?” asked Ezra eventually.

“Dunno,” answered Crowley. “We wait and see, I guess. I’ll try to phone Warlock tomorrow, make sure he’s okay.”

“And you?” insisted Ezra. “Will you be okay?”

Crowley just shrugged. What was there to say?

“I don’t want to be rude,” Crowley said after a while, “But I’m knackered. Think I’m gonna get an early night.” He got up to leave.

“Of course, dear boy,” said Ezra. “You’ve had a busy day.” He followed Crowley to the door. “You’ll let me know if you hear anything about Warlock, yes?” he asked.

“Of course,” Crowley answered.

“Sleep well, then,” said Ezra as Crowley stepped out the door.

“You too, angel,” said Crowley, with a smile that was altogether too soft for Ezra’s heart to bear. “And thank you, Ezra. For... just... thank you.”

“Anytime, my dear,” said Ezra, giving his hand a last squeeze before he closed the door.

---

Crowley was woken up by someone banging on his door. Definitely not Ezra, judging by the way the door was shuddering in its frame. He blearily looked at his watch. 8:30? Who would want him at this time on a Sunday morning?

“Coming,” he yelled, hoping that would stop the visitor from breaking down his door. He dragged a hand through his hair and pulled on his dressing gown.

As he expected, it was not Ezra at the door, nor was it one of the boys. It was Gabriel.

“Still in bed?” said the headmaster, looking him up and down disdainfully. Crowley made a non-committal sort of noise.

“We have a situation involving the Dowling boy,” Gabriel continued. “Be in my office at ten.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode of down the corridor.

“Shit,” Crowley swore under his breath, and went off to shower.

---

Ezra’s nerves were, as he would say, all over the place. Crowley had popped in earlier, on his way to Gabriel’s office, to cancel their plans for lunch. Ezra hadn’t seen him since, even though he’d been keeping a close eye on Gabriel’s office. He’d positioned himself in the staff lounge with a stack of marking for this very purpose – not that he was able to get much work done. The senior boys were summoned to Gabriel’s office in turn during the course of the day, and all looked very grim when they emerged. He had exchanged a few words with Adam when the boy was on his way out, which had only served to fuel his worry.

Finally, just before dinnertime, Crowley emerged from Gabriel’s office. He stomped off without looking to the left or right, and Ezra scrambled to collect his papers and follow him. As he was leaving, he saw Dowling emerge from Gabriel’s office, the headmaster following behind. They were talking quite amicably, if sombrely, which bolstered Ezra’s suspicion that Crowley had come off the worst in the meeting. He hurried off to his friend’s flat with a renewed sense of urgency.

“Crowley?” he asked, hesitantly pushing open the door after his knock had gone unanswered. “It’s me. Ezra.”

“In here,” came Crowley’s voice from the bedroom.

Ezra carefully closed the door behind him and made his way inside. He found Crowley lying sideways across his bed, feet still on the floor, as if he’d sat down on the edge of the bed and then decided staying upright was too much effort. Crowley’s glasses were off – a rare occurrence in the hours of daylight – and he was lying with one arm flung over his face like some swooning Victorian maiden. Ezra couldn’t help a small grin at the sight – always one for the drama, was Crowley.

“Hi,” said Ezra, realising Crowley might not have heard him come in.

“Hey angel,” retorted Crowley, his free hand scrabbling blindly for his glasses.

“Let me close the curtains. Give your eyes a break,” said Ezra, moving over to the window decisively.

“Not the light I’m bothered about,” muttered Crowley as he sat up. This was a sufficiently unexpected comment to cause Ezra to look over at his friend, just as he was sliding the dark glasses onto his face. Crowley’s eyes were still firmly shut, but the skin around them seemed rather red and puffy. Had he been crying?

Ezra closed the curtains regardless, and went to sit next to Crowley on the bed. Crowley was looking at his lap, avoiding eye contact.

“Crowley, my dear,” Ezra said, as gently as he could, “You know you don’t have to hide from me.”

Crowley looked so shattered that Ezra moved without thinking, wrapping an arm around Crowley’s shoulder and pulling him into a sideways hug. To his surprise, Crowley turned to face him and snaked his arms around Ezra’s waist, pressing his face against his shoulder. The younger man grunted and pulled off his glasses, tossing them haphazardly to the side, and buried his face in the crook of Ezra’s neck. Ezra brought his other arm around to rub soothing circles on his friend’s back.

“Bad meeting?” he asked softly.

“Very,” Crowley answered. He took a deep breath, and continued. “They fired me.”

“What?!” exclaimed Ezra, followed by a quick “sorry,” when Crowley winced; he hadn’t realised how close his mouth was to Crowley’s ear.

“Why would they do that?” he continued, a in a more normal tone of voice. “You’re the best history teacher this school has had in decades. I should know, I was here.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Crowley. “All that matters is that I pissed off the wrong people.”

“Dowling?” asked Ezra

“Yeah,” confirmed Crowley. “He made all sorts of threats if Gabriel didn’t get rid of me.”

“And Gabriel listened to him?” Ezra had to admit he was a little surprised; he would have expected a bit more loyalty from his boss.

Crowley gave a snort. “I think the threats were hardly even necessary. Gabriel’s had his eye on me since that incident with Adam and the music.”

Crowley flopped back onto the bed with a groan, rubbing his hand down over his face. Then he looked at Ezra. “What am I gonna do now?” he asked.

“I don’t know about tomorrow,” said Ezra, “but right now, I think you need something to eat, maybe a cup of tea, and a good night’s sleep.”

“Not hungry,” protested Crowley. “There’s wine in that cupboard though, that sounds good.”

Ezra rolled his eyes. “Food first, then wine. I’m going to go find us something to eat; you get changed. And no drinking without me.”

Ezra went to the kitchen and convinced the cook to give him a couple of sandwiches and a packet of biscuits. Then he went past his own room to get a book to read; he had a feeling he might be hanging around for a while. When he returned to Crowley’s room with his haul, he found Crowley in his pyjamas and dressing gown, two glasses of red already poured on the table. They ate in relative silence, Crowley managing only half a sandwich and rather more than half of the bottle of wine.

“Right, said Ezra after a while. “I think you need to get some rest. Off to bed with you.”

“It’s barely dark,” Crowley protested weakly.

“Nevertheless. You look like you’re about to fall asleep where you’re sitting.”

Crowley got up out of his chair and turned towards his bedroom. “Maybe you’re right.” He conceded. And then, uncertainly. “Will you stay for a while? Just until I’m asleep. I... I don’t want to be alone right now.” He seemed embarrassed at this admission.

“Of course I will,” Ezra replied reassuringly. Truth be told, leaving was the last thing he wanted to do. He picked up the book he’d collected from his room earlier, and settled down in the chair next to Crowley’s bed. “I’ll be right here”.

After a few minutes of silence, Crowley voice piped up again. “Will you read to me?”

When Ezra looked up in surprise, he explained, “My mind is a mess. I just need to focus on something else for a while, or I’m never going to fall asleep.”

“Very well,” replied Ezra with a fond smile. He opened the book in his hand, and started reading out loud.

After about ten minutes he looked up to take a sip of water, only to notice that Crowley had dozed off. His face had softened in sleep, finally wiped clean of the frown that had marred it all evening. Ezra allowed himself to gaze at his friend for a while. He was certain he had never seen a more beautiful person in his life.

Unable to stop himself, he reached out a hand to stroke Crowley’s hair back from his brow. The younger man didn’t even stir. Impulsively, Ezra leaned down and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. “Rest well, dear boy,” he murmured, feeling his cheeks pink. Then he sat back with his book and continued his vigil in silence.

Chapter Text

Once Gabriel had made up his mind, things happened with dizzying speed. Not 48 hours after their meeting, Crowley was almost completely packed, ready to depart the next day. He was busy packing his plants into boxes when movement caught his eye outside the window.

He looked up, and was faintly amused to see Adam and his classmates making their way down the pathway, Ezra strolling along sedately behind them. Every few steps he would lift a hand to point out something, the boys’ gazes following his gestures.

Crowley smiled mournfully when he realised that everything he loved about this school, everything he would be sad to leave behind, was outlined in his window frame at that moment. He cared for those boys like a father, like an older brother. And as for Ezra... he couldn’t remember ever loving anyone like he loved Ezra. He didn’t even bother trying to deny it anymore.

Sometimes he allowed himself to dream of a world where his love would not need to be a secret; where he could say ‘let me take you to dinner, let me hold your hand and gaze into those mesmerising stormcloud-eyes, let me kiss you goodnight and write you love letters and live my life by your side...’

But it could never be. He knew his friend too well to risk it. Ezra had loosened up a lot in the last few months – teaching a class outdoors, who could have predicted that? – but this would be going too far. A man loving a man broke every rule of the world they lived in, and he was sure that if he showed even a hint of his affections it would send Ezra running for the hills. No, he would keep this secret love to himself, be content with the friendship he was offered. He wouldn’t risk losing the best friend he had ever had.

As if Ezra could sense his gaze, he suddenly turned and looked up at the window. Crowley’s sad smile was reflected on his friend’s face. Ezra raised a hand: a greeting, a salute. Crowley returned the gesture fondly. Then the English teacher turned back to his class and resumed his lesson. Crowley watched them until they rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

----

“Quite the interesting class you gave today, Mr. Fell.”

Ezra spun around to see Crowley leaning in the doorway of his room. Somehow, even behind the dark glasses, he knew Crowley’s eyes were twinkling with mischief.

“Yes, it seems your madness is catching,” Ezra retorted drily, earning a laugh from the other man.

“Yes, well. You might want to be careful with that. Didn’t end too well for me.”

The reminder of Crowley’s immanent departure sobered them.

“Are you all packed, then?” Ezra enquired.

“Just about. I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning.”

“So soon,” Ezra whispered, sudden sadness stealing his voice.

“Hmm,” replied Crowley vaguely. “No sense in hanging around here, is there?”

No, that’s not true, Ezra wanted to protest. Stay, please, I want you here. Could I be enough reason for you to stay a while? Out loud, he said, “I suppose not. Where will you go? Back to London?”

“For now, yes. I’m going to visit my parents, stay there until I can find a job. After that... who knows?”

After a few more minutes of small talk, Crowley stood up. “I’d better go finish packing, or I’ll be busy all night. See you at dinner.” And with that, he was gone. Ezra sighed. Oh, how he would miss this.

---

That night, Ezra showed up at Crowley’s door with a sad smile and a bottle of wine. “For old time’s sake?” he asked.

Crowley wasted no time inviting him in. “Old time’s sake?” he asked, only half teasing. “Does that mean we’ll never hang out again?”

“I sincerely hope that’s not the case,” said Ezra. “But you must admit it’s rather the end of an era. I live here, you’ll be... wherever you end up going.” Ezra sighed. “It won’t be the same without you, you know.”

“It sure won’t,” agreed Crowley. He finished pouring the wine and handed one to Ezra. “So, what will we toast to?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Doesn’t feel like a very celebratory occasion, does it?”

“Not really,” agreed Crowley.

“In that case,” Ezra proposed, “How about a toast to the memories of good times with good friends.”

“And to keeping good friendships alive,” Crowley added, clinking their glasses together.

“I’ll drink to that,” Ezra replied with a smile.

They settled into their usual easy conversation, hours ticking steadily by without either man noticing. Crowley jerked his head up when Ezra’s hand landed on his shoulder.

“You’re falling asleep,” Ezra chuckled. “Go to bed.”

Crowley yawned and stretched his arms over his head. “Wha’s the time?” he asked.

“It’s – goodness, it’s gone three already,” Ezra said. He sounded entirely too chirpy for this time of morning. “Off to bed, now. Some of us have to work tomorrow.”

“Hmm, ‘kay,” said Crowley, half asleep, as he allowed himself to be herded to his bedroom. It had to be some glitch of his sleep-addled brain that made him stop at the door and turn to Ezra, holding out his arms. “Goodnight hug?” he asked.

Ezra blushed a wonderful shade of pink and stuttered out something that only vaguely approximated a word. “Shit, sorry,” said Crowley, suddenly realising he might have overstepped. “Half asleep. Not thinking properly. ‘m going to bed.” He turned back to his bedroom.

“Hush, now,” said Ezra, putting a hand on his arm. “You just took me by surprise, that’s all. Of course you can have a hug.” And with that he was wrapping strong, soft arms around Crowley, hugging him tightly against his chest. Crowley slid his hands around Ezra’s waist – fuck, why was everything about him so soft and warm? – and just held on, trying to commit the moment to memory.

All too soon, Ezra pulled away from him (although, if he were honest, Crowley couldn’t even imagine a length of time that would not be too soon to stop hugging Ezra.)

“Sleep well, my dear,” said Ezra fondly as he turned to go. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sleep well, angel,” said Crowley, watching as the door closed behind Ezra. Then when he was sure he was alone, “Love you.”

---

Crowley overslept the next morning, and missed breakfast, damn his luck. Ezra only saw him for a minute, in the corridor on his way to class, and their goodbye was a lot more rushed that either would have liked.

“You’ll write to me, yeah?” said Crowley as they parted.

“Of course, my d – Crowley,” replied Ezra, willing his voice to keep steady.

They exchanged a stiff handshake, mindful of the watching eyes of a few dozen students and staff members bustling along the hallways.

Ezra struggled to concentrate on teaching that day. He set each of his classes to work and simply sat at the window, watching for Crowley’s car. He was being ridiculous, he knew, acting like some sort of star-crossed lover, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Tomorrow, he would pull himself together and get on with his life; but for today, he could allow himself to just feel.

At the sight of the black Bentley pulling out of the drive, he felt his throat constrict, and he had to excuse himself under the pretence of needing the bathroom. He hid himself in a stall and just stood with his hands covering his face, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he silently reprimanded himself. You know this would happen. You know what happens when you allow yourself to love. It never ends well.

He stayed there until he calmed down, until he could force the tears back down and regain control of his breathing. He washed his face with cold water, wincing when he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. Pathetic.

By the time he returned to his classroom, it was empty. Had he really been gone that long? He hadn’t even heard the bell ring. That had been his last class for the day, and he was relieved to return to his flat. He closed the door behind him, kicked off his shoes and sank down on the bed with a sigh. He did not leave again until the next morning.

---

Ezra kept his promise to write to Crowley. He wrote almost every day. What he did not do – what he could not bring himself to do – was send those letters.

Dear Crowley, he would write, Oh, how I wish I could address you as ‘My Dearest Crowley,’ or perhaps ‘My Beloved.’

Warlock is back at school; he wrote one day. He and Adam got hold of a record player again. They were playing some of that bebop you love so much and dancing like clowns. You would have loved it. I can just picture the way you would be dancing along with them, with those hips of yours that seem to defy normal anatomy. Do you have any idea how breathtaking you are when you move?

Another time, he wrote, I had to walk out of a staff meeting today. Gabriel was being utterly horrible about you, and it was all I could do not to start cursing at him. He will never be half the man you are, my dear, and he isn’t fit to lick your shoes.

At times, depression threatened to overwhelm him. I am so lonely; he wrote on one particularly bleak day. I miss you, and I love you, and I can never, never speak of it. I must carry this ache in my chest, close to my heart, because it’s wrong, wrong, wrong. What right do I have to ask for your love? I can only imagine your disgust if you were to find out your friend (best friend, dare I hope?) has such deviant inclinations. That’s why I can never tell you. I would rather yearn from a distance, living off the scraps from your table, than lose you altogether.

On other days, his mood was a bit more cheerful. Do you remember that one day we went walking in the woods? He reminisced. I was enjoying the flaming colours of the trees and the last fall flowers, and you were insisting on telling me the names of all the plants. You’re so clever, you know? I could listen to you talk all day. He cherished the memory of that day. In many ways it was a day like any other, but the seclusion of the woods and the simple joy of being outdoors on a crisp fall day had given their walk an almost magical air. He remembered trading jokes and smiles, and grabbing onto Crowley’s hand to steady himself when he slipped on some loose gravel. He remembered he had been reluctant to let go of Crowley’s hand, and had been surprised that the other man didn’t seem too eager to pull away either. And so they’d walked hand in hand for several minutes, neither of them mentioning it. What I wouldn’t give to be able to walk in the woods with you again, hand in hand. To walk like that in the streets; show the whole damn world how much I adore you.

Ezra put down his pen; rubbed his fingers over his eyes and then ran his hand down his face. This was getting ridiculous. How long could he go on like this? He knew he had to get on with his life, and that meant making a choice: put his cards on the table and risk having his heart broken, or walk away and never know what could have been. He wasn’t sure which option was more terrifying.

Hoping to distract himself, he picked up a book from the side table. It happened to be a compilation of Yeats’ works. He idly flipped it open, reading the first poem that caught his eye. Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,  enwrought with golden and silver light, the blue and the dim and the dark cloths of night and light and the half-light. I would spread the cloths under your feet: but I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; tread softly because you tread on my dreams. How apropos, he thought to himself.

His eye strayed to the next poem. When you are old. He had never read that one before, and it hit him like a shot to the heart. Yes, this was it. This was perfect. He would speak his heart, in a sense, but he would do so at a careful distance, give Crowley plenty of opportunity to pretend he hadn’t said anything, to keep the dynamic of their friendship intact. He would get it off his chest, and – hopefully – not ruin their friendship in the process. Emboldened with his plan, he jumped up and set to work.

Chapter Text

Crowley was moping. He was well aware that that was what he was doing, and that self-pity wouldn’t make anything better, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it yet. Surely, he was entitled to a little time to lick his wounds?

He hadn’t heard a thing from Ezra in the weeks since he left – not a letter, not a phone call, nothing. Had their friendship meant so little to the other man? Or had something happened to his friend? He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

Crowley was surprised, therefore, when a package arrived for him one day, about three weeks after he’d left Tadfield. Judging by its size, it was a book. He wasn’t expecting any deliveries, and yet the package was clearly addressed to Anthony J Crowley, in a handwriting that looked very familiar. Intrigued, he turned the package over to check the return address. Tadfield!

His face broke into a smile when he recognised that it was, indeed, the school’s address. There was only one person there who would send him anything. Carefully, he peeled back the paper to reveal, indeed, a book, bound in worn black leather. He turned it over, and his breath caught in his throat as he recognized the book. The collected poems of Oscar Wilde. The very same one he’d bought for Ezra when they visited that bookshop a few short, long weeks ago. Why would Ezra send it back to him, though?

With trembling hands, he opened it to the title page and read, in Ezra’s handwriting:

AJC

“Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings” (Wordsworth)

The poetry may be Wilde’s, but the feelings are my own.

-EF

Crowley flipped idly through the book, still not sure why Ezra had sent it to him. A flash of red caught his eye, and he paused, paging back to it. A few lines of a poem had been underlined. Silentium amoris (The Silence of Love), read the title.

‘So my too stormy passions work me wrong,’ Crowley read, ‘And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.’ Well, that seemed familiar, at least: a love so overwhelming that you can’t even speak of it.

‘But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show, Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung; Else it were better we should part, and go, Thou to some lips of sweeter melody, And I to nurse the barren memory of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.’ Crowley bit his lip, his heart contorting at the sadness and longing in those lines. Had Ezra underlined them, or was it some previous owner?

He flipped through a few more pages, curious to see if anything else had been marked. The next lines he found highlighted were in a poem entitled Her voice. A few couplets were underlined in the same red ink: ‘Dear friend, those times are over and done; Love's web is spun... Sweet, there is nothing left to say, but this, that love is never lost,... And there is nothing left to do, but to kiss once again, and part,... One world was not enough for two, like me and you.’

A single marked line in the poem Endymion had him blushing: ‘Thou hast the lips that should be kissed!’ He lost himself in the memory of Ezra’s beautiful mouth for a few moments.

Another deep breath. Another poem. Flower of love. ‘And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush the burnished bosom of the dove, Two young lovers lying in an orchard would have read the story of our love; Would have read the legend of my passion, known the bitter secret of my heart, Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as we two are fated now to part.’ He couldn’t help a wry smile at that. They hadn’t even had a kiss; nothing but an occasional friendly touch on the arm, a hug, and a dance. Oh, how he dreamed of a kiss...

He pulled his attention back to the page, noticing that two lines were marked with a star in the margins, as if to emphasise their importance: ‘Yet I am not sorry that I loved you,’ and ‘Ah! what else had I to do but love you?’ What else indeed, thought Crowley, but to love from a distance. He found himself agreeing with the last line: I have found the lover's crown of myrtle better than the poet's crown of bays. To know Ezra, to love him, even from afar, was a privilege he wouldn’t trade for anything.

Crowley took a deep breath as he closed the book. That was an emotional punch to the gut. The thought occurred to him that all the underlining had been done in the same red ink, as if with the same pen. An unusual colour, too; not the black or blue ink that most people used. Something jogged his memory, and he looked back to Ezra’s note on the first page: the message was written in black ink, but sure enough, AJC and EF were written in that same shade of red. That removed any doubt that it had been Ezra who had underlined those words. ‘The poetry may be Wilde’s, but the feelings are my own,” he read again, and then one more time just to be sure.

Crowley sank back in his chair as the realisation sank in. Did this mean... was this a confession? An invitation? Was it possible that his love was not as one-sided as he had thought? He felt a little dizzy at the possibility. He read and re-read the lines, trying to convince himself that he was misinterpreting their meaning, but they seemed clear as day. ‘The feelings are my own’. And every single poem, every single line that was marked, was in one way or another a declaration of love.

He was seized by a sudden, urgent need to talk to Ezra. He picked up the telephone, but hesitated. No, he would do this in person. He grabbed the book and his keys, and set off for Tadfield once again.

---

The drive to Tadfield took well over and hour, far too much time for Crowley to second-guess himself. He was pretty sure he was reading Ezra’s gift correctly, but... he could still be wrong, couldn’t he? Staring at the road ahead of him, he replayed the last few months in his mind. If he allowed himself to look past his own self-doubt, he could see hints of Ezra’s affections. He remembered a hand squeezing his arm, and ‘It was... wonderful’ after a day at the orchestra. He remembered a dance lesson that didn’t end when it should have, and how Ezra had seemed as reluctant to let go as he had been. He remembered gentle arms around him when he was falling apart after the whole Dowling incident. Had it really been that long? Had he been blind for so many months? All those cups of tea, all the shared jokes, all the music and poems and stories – it all took on a new colour.

By the time he pulled up outside Tadfield, Crowley’s resolve was firm: he would speak his mind, and face the consequences. If he was wrong, then... well, at least he could stop wondering. He would go back to London and start the painstaking process of piecing together his heart. And if he was right... well, he hardly dared to think of that. He had absolutely no mental roadmap for how things would go from there.

He grabbed the book, locked the car and went inside, feet finding their way to Ezra’s room as if they were programmed. For a moment he wondered where all the students were, but then he remembered that it was probably the February break, since Bee’s wedding would be in a week. He hoped fervently that Ezra hadn’t decided to suddenly break his habit of staying at school during the holidays.

Finally, he found himself facing Ezra’s familiar door. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and knocked.

Chapter Text

Ezra was surprised by the knock at his door. The students had all gone home for the break, and very few of the staff members were still around. Lord, he hoped it wasn’t Gabriel; he couldn’t deal with him today. Another knock. Clearly, whoever it was wasn’t going to give up. With a resigned sigh, he heaved himself out of his seat to go answer.

Nothing could have prepared him for who was waiting on the other side of the door.

“Crowley?” he stammered. “Wh... what are you doing here?” And Crowley, damn him, just held up the book and raised an eyebrow at him, the faintest suggestion of a smile tugging at his mouth.

Well. What now? Ezra had never though this far ahead, hadn’t dared to imagine that his gift would prompt any sort of reaction from the other man, except maybe to send him running for the hills.

“I... the... we...” His brain couldn’t make words happen right now. Why was Crowley here? Was he upset? He didn’t look upset. Did he want to return the book, ‘oh, I can’t possibly accept this’? Did he even understand what the gift had been trying to say?

Ezra realised he had been standing with his mouth open for an inappropriately long time when Crowley asked, still smirking a little, “Do you mind if I come in?” This snapped him back to himself.

“Of course, sorry, where are my manners.” He stood aside and gestured for the other man to enter. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here again.”

“Well, here I am,” Crowley responded, looking faintly amused at Ezra’s discomfiture.

“Tea?” asked Ezra, desperately striking out for some sort of normality. He turned to the kitchenette, but was stopped by a hand on his arm.

“Not just yet, Ezra,” Crowley said, an uncertain look in his eyes. “If you don’t mind, I want to talk to you first, and... well... afterwards you may not want me to stick around for tea.”

He was looking down at this point, so Ezra couldn’t see his eyes, but the tremble in his voice betrayed something very much like fear.

I’ll always want you to stick around, Ezra thought to himself, always, even if you’re here to tell me to stop being an idiot and back off, I’ll still want you around, just like I always have.

Out loud, he said, “All right then,” and led his friend to chair where they had spent so many hours talking.

Before he sat down, Crowley went over to the window to draw the curtains. He sat down and he took off his glasses, caught Ezra’s gaze. Oh, how he loved those golden eyes.

“Ezra,” Crowley started. Swallowed, took a breath. Started again. “I’m afraid I’m not...”

Not comfortable with this? Not interested? Not able to be friends with someone as depraved as you? The thoughts ran through Ezra’s mind. There were too many ways for that sentence to end badly.

“I’m not... sure what this... means. What you’re trying to say – if you’re trying to say anything. If I’m just reading things into it.”

Crowley was getting flustered now. Ezra longed to reach out to him, take his hand, say to him hey, it’s okay, it’s just me.

“The thing is...” Crowley took another fortifying breath. “You sent me this,” he gestured to the book, “and you marked all those specific lines, and it... well... it looks very much like you’re trying to tell me something.”

At this point he seemed to gather up his courage and looked Ezra square in the eyes. “Are you, Ezra? Are you trying to tell me something?”

It was Ezra’s turn to feel embarrassed, and he dropped his eyes to where his hands were clenched in his lap. This had all seemed so much easier in his head, or while sending gifts with cryptic messages. Right now, with Crowley sitting in front of him, all earnest and open... well, Ezra was terrified. Terrified because he was about to admit his biggest secret, because he might be about to lose the best friend he had ever had. And yet, he knew that there was no turning back now, so he forced himself to speak.

“Yes,” he managed to whisper. “Yes, I am. I’m so sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable, and I’ll understand if you...”

He was interrupted by a hand placed on his. “Look at me, angel.”

Angel? That was promising. He met Crowley’s gaze, and the tenderness in those honeyed eyes almost floored him.

“There.” A small, fond smile. “Now, Ezra. Tell me again. Tell me to my face this time.”

A line from a  Robert Frost poem arose unbidden in Ezra’s mind. Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less travelled by, and that has made all the difference. This was his deciding moment. This was where the paths split, and he had to take the unfamiliar one, or he would spend the rest of his life wondering.

“I...” His voice came out as a croak, and he had to clear his throat. “I love you, Crowley.” He dropped his gaze again, afraid of what he would see in the other man’s face, afraid of the disgust, the pity he was sure would be written there.

“You don’t mean that just like a friend, do you?” came the soft question.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Ezra whispered, eyes still fixed on his hands.

To his surprise, he felt a soft hand on his cheek, gently lifting his face to meet his friend’s eyes again. “Oh, Angel,” Crowley breathed, voice quavering, “I love you too, you stupid, brilliant man.”

“You... you what?” Ezra sat up in shock. Somehow, his brain couldn’t process the words he was hearing. Was he dreaming? “You... love me? Really?”

“Yes, really.” Crowley was chuckling, and Ezra wondered what his face looked like. “Is it that hard to believe? You are... well, the most wonderful person I’ve ever known, really.”

Ezra could feel his face heating at the praise, and he dropped his gaze. Crowley’s hand came up to cradle his face again, and he leaned into it almost instinctually, like a cat having its head scratched. He felt his blush deepening when he realised what he was doing.

“Oh, Crowley,” he managed, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Can I...?” Ezra wasn’t sure how to ask for what he wanted. Why did his usual eloquence have to desert him now, of all times? “May I... perhaps... kiss you?” His voice was almost inaudible by the end.

In answer, Crowley leaned forward, pressed their foreheads together. “Oh, I was hoping you would.”

It was soft, softer than Ezra could have imagined, and it lasted an eternity and nowhere near long enough. Crowley drew back just a fraction, just enough to draw a shaky breath. “I am thy new-found Lord,” he quoted, then paused to press another kiss to Ezra’s lips, “and I shall kiss the yet unravished roses of thy mouth.” Another kiss. “And I shall weep and worship, as before.”

Ezra couldn’t help but chuckle. “Wilde? Really?”

“Hmm, I’m a quick study.” Crowley’s eyes were closed, and he was smiling, his forehead still pressed against Ezra’s. He looked blissfully happy.

“I do believe you misquoted, though,” teased Ezra.

“Angel?”

“Hmm?”

“Shut up and kiss me again.”

So he did. Thoroughly.

Chapter Text

1990. Hove, East Sussex.

Crowley sat at the small kitchen table, cup of tea in hand, enjoying the early morning sun shining in through the window. As he watched a pair of sparrows bobbing around outside the window, he ran the thumb of his left hand over the gold band that graced his ring finger. They’d never officially gotten married, him and Ezra – the law didn’t make allowance for people like them – but he’d been wearing this ring for over twenty years now, and he would never think of Ezra as anything other than his husband.

Time had changed Crowley: his auburn hair was streaked with grey, giving it an unusual strawberry-blonde tint, and his face was lined with years – he counted himself fortunate that the smile lines were etched more deeply than the frown lines. If it weren’t for the still-ubiquitous dark glasses, one might notice how his eyes softened and crinkled at the corners as he stroked the golden circlet that he had always considered his wedding band.

As it always did in moments like these, his mind wandered back over the last three decades of his life. As it had turned out, his departure from Tadfield had signalled the beginning of the end for Ezra’s time there, too. After that first day of confessions and kisses, it had nearly killed Crowley to return to London and leave Ezra behind again, but he had had no choice: Gabriel had bad-mouthed him around town so thoroughly that he had no hope of finding a job there. Fortunately, he’d gotten a position at the University College London quite easily, and settled into a rented flat nearby. Every Friday after school, Ezra would board a bus to London, and they would have a glorious two days together before he had to return to Tadfield.

By the end of the school year, it had become unthinkable for them to keep living so far apart, and Ezra had handed in his resignation. He had wanted to leave Tadfield ever since he saw Crowley drive out the gate that last time, but the final push had come one Saturday morning in May. At Ezra’s insistence, him and Crowley had gone to visit his old friend’s bookshop in Soho. They had been catching up over a cup of tea when a chance remark from her changed the course of their lives forever. She and her husband had been hoping to retire soon, she had explained, but they were baulking at the idea of selling the bookshop, or even worse, closing it down; it was their life’s work, after all, their only child. Crowley had been the one to suggest that they let Ezra run it for them, splitting the profits, and it had turned out to be a perfect solution for everyone. There was even a little flat above the bookshop where Ezra could live rent-free. That flat had been his home – and later still, their shared home – until about a year ago, when Ezra had had to admit he could no longer manage the stairs, and they had retired to the little cottage they now shared.

Crowley’s thumb continued twirling the ring as he sat at the table, tea forgotten, lost in thought. He smiled as he remembered the day he got it. It had been a late summer day in 1967, and they had been sitting on a bench in St James’s Park – hand-in-hand, and almost giddy with the joy of finally being able to do so openly.

“My dearest,” Ezra had said, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Hmm?” Crowley had turned to look at him

“You know I love you so awfully much,”

“And I you, my angel,” Crowley had interrupted, lifting Ezra’s hand to place a gentle kiss on his knuckles.

“Hush now,” Ezra had scolded, smiling fondly. “Let me finish.”

Crowley mimed locking his mouth and tossing the key over his shoulder.

“As I was saying,” Ezra continued, smiling. “I love you so very much, and I’m absolutely certain that I’ll keep loving you until the day I draw my last breath.”

As he talked, he rummaged for something in his pocket and withdrew his closed fist.

“I know we can’t get married officially, but I still want the whole world to know that you are mine, and I am yours. So, if you would, if you want to...”

He seemed to run out of words at this point, and just flicked his eyes down to his hand. Crowley’s gaze followed suit, and he felt his breath catch: there, in Ezra’s palm, were a pair of golden rings.

Crowley was stunned; momentarily speechless. Was this happening? Could he really have this? Then the truth of what Ezra was asking struck him all at once, and all he could do was tackle the older man in a hug, crying and laughing and mumbling “yes, yes, of course yes!” into his neck.

Ezra made a happy sort of sound, untangled himself gently while trying to surreptitiously wipe the tears from his own eyes.

“You’re making a scene, love,” he chuckled softly. “People are staring.”

“Let them!” Crowley laughed, as he slipped the ring onto his finger. “Let the whole of London, the whole damn world see!” He pulled Ezra close into another hug, and whispered in his ear “My husband.”

---

We shall be notes in that great Symphony

Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic spheres,

And all the live World’s throbbing heart shall be

One with our heart, the stealthy creeping years

Have lost their terrors now, we shall not die,

The Universe itself shall be our Immortality!