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“Oh…bullocks.” Azra stared at the red-haired stranger, now crumpled to the floor in the entryway of his bookshop. The lump on his head was visibly swelling from where Azra had smacked him with his metal umbrella.
This was shaping up to be a very. Long. Night.
It is often said that God works in mysterious ways, but so, too, does She work in confounding and unnecessary ones. She could have arranged for Azra to meet this man at a coffee shop, perhaps, sitting together over warm drinks and flirting until one of them worked up the courage to ask for the other’s number. She could have had them meet in secondary school, when Azra had been a dweeby bookworm and the other the classic bad boy. She could have even made them immortal, supernatural entities, trapped in a forbidden romance spanning millennia.
But, no. No, of course, that would be too convenient. As Azra would later tell people who politely inquired how he and his husband had met, he met the love of his life because the love of his life tried to rob his bookshop.
Anthony J. Crowley was, in many ways, a perfectly normal guy. He ran an online consultation business, collected houseplants, and got drinks with his friends on Friday nights. Sure, there was the snake tattoo on his face, the all-black outfits, and the ever-present sunglasses. He’d never claim to be a conformer and wouldn’t want to be. But the bad attitude, running from the law, and general teenage fuckery were things of the past. He’d graduated uni with honors and made something of himself, though his family never expected he’d manage it.
And now, he was a perfectly ordinary middle-aged man, moved to London from Edinburgh, and he was also very, very drunk.
In his defense, it was not the intent at the top of the evening. He only meant to have one drink and go home. But he acquiesced to a second, and a third, then a few shots, and then he started thinking about how goddamn lonely he felt all the goddamn time, and lost count after that. When the room starting swaying, the bartender said she’d call him a cab.
He waved her off. “I can ge’ ‘ome fine,” he murmured, slapping some money on the counter that was hopefully approximate to what he owed (it was actually nearly twice that, which he wouldn’t realize until two days later when he needed cash and opened his wallet to see metaphorical moths fly out).
Stumbling out into the streets, a blast of cold winter air smacked him hard, and he shivered in his thin coat. He hadn’t even thought to bring gloves, and now it was dark and, come to think of it, he lived in Mayfair and this bar was…uh…shit, he couldn’t remember. Not Mayfair. Somewhere in, uh…assumedly London. Where he lived.
Nothing for it. He’d need to find an inn. He pulled out his mobile to find that his hands were shaking so much, he couldn’t hold it still. The double-whammy of cold and drink was slowly dragging him under, and he simply began walking in the hopes of warming himself up.
There were others milling about, of course, and cars. It was the big city, it never really slept. After only a few minutes, it began to drizzle, and within thirty seconds there was a full-on downpour.
People ran for cover, pulled out umbrellas, and true Londoners simply shrugged and continued what they were doing. Anthony stopped in the center of the sidewalk, ignoring the people who glared at him as they dodged him, staring blankly through the downpour.
Whether it be coincidence or divine intervention, few can say (One. One can say), but Anthony’s eyes drifted, then, to the building beside him, at the corner of a crossroads. It looked…fancy, lots of windows. There were some words above it, but Anthony’s glasses were covered in rain and it somehow did not occur to his drunken self to take them off. But it seemed inn-ish. Hotel-like. It would do.
“F’kin’ fin’lly,” he muttered to no one, and approached the building. There wasn’t a no vacancy sign or anything – nor was there a rooms available sign, but he didn’t notice that – so he figured they’d have space.
He pushed open the door and walked into the dark lobby.
Azra Fell closed his bookshop at 5 o’clock on the second, eyes glued to the second hand as it ticked until he could finally, finally close and read in peace, without concern for being interrupted by potential customers. Dreadful thing, customers. Not that he didn’t love sharing knowledge and a love of literature in theory…but his books weren’t…this wasn’t a thrift shop, or a place where any random individual could purchase a book. These were antiques. Vintage. Not for teenagers sipping lattes and strollers with babies and the kind of folk who never put books back where they got them. They had to be handled with care and love, and few could manage it to his standards.
Regardless, it was getting rather late by now. Just past midnight, and about time he went upstairs to his bed. Not to sleep, don’t be silly. Reading in bed was its own experience, after all.
With a sigh, he placed a bookmark in his current book, Maurice by E. M. Forster, and made his way to the first floor. He only made it halfway up the stairs to his flat when, suddenly, muffled footsteps sounded from the front room.
Robbers.
In the same instant, he realized that, despite how anxious he’d been to close the shop, he’d been so distracted by his excitement to do so that he forgot to actually close the bloody shop.
He crept back down. The only light came from streetlamps through the blinds. Azra quickly grabbed his umbrella from where he kept it in the backroom (so no customers would take it) and walked slowly into the darkness of the front room, poised to strike it like a baseball bat. He could somewhat make out a dark figure standing by the counter at the door, which was swung open, rainfall loud enough to cover Azra’s movements.
“Um, hello?” the figure said, and Azra panicked, immediately swinging his umbrella and striking the side of the robber’s head. He crumbled to the floor instantly, like he’d barely been standing as it was.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” Azra muttered, scurrying to close the door – lest the wet come in – and turning on the lights. As soon as he saw the red-haired person on the floor, he froze, completely unsure what to do.
Azra was not new to crime, what with living in Soho, nor being the focus of crime gangs. He’d even been threatened by one some number of years ago, wanting his bookshop for a base of operations of sorts, which turned out poorly for them. But Azra, as a general rule, was a soft individual who just wanted to drink cocoa in bed and read gay romances.
And now, he had a stranger, passed out on the floor.
Perhaps anyone else might’ve called the police at this point. But ACAB and all, and Azra had no interest in them entering his shop. Instead, he crept closer to get a better look at the – well, they certainly looked like a man, but who was Azra to say such a thing?
Azra crouched and nearly tumbled over from the sheer alcoholic fumes reeking from this person’s breath.
“Oh, good lord,” he muttered. The picture was shaping up in his mind. He was an intelligent man, and it was obvious from the moment the poor stranger spoke that he wasn’t a robber. The man was clearly some random drunk who had stumbled into the bookshop by accident. Unfortunately, Azra had swung on instinct, and this poor drunkard would now be having both a hangover and a potential concussion to contend with.
Oh, goodness. This was…not a very good situation. Guilt washed over him and, in the face of such a situation, he did the only rational thing a Brit would do, and made tea.
The first thing Anthony was aware of was pain, and the second was heat. For a long moment, he oscillated between the two, trying to focus on the weight atop his body or whatever soft thing he was laying on, and not the throbbing of his head. He shifted slightly and groaned, a ringing in his ears persistent as he blearily blinked his eyes open.
Wherever he was, it was dark, and he was clearly on some sort of sofa. A heavy quilt laid over him and a peaceful quiet pervaded, the hum of city life muffled.
He squinted at the ceiling, trying to place where he was and how he’d gotten there. He remembered getting drunk, which explained the headache, but couldn’t recall how or when he’d wound up on someone’s sofa.
He turned to look to the side and nearly jumped out of his skin.
There was a man – assumedly – in all creams, sitting in an armchair, reading a book. A floor lamp beside the chair illuminated him in a soft, yellow cast, the only light in a dark room full of shadows and whispers. He had white hair, or perhaps it was blonde, and wore tiny spectacles as he licked a finger and turned the page. His body was broad, with all beautifully rounded edges and a peeking double chin. He looked ethereal and adorable.
Anthony made some sort of sound, and the actual literal angel looked up. He looked shocked, followed quickly by relief and something like…guilt? “Oh, thank goodness you’re awake! How are you feeling?”
Rather than answer the question, Anthony stared and said with a strained voice, “How…who the hell are you?”
The man bristled for a moment before that odd, guilty look came back. “Erm, no one of import.”
“Right. Sure. And this is…your sofa?”
“Yes.”
“And…and I’m sleeping on it because…?”
“Well.” The man averted his eyes as he set aside his book. “You stumbled into my bookshop, quite drunk. Very irresponsibly, you know.”
Anthony tried to sit up indignantly, but the pain in his head spiked, and he made a soft, pathetic whine as he fell back into the cushions. The room spun and he clenched his eyes shut. “Dammit. Haven’t had a hangover this bad since before uni.” After a painful swallow, he added, “Sorry about this, mate. I don’t even remember showing up here, but I’ll be outta your hair soon as I can, promise.”
There was a shuffling sound, and the man’s voice suddenly appeared just beside him. Anthony’s heartrate spiked. “Um, is there anything I can do? I fear you may have a concussion, and the interwebs just said to make the person comfortable and let them rest, so, uh…”
“A…concussion?” Somehow, Anthony couldn’t make sense of it. Also, the man had just said “interwebs” unironically and Anthony wasn’t sure how to handle that. “Why would I…what the hell did I do last night?”
“It was only a few hours ago, actually.”
Anthony grunted in annoyance. “’Kay. Earlier this night, then.”
“Well, uh.” When nothing else was forthcoming, Anthony peeled open an eye to see the man looking down at him, eyebrows drawn up in concern and eyes shining. He’s so close and so cute what do I do. “I’m afraid I…I might have, well. Hit you with an umbrella?”
Anthony’s thoughts ground to a halt.
He shot up, and immediately regretted this decision. “God fucking pestilent bullocks,” he spat. “You what now?!”
“It was an accident!” the man protested.
“How do you lob a man in the head with an umbrella by accident?”
“I thought you were trying to rob my bookshop! I panicked!”
“Why the fuck would I rob some old bookshop?!”
“I’m quite sure I don’t like the implications of that statement,” the man replied primly.
Anthony squinted at him in disbelief, mouth hanging open. A beat passed. “You hit me with an umbrella!”
“You broke into my bookshop!”
“Well, you…” Anthony trailed off, closing his eyes again. Despite the single lamp, it was just too bright. “Uh, you…why am I on your damn sofa if you thought I was trying to rob you?!”
The man cleared his throat. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, more apologetic. “I…after a moment, I realized the error of my…judgement…and it hardly seemed prudent to leave you on the floor.”
“…You could have just dragged me to hospital or something.”
“Oh, erm. I could certainly…”
Anthony waved it away, his angry energy already receding. He sank back into the cushions, weirdly drained, head still aching. “Don’t want to move,” he whined, unable to conjure any embarrassment about it.
“A-Alright. I’ll take care of you until you’re better. And, um.” There was a long pause. “Sorry.”
Azra awoke suddenly to the sound of a violent sneeze. He bolted upright, body complaining as he realized he had fallen asleep in his armchair. It took only a beat for the rest of his brain to catch up and he remembered the strange man passed out on his sofa. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted with the sight of said man sitting, quilt draping off one shoulder, and blowing his nose with a tissue from the coffee table.
“Um, good morning,” Azra said uncertainly.
“Fuck,” the man mumbled scratchily as he rubbed his face with both hands, dropping the used tissue lazily to the side. Azra tried not to be offended by that. “Don’t get a hangover and a concussion at the same time. Really wouldn’t recommend it.”
“I am so sorry about that. I really didn’t mean to-“
“It’s fine,” the man interrupted unexpectedly.
“It’s not. I feel terribly about it.”
The stranger gave him an odd look. “Mate, I swear it’s fine.”
Azra shook his head. “Please, you must let me repay you somehow. And you’re welcome to stay as long as you need, to recover, or I can accompany you home if you need help – or, or I can ask a neighbor, or something, I’d understand if you don’t want me to–“
The man held up a hand, looking vaguely amused and likewise irate. “Can you talk a little quieter? No offense, just…” He gestured at his head.
“Ah, of course,” Azra whispered guiltily. “I’m sorry.”
“Shut up,” the man grumbled, not unkindly. “It happens. It was an accident, you said.”
They sat in silence for a long moment, before Azra jolted with realization. “Oh, goodness!” he exclaimed in horror. “I never even introduced myself!” He shook himself and crossed the room, holding out a hand to his, for lack of a better word, guest. “My name is Azra Fell. I run this bookshop.”
The man let out a slim hand and clasped his, a smirk across his lips. “Anthony Crowley. Resident bookshop robber.”
Azra laughed at the unexpected joke, a smile breaking out across his face. “Well. It’s lovely to meet you, Anthony.”
The man lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll admit, I’ve had better first meetings.”
Azra immediately felt guilty again. “I’m so sor–“
“Oh, quit apologizing,” he interrupted. “Just buy me dinner and we’ll call it a deal, eh?”
Azra blinked, his face flooding with color. Did – was this stranger flirting with him? “Is…are you joking?”
With a grimace, Anthony pulled his hand away, which was how Azra realized they’d been holding hands that whole time. “Er, uh, I was just, well–“
Azra watched in fascination as Anthony’s entire face turned red, stumbling over his syllables. As previously mentioned, Azra was an intelligent man, and, more importantly, he’d read his fair share of romance novels in his time. “I…your only knowledge of me is that I smacked you with an umbrella and run a bookshop,” Azra pointed out, eyebrows raised. “Why would you…?”
Anthony shrugged, glaring at the quilt in his lap. “Nevermind, forget it. I should just–“
“I didn’t say no. I’m only curious why.”
Anthony shrugged again. “I dunno, you’re weird and pretty? Do I need more reason than that?”
Azra felt offended and flattered in turn, entirely unsure what to say. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been wanting to run his hands through the poor soul’s hair since Azra first manhandled him onto the sofa (he was a lot stronger than anyone usually guessed), but wasn’t it a bit…unorthodox? Fast, even?
Nonetheless, his mouth answered for him. “I…suppose that’s reason enough,” he said slowly. “Mine aren’t much better.”
Anthony looked back at him, eyes wide. “What?”
“Where would you prefer?” Azra asked quickly, not wanting to elaborate on that statement.
“Um, no preference.” Anthony blinked. “Wait, really? You’ll…?”
Azra nodded.
“Oh. Er. Brilliant.” His face broke out in a grin, which apparently hurt quite a lot if the answering grimace of pain was anything to go by.
“You should lie back down,” Azra suggested, gently guiding him by the shoulders. “I do believe your concussion may take at least a week before it’s gone…”
“I should probably head back to my place, then–“
“You don’t have to,” Azra answered, much too quickly. He flushed and backtracked. “Erm, I obviously won’t keep you here, you’re a free person, but, uh, you’re really in no state to be left alone, you know…”
Anthony huffed and closed his eyes, accepting this with ease. “Works for me. You’ll just have to be my guardian angel, won’t you?” he teased.
“Not a very good one, when I’m the one who harmed you.”
Anthony hummed. “All the more reason to keep to your post, angel.”
Azra was glad Anthony’s eyes were closed, so he wouldn’t see the way his face pinked. He truly had no idea how he’d ever explain to anyone how the man who stumbled drunk into his bookshop was now, apparently, his date, but…no doubt, it’d be the one dinner, and that’d be it.
What reason could they possibly have to see each other again, after that?
Azra discovered the reason not too long after. Anthony insisted he’d known from the start, but Azra didn’t believe him for a moment. Their meeting had hardly been complementary to love at first sight, after all. The room was too dark for it.
“You looked like an angel under that lamp,” Anthony told him. “Though your smiting went over poorly, as you’ve done a terrible job of getting rid of me.”
Azra merely set a kiss to Anthony’s knuckles. “Aren’t angels supposed to smite demons?”
“Well, maybe I am a demon. Maybe I’ve tempted you into this whole relationship.”
“Need I remind you which of us proposed to whom?”
As Azra would later tell people who politely inquired how he and his husband had met, he met the love of his life because the love of his life tried to rob his bookshop. As Anthony would typically interject, he met the love of his life because the love of his life knocked him out while he was stone drunk.
Neither were entirely wrong, nor entirely right. Had God been anything less than ineffable, the two might’ve been surprised by it. As it was, Anthony merely bought Azra an umbrella for their first wedding anniversary, and Azra was sure to use it to keep his husband dry from the rain each day after.
There were few worse beginnings, but few better endings, than that.