Archive of Our Own

The Ritz was swarming with people that evening.

Their cheerful, sparkling chatter drifted around the refined room, mingling with the sweet notes coming from the piano. The waiters were moving around the tables in a hurry, while keeping a moderate and elegant pace, worthy of the restaurant they worked in.

The smell of the delicious food on the table tickled his nostrils but nothing more, after all he had never been much of a food lover. Not as much as Aziraphale, who was dreamily savouring the last piece of the huge steak he had ordered.
He had never seen a plate empty so quickly, and be left without a single crumb or a trace of sauce.
Now he had ceased to wonder, the angel's voracity was as unusual as his habit of mistreating plants.

Normal.
Ordinary.
Typical.

That was how the evening could be described.
Nothing out of place.
Everyone around him was living their own lives and enjoying their dinner in peace.
He could not say for sure, therefore, how the question he instinctively asked his friend, sitting opposite him, crept up on him.

"Have you ever kissed anyone?"

He often found himself wandering bored in his thoughts, in those little moments when there was only silence between them, and the most outlandish questions were instilled in him.

Like that one, for example.

Was it the bright red colour of the juicy strawberry on the cake that Aziraphale had not yet touched that brought this to mind? Or perhaps the couple sitting a few tables away, exchanging eager glances?

Either way, he had dropped the bomb and curiosity had invaded his mind, overpowering everything else, like a powerful wave in a storm.

He fixed his no-longer-distracted gaze on the angel who, on hearing the question, had spilled a few drops of Chateau Lagrande in astonishment, smearing the fine tablecloth.
In a few seconds the scarlet stains disappeared.
Restless, he saw him dab his lips with the strictly tartan-patterned handkerchief that he carefully placed in his pocket when he had finished.

"I don't think I quite understand, dear."

He knew he had understood all too well, but he asked the question again casually, unlike the angel who seemed to be on tenterhooks.
He found that reaction a bit exaggerated, he had simply asked if he had ever had that experience, which in truth, was not as outrageous as Aziraphale described it.

"I don't think this is the place to talk about it," he had retorted, masking his uneasy tone by looking testy, not realising he was an open book.
Especially to Crowley.

"How prudish you are!" the demon scolded him, "it's a kiss we're talking about, not a one-night stands."

Aziraphale gave him a grim look.

"It is still a matter to be discussed in private," he said firmly, marking the last word.

He noticed how brutally the fork sank into the sponge cake and began to seriously wonder why it had upset him so much.

Silence fell.
Aziraphale swallowed the slice of cake hard, as if it were made of paper, and Crowley swore he had never witnessed such a scene.
Could it be that he was so upset that he could not enjoy his beloved strawberry cake?

The situation was beginning to stink, and once the bill was paid, they climbed into his car and drove to the angel's bookshop, accompanied by the deafening silence.
Not even the radio had turned on, so strong was the tension in there.
He gripped the steering wheel eagerly, struggling to understand what was behind the anguish that had magically appeared as soon as the fateful question had escaped his lips.

Why was he so upset?

The Bentley stopped in front of the bookshop, whose shutters were down as usual and the sign elegantly reading 'we are closed' hung on the front door.
It had closed earlier that evening, not that it was usually a busy place, much to the delight of Aziraphale who had no intention of parting with the jealously guarded first editions.

He let a half-smile escape, having always found that bizarre feature strangely intriguing, and with his eyes on the lighted road ahead, he heard the door open and the angel descend, without a word.

When he did not hear the door slam, however, he turned his head to his left and saw his friend hovering, hesitating about what to do.

"Angel? Are you alright?"

"Oh, yes yes! Just..." the words seemed to die in his mouth.

Crowley frowned as he watched the scene, which was slowly becoming more and more embarrassing.
He leaned forward in the cockpit, getting a better look at Aziraphale's face, which had a strange expression.

"What?"

"Do you remember the time we accidentally met in Italy? We were in Tuscany, I don't remember the area precisely, maybe Siena? Or in Arezzo? I think it was Pisa-"

"Get to the point, angel," the demon cut in short, feeling his patience wearing thin.

"I have some excellent Chianti just waiting to be drunk, would you like to come in?"

Aziraphale gave him a shy smile and obviously didn't let him repeat it twice, he could never refuse such an invitation, although his prevarication wasn't very clear to him.
He parked the Bentley, so to speak, breaking more or less a dozen traffic rules, and with his usual sway followed the angel into the bookshop.

The place was filled with the pungent smell of old pages and the delicate aroma of tea that Aziraphale often enjoyed in his company, sitting opposite each other.
Even then they sat in exactly the same positions: he perched quietly on the armrest of the sofa, his left leg keeping him balanced and the angel facing him with his usual frown, leaning on the soft backrest and politely composed.

Crowley gave him a wry smile, his chin held by his left hand, before the bottle of fine wine miraculously appeared on the small table that separated them.
Accompanied by two glasses ready to be filled and emptied, in a continuous loop that would last for hours to come.

The only noises that accompanied them for the next few minutes were the soft melody coming from the gramophone, the POP sound emitted by the cork when it was removed and the scarlet liquid that was gently poured into the glasses.

It could be described as a relaxing atmosphere, if only there wasn't a lot of tension between them.

He swallowed a few sips, feeling his nerves relax just a little, and placed his serpentine gaze, hidden by his dark lenses, on Aziraphale, who was nervously staring at the wine in the glass vessel as if it were the first edition of Nostradamus' book of prophecies.
On second thought, he already owned that volume.

He was beginning to get fed up with this behaviour, so much so that he began frantically drumming his fingers on the glass, a bored and annoyed look painting his face.
His patience was short-lived, as usual, and when he suddenly pulled off his glasses, he opened his mouth but was overtaken.

"Yes."

That faint whisper dispersed through the bookcase, shattering on the numerous volumes scrupulously placed on the dusty shelves.
There and then he was confused, not understanding what the hell his friend was babbling about.

"I've kissed someone over the years," the angel mumbled embarrassedly, adjusting his shirt collar as if it were choking him.

Crowley was surprised.
His reddish eyebrows remained raised for a good few minutes without a word.

To be honest, he hadn't expected a positive response, or rather he hadn't expected an answer at all, given the hard, clear tone he'd given him at the Ritz, so he could call himself doubly surprised.
And strangely irritated.
Especially by what Aziraphale said immediately afterwards.

"But I'm not going to tell you who it is," he gave him a determined, hasty look before capping his mouth with a large gulp of wine.

The demon's eyebrows fell back at lightning speed, giving him an even more annoyed look than he already had.

Damn that angel and his little secrets.
Six thousand years and he still hadn't learned to trust him, absurd!

They had lied to their superiors throughout history, over and over again, stood up to them during the Almost End of the World, siding against them, putting their own lives on the line so that they could remain on Earth in each other's company.
They were part of one faction, their own, and that ungrateful angel refused to share a harmless experience with him.
Ugh, who could understand him.
One step forward, three steps back.

He snorted loudly, drawing Aziraphale's amused gaze to himself and rolled his eyes, swallowing more wine. It seemed almost tasteless to him, so strong was the sense of annoyance that made his mouth bitter.

"Come on Crowley, don't pull a long face! I invited you here to drink and chat," he chided him cheerfully.

"Besides, it wasn't anyone important," he pointed out immediately afterwards, not realising that this statement did not reduce his curiosity at all.
Nor did it reduce his irritation, which was certainly due to the fact that he could not put a face to the mysterious person who had had the opportunity to touch his lips.

He frowned in bewilderment.
Could it be that the alcohol was already going to his head?
He decided to put all those thoughts aside and let himself be carried away by Aziraphale's enthusiasm, continuing to drink calmly.

It wasn't his problem anyway.
If it wasn't anyone important, there was nothing to worry about.
Not that if it had been the other way around, he would have been worried.
At the end of the day, it had been an isolated and unremarkable event.

Although in retrospect, he hadn't actually specified whether it had happened more than once.
Had he done it again? And had it always been the same person? And above all, who the hell was this person?

He was dying to find out, obviously for purely mocking purposes against Aziraphale, and it took several glasses of that wonderful Chianti for him to temporarily silence that desire.

"You're telling me you don't know what a selfie is- BURP."

"I'm afraid yes, my dear."

"I invented them! How can you not know!" retorted the demon indignantly, the tone of his voice slightly an octave higher.

"Oh come on! You know I'm not used to using smo...smi? Or smu?"

Aziraphale squinted his eyes, reducing them to two slits, concentrating in the hope of remembering that word that was so complicated to him.

"Smartphone?" suggested the demon promptly, his eyes liquid.

"Exactly!" rejoiced the angel triumphantly "I was saying, you know I'm not good at using them, so how am I supposed to know what a salfie is."

"Selfie."

"Whatever!"

He saw him mutter that answer annoyed, before taking another sip of white wine.
The Chianti had been finished for some time.

The demon was struck by a sudden fit of giggles, which made his friend further altered to the point where his cheeks seemed to swell up like balloons.
He only accentuated his laughter.

"You look like a squirrel!"

"Stop making fun of me! I bet there's something I know and you don't! You insolent!" he gave him a fiery look, hotter than hell itself, said by someone who had been in hell.

"I'm all ears, angel."

A crooked smile appeared on his face, dedicated to the friend in front of him, who naturally accepted the challenge without a second thought.

"Mhh...the gavotte!"

"Did you forget you showed me some steps of that ridiculous dance?"

"It is not ridiculous, it is refined," Aziraphale corrected, in a solemn tone.

"It is old-fashioned and ridiculous."

Here again was the blinkered look, followed by careful reflection.

"What about Alfonso and Estrella?"

"Opera by Schubert, which by the way is part of ours, dating back to 1821," the demon explained fluently, proud of his knowledge although Aziraphale wasn't trying that hard to make it difficult for him.

And apparently, he noticed the look of condescension on his face, not that he was hiding it much, and he swore he saw the wheels start moving, searching for something unknown to him.

The wait was slightly longer than the others and strangely enough the result was a success for Aziraphale.

"The angel's kiss!" he exclaimed out of the blue, even standing up.

As for Crowley, he frowned.

"You just made that up," he mocked him.

"Aha! See? You don't know it, I won," beaming, he boasted of his triumph with very little modesty, mocking him and adjusting his bow tie knowingly.

"I doubt it really exists."

Sceptically, he raised a single eyebrow, squaring his gleeful friend, looking for answers that were not long in coming, albeit in the form of mockery.

"And yet you are wrong, my dear! The angel's kiss consists of gently kissing the other person's closed eyelids-."

"The eyelids?"

"Yes, the eyelids," he stressed the last word harshly, probably due to his incredulous interruption, and continued the explanation.

"It's often used by mothers towards their children, but even among couples it's widespread."

With that little lecture concluded, Crowley fell silent.

Apart from being surprised at the realisation that he wasn't much of an expert on humans - a strange species will never stop saying that - what troubled him most was Aziraphale's knowledge of kissing.

How was it possible to know of the existence of that so-called angel's kiss?

He had never heard of it and here was his best friend strutting in explaining it to him.

How had he done it?
Where had he learned that knowledge?
Were there other kisses he didn't know and Aziraphale did?
What if it was...

"Was it that not-so-important person who taught you?"

In truth, the sentence should have been more filled with sarcasm, in a clear act of mockery, but his tone suddenly became more serious and small.
A detail that didn't seem to be noticed by his friend, who took the better part of a second to change his expression completely.

"Again with that?" he asked sourly, allowing himself to sink down between the cushions where Crowley had previously been sitting, intent on wandering around the room.

What did he expect from him?
That he would let it go, pretending he had never heard his affirmative answer?
Oh no, he couldn't have.
Especially when it came to Aziraphale.

"You know my curiosity can't be silenced," he replied eloquently, shrugging his shoulders and assuming a mocking expression that wasn't much appreciated by the angel.

By now, the straw had broken the camel's back.

"If I didn't know you better, I'd say you are jealous," the angel mocked visibly, the empty glass in his hands threatening to drop at any moment.

Crowley squared him from head to toe, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

"What nonsense!" he retorted with all too much emphasis, "and then jealous of who? Of someone I don't even know?"

Jealous? Him?
The very thought of it made him roll on the floor with laughter, senseless as it was.

He saw the angel sigh, finally setting his glass down on the small table in front of the couch, before looking up at the demon.
His alcohol-fogged eyes locked between them in a tacit look of defiance, doubt and secrets.
In truth, it was a single secret they both kept unbeknownst to each other.

It corroded their souls, terrorized them as if it were holy water or hellfire, lurked in the depths of their hearts but was so pungent as to make its persistent presence suffocating.
It lurked both on the surface and in the recesses of their minds, as crystal clear as it was opaque, legible but indecipherable.

And it was exhausting to have to deal with it again, especially given the many long years they had spent living with it.
Fed up.
Tired.
Couldn't take it any more.
It threatened to come out, but both of them, convinced of the catastrophe it would cause, insisted on suppressing that secret so dark and yet so simple and genuine.

Perhaps that was what they thought, peering into the so-called windows of the soul.
Neither of them wanted to break what kept their gazes chained together, to break the thin invisible thread that united them in this profound reflection in which they were immersed.

Eyes locked between them, in the end, from Aziraphale's thin lips came a miserable whisper.

"Oscar Wilde."

Faint, difficult for a normal person to hear, but it reached Crowley's ears with unimaginable violence, waking him up like a bucket of cold water on a sultry August day.

He blinked two or three times, feeling back in touch with reality.
Certainly the alcohol in his system was making him feel not at his best.

"Oscar Wilde?" repeated the angel's reply, as confused as ever, wrinkling his nose with an air of nausea.

The foggy mind was constantly short-circuiting his brain, which at that moment was working at breakneck speed, trying to assimilate that news which was as absurd as it was true.

"You mean that Oscar Wilde?"

"Do you know of any others?" a crystalline laugh rose gracefully from his lips, but Crowley felt anything but light.

In fact, a boulder weighed insistently on his chest.
Why was he so upset to find out who he had kissed?

He should have been glad, he finally had a face and a name to associate with what was previously just a worthless stranger.

"You kissed...Oscar Wilde?"

He repeated that phrase for the umpteenth time, which was a hushed whisper aimed solely at convincing himself.

"Exactly my dear, but as I said before it was nothing so striking so,” with a shrug of his shoulders, as if they were talking about the menu at the Ritz, he picked up the miraculously full glass and calmly sipped its contents.

His golden pupils were attracted to the floor, as if it were a magnet, and he lost himself in staring at the strange shapes the parquet floor was creating.

Oscar Wilde.
The poor writer locked up in prison, on the simple charge of loving.
Tsk, humans.
Mad creatures.

Just thinking about that name burned him, as if he had a sternum wound on which disinfectant had been thrown.
Irritating and painful.

"What about you?"

Feeling the angel's blue eyes on him, trepidatious, he had the urge to look away from the floor but repressed it.
He felt betrayed.

"What?" he asked in a whisper, his teeth clenched.

"Have you ever kissed anyone?"

He froze in place.
He barely widened his alcohol-dulled eyes and with his cheeks furrowed, he hesitated.

No.
He'd never done that.

Somehow, despite the many advances he had received over the centuries, he had never, ever dared to make such a gesture. Perhaps, subconsciously, there had been a particular reason in him not to be carried away.

And perhaps he had hoped that Aziraphale also possessed that reason.
Apparently, a vain hope.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, ignoring the angel's insistent, liquid gaze.
Ironically, that question gave him an uncomfortable feeling, like the too-tight collar of a shirt.
He felt suffocated, suffocated by the knowledge that his best friend had kissed someone.
And he hadn't.
He had always refused.

What was it that bothered him so much?
Was it really jealousy?
The fact that Aziraphale had experienced it and he hadn't?
Was that what he couldn't swallow?

With his head whirling, he repressed those questions and managed to lie down uncomfortably on the sofa, not far from the angel, to whom he grinned.

"Of course I kissed someone! I am a tempting devil, the one who induced Eve to eat the fruit of sin! How would I look otherwise? Humans are foolish and simple creatures..."

And there his rambling came alive in him, prompting him to spew out as much nonsense as possible, although Aziraphale seemed strangely interested.
He stood mute as a fish and peered at him curiously with his crystal clear eyes, his cheeks red.
Probably the alcohol was preventing his neurons from processing a concrete sentence.

"One time-"

"Who was it?"

The demon was interrupted, thank goodness, by that more than legitimate question, which came strangely late.
Usually the angel's curiosity quickly got the better of him during discussions.
As a matter of fact, Crowley found himself once again with a dry mouth.

Yes, angel, who was it?

His brain worked at lightning speed before he came up with the silliest answer in the universe.

"Freddie Mercury," he mumbled simply, amazed at himself.

Maybe it wasn't such a crazy response, he was still a demon, he could go anywhere and do anything.
But one of the most famous singers of all time?
And his favourite singer?
He and fantasy were usually very good friends, evidently that night she had left him alone to manage his existence.

"The lead singer of Queen?"

Crowley nodded, unconvinced.

"The one who died of AIDS?"

He performed that gesture again.

"Wasn't he your favourite singer?"

And there was the nod again.

"Well, we both had a chance with people we admired, what a coincidence!"

The angel chuckled in amusement, but he honestly didn't understand why in the slightest.
There was nothing funny about it, not least because he had made a huge lie.
He hadn't even kissed Freddie Mercury in his dreams.
Maybe.

Silence took over again, reviving the strange tension in the air.
He was hot, his forehead was beginning to sweat and the wine in his glass was now lukewarm.
He didn't even know if he would be able to drink any more, he could barely stand up and was thinking clearly.
He absent-mindedly let his serpentine gaze wander around the room.

He passed from the perfectly ordered shelves, to the wooden desk, to the crate of empty bottles next to the carpet, to the lowered blinds and finally came upon Aziraphale.
If his pupils had been human, they would certainly have been larger in diameter.
He walked slowly over the features of his face, looked rapturously at the round cheeks, the clear eyes, the thin lips, then down at his bow tie accompanied by his beloved waistcoat and shirt, now his faithful companions for over one hundred and eighty years, his arms resting on his stomach, his hands entwined with a certain restlessness.

Struck by that detail, he went back to the angel's face again and read some disquiet, quite evident.
He was gloomy, agitated.
He asked himself the reason for that sudden change, but before asking that question he was preceded by the person concerned.

"Would you kiss me?"

If he had had wine in his mouth, he would probably have spat it out in amazement.
Fortunately, he merely squinted his eyes in complete shock at the absurd question and assumed a more composed posture, probably due to the agitation spreading throughout his body.

Aziraphale?
Kiss?
Him?
Had he heard that correctly?
Or had he magically gotten cork in his ear, because that was certainly the only plausible explanation.

Intent on racking his brain, he didn't notice the minutes ticking by, and that annoying silence seemed to make Aziraphale even more nervous.

"Sorry dear, I shouldn't have asked you such a question."

He saw him dabbing at his sweaty forehead in agitation and a slight remorse grew within him, which made him equally uncomfortable.
He didn't want to distress himself in that way, but he had still caught him off guard with that sentence which he couldn't tell whether it was a request or curiosity.
Perhaps they should both have sobered up and taken the matter more seriously.
On second thought, maybe it wasn’t a good idea.

When he had finally regained his vocal cords and the ability to formulate simple sentences, he finally managed to say something.

"Don't worry about it, Aziraphale, I'm sorry, it wasn't my intention to distress you, I just don't understand the nature of your question..."

This last sentence was uttered in a whisper, accompanied by a slight and palpable hint of embarrassment.
The angel sighed again, nervously clasping his hands in his lap, his gaze first on the embroidered carpet, then on the lanky figure of Crowley.
He had a chance to catch a glimpse of displeasure in those blue irises.

"I told to you that I kissed Oscar Wilde, but I don't know if that qualifies as an actual kiss."

His heart did a somersault.
He didn't know why and he didn't really want to dig deep, not that night.
In his heart he knew, but he had always repressed it with strength and suffering at the cost of not letting anything out.
And of course he couldn't throw his efforts into the dustbin.

"You know, back then such things were frowned upon, so whenever we met, we always maintained a certain decorum..."

The glass nearly slipped from his hands, shattering on the floor.

"Were you having an affair...?" he asked dryly.

"Oh dear, no!" he ventured a chuckle, "but there was some interest on both sides, or so I thought..."

And he turned sombre again, his eyes filled with longing.

Crowley was becoming agitated, mostly because he didn't understand what the hell his friend was getting at, so much so that he began drumming his tapered fingers on the glass.
He hoped his insistent gaze aimed at Aziraphale's rigid figure would prompt him to continue, which it did after a short while but he couldn't tell if it was actually because of him.

"It happened away from the gaze of others, it was a fleeting moment, a little lip contact, nothing more and I was convinced we both wanted it though..." he paused for a short moment that seemed to last for hours and hours.

"When I looked into his eyes I saw no pleasure or sweetness, only regret, then he blurted out how his heart belonged to another and I haven't seen or heard from him since, or at least until I found out about his incarceration because of the affair with Alfred Douglas."

Once the story was concluded, Crowley blinked several times, dumbfounded.
Perhaps the alcohol was clouding his thoughts and obstructing the normal functioning of his brain, but the more he racked his brain, the more he could not find the right words.
He had never expected that turn of events and he, who had also become jealous, was a fool.

He felt sorry for Aziraphale, without a shadow of a doubt, but he would be lying if he didn't admit to feeling a pang of relief running down his throat.
He almost had the urge to slap himself in the face.
Even so, the reason for the initial question still remained unknown to him, and apparently his questioning gaze unlocked the silence in which the angel had cowered.

"So I ask you, would you kiss me? If you were actually in love with another person, why would you kiss me?"

Surely because of the wine in his system, Aziraphale leaned towards him with blue irises peering up at him, filled with insistence and exasperation.
And heck Crowley really wanted to say something nice, hangover permitting, he would have wanted to reassure him to put his soul at rest but alas his brain had evidently taken a holiday.

"I think I'd kiss you."

Dead silence.
Even the record player stopped playing its soft symphony.
It was Aziraphale's turn to blink over and over again.

"What?" he asked confused, eyebrows furrowed.

"What?"

"Why me if you like someone else?"

"I like you so I kiss you."

He would have gladly turned into a snake, to slip out of that awkward situation with no way out, but drunk as he was, that option was discarded.

"So you mean you would go straight to the person you love?"

Aziraphale continued to scrutinise him thoughtfully, his eyes reduced to two slits that put him under tremendous pressure, being even then only inches away.

"Exactly!" he replied in a choked tone, nodding vigorously, "I meant exactly that!"

He chuckled nervously, his right hand scratching the back of his head insistently.

This answer did not seem to satisfy the angel, who, remaining at a close distance, assumed a thoughtful expression that remained on his face for some minutes.
Crowley, motionless and confined to the corner of the sofa, dared neither say nor do anything, frightened by the possible reaction of his friend.
Finally, after an indefinite period of time, there was a rapid succession of emotions on his face.
Astonishment, realisation, embarrassment.

If he'd had a pound for every time Aziraphale had fretted that evening, he'd probably be rolling in gold at this point.

"Are you okay?" he ventured to ask but it wasn't the best of ideas.

The angel was panicked.
He began to sweat, eyes darting from side to side, nervously wringing his hands and flattening himself in the opposite corner of the couch, not that it made much difference being small.

"Good lord, good lord..."

At the continuous repetition of those two words as if it were a mantra, the demon began to worry about the state his friend was in. Without making any sudden movements, he moved to Aziraphale's side and gently placed a hand on his left shoulder, inviting him to look into his eyes.

"Hey angel I'm here, just breathe and try to relax, okay?"

Had he still been 'in the service' of Hell, that sappy little scene would have cost him dearly.
Not that they would have known it, they had always been accustomed to ignoring his every move.
Hearing that soft tone, the angel seemed to recover gradually, although he had no intention of taking his eyes off the ground.

"You know, I haven't been honest with you Crowley..." Aziraphale began.

"Neither have I," he mumbled distractedly, keeping his hand firmly on his shoulder.

"And not just tonight but- sorry what did you say?"

Busted.

"I didn't actually kiss Freddie Mercury," he said in a whisper, accompanied by a despondent sigh.

"Oh!"

It was the only cry uttered by the angel, who reacted to the news with all too much enthusiasm, given the sly smile that appeared on his face.
That gesture left the poor demon unsettled, and he didn't hesitate to rejoin the conversation he had started earlier.

"Right yes, I was saying," he saw him settle down better on the couch so he could observe him better, "I have not been honest, neither tonight nor in the past centuries, and not only with you but with myself as well."

The demon's reddish eyebrows didn't take long to furrow; he just didn't understand what he was getting at.

"It was me who kissed Oscar Wilde, not him."
And then his eyebrows shot up in astonishment, accompanied by a slight opening of his dry lips.

"I remember very well the words he spoke to me afterwards: 'Aziraphale, don't pretend you're looking for this, just because you're afraid of finding what you really want' and I think I finally understood what he was referring to..." he whispered faintly, his eyes shining in contrast to the demon's, full of confusion.

'Don't pretend you're looking for this.
'Afraid to find what you really want'.
Magically a light bulb went on in him.

"Have you figured out what it is you really want?"

The wide smile that arose on the angel's chubby face was enough of an affirmative answer to his question.
Perhaps he was beginning to understand it himself.
Or at least, he was becoming aware of the fact that he had always repressed what he really wanted.
Aziraphale.

"And you are no longer afraid?" he murmured that question, aimed more at convincing himself, his serpentine eyes set in sky-blue ones.

A world seemed to open up before him, his ideas finally clear and concise.
He had uncovered the vase containing the truth and after all the years of repression, he felt a slight relief.

"A little, yes, I don't know what's in store for me," whispered the angel, lips turned up.

"Nothing scary, you can trust me ," he said with a smile, cautiously bringing his face closer to Aziraphale's.

"I'm supposed trust a demon?" he scoffed, mimicking his gesture.

No more than six inches separated them.

"Now I'm torn between kissing you and pushing you off the couch," Crowley chided him playfully, feeling the angel's warm breath tickle his lips.

Ten centimetres.

"Do I get to choose?"

Five.

"No."

Zero.

Soft.
That was the first thing Crowley thought, completely drunk not on wine but on the angel he was kissing.

He felt woozy, as if he were under the influence of some powerful aphrodisiac, and electrocuted, given the electric shock that had pierced his spine at the precise moment they had kissed.

Those lips seemed to have been created to match his perfectly, like puzzle pieces.
So intoxicated by that taste, that smell, as soon as they parted their lips slightly, smiling, he missed them immediately.

They said nothing, their eyes filled with love spoke for them.
It was brief.
Just enough time to process that magical event and want to repeat it again and again, Aziraphale pressed his lips to his again, entwining his fingers in his red hair.

Crowley's heart nearly exploded, so much joy was spreading through his body second by second.
He felt so light, so wanted and above all so loved.
It didn't happen to him every day, but perhaps things would change from then on.

His ears were plugged and burning, not that he had an accurate perception of the world around him.
At that moment, only Aziraphale and his soft lips existed.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Keeping his hands firmly on the angel's soft hips, the demon gently savoured those thin lips.
When they parted, he took the opportunity to look as closely as he could at the face of the being in front of him, and noticing his liquid, glistening eyes, his reddish cheeks, his barely swollen lips, he only fell more in love.
He searched deep in his heart for something to say, maybe a sweet word but perhaps he was more stunned than he wanted to admit.

"We're both drunk."

It was the first thing that came to his mind and of course why not make that thought public?
In his heart he was still hesitant, firmly convinced that this was not reality but an absurd dream.
He had been unconsciously chasing him for six thousand years and now that he was finally in his arms, he could hardly believe it was driven by his will.

"I'll kiss you when I'm sober then," the angel countered, chuckling but he remained tremendously serious.

"I didn't mean that..." he diverted his gaze, taking it elsewhere, and remorse grew within him.

He had broken the candid atmosphere that had been created, in the space of two seconds flat.
A record.

There was an unnerving silence in the room for a few moments, interrupted by Aziraphale's sigh, which partly attracted the demon's attention.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw him concentrate and take a deep breath before he heard a strange drip from the many bottles that littered the floor.
He was sobering up.
And only because he'd had the bright idea to open his mouth.

When he had finished, he squeezed his eyelids shut in bewilderment, but recovered within seconds and gave him a fabulous, loving smile that nearly caused his heart to stop.
Now that was the end of the world.

"My dear, I am perfectly sober," he announced solemnly, "which means..."

This time it was he who was taken by the hips and he was not at all sorry, especially for the kiss he received a second later, which he did not delay in returning, gently caressing the angel's cheeks.

Maybe those years of waiting had been worth something.

"I'm not backing down Crowley, not now, not ever," he blew placidly on his lips, his forehead resting on Crowley’s.

It was yet another confirmation that in spite of everything they would be together forever.
He was almost moved when he heard that reassurance that warmed his heart, and trying to chase away the tears, he clung to Aziraphale, holding him close in silent thanks.

He sensed the birth of a smile on the chubby face and although it was impossible for him to see it, he knew for sure how wonderful it was.

And to think it could have been worse, after all, six thousand years of knowledge is no picnic and he and his angel had had their share of squabbles and misunderstandings over the centuries.
After all, they had prevented the destruction of the world together, so nothing could ever stop them.
Especially now that they were closer than ever.

They rocked each other gently, still wrapped in that silent embrace, accompanied only by the beating of their hearts.
They were enclosed in a bubble, their own bubble of happiness.

"Angel?" whispered the demon, intoxicated by the sweet scent that the angel's soft hair gave off.

"Yes, dear?"

Aziraphale urged him to continue, gently stroking his back.
He would probably regret it.

"Who kiss better? Me or Oscar Wilde?"

The caressing stopped abruptly, the angel's head receding far enough to allow him to stare at him in annoyance but not so much disbelief.

"I never should have told you that," he exclaimed testily, prompting a snicker from Crowley who didn't hesitate to lean forward, greatly reducing the distance between them.

"So is it me?" he whispered seductively on his lips, letting out a hiss.

"Shut up," Aziraphale chided him good-naturedly with a mock pout, silencing him with a kiss.

The demon smiled triumphantly.
And the doubts of a lifetime seemed to disappear in a flash.