Chapter Text
The Lamb and Flag, 33 Rose Street, Covent Garden, 31st December 1999
And I will be alone again tonight, my dear.
Arthur felt utterly ridiculous in his outfit. This had been Michael’s idea but he had the sneaking suspicion that his other colleagues had put him up to it. He adjusted the little red horns from where they were sliding down his forehead, and struggled through the seething sea of people in an attempt to get to the bar.
Arthur hadn’t wanted to come to this works night out in the first place. He had envisaged spending this New Year’s Eve in his little flat with a decent glass of wine and some nice, civilised Schubert. He loved the upstairs room at The Lamb usually, it was a lovely old pub, beloved of Charles Dickens and home to bare knuckle boxing back in the eighteenth century, it has tons of ambience and sold delightful cask ale. Now, though, it was just another crowded, loud and sweaty den. Arthur hated crowds. He was just about to give up when he caught sight of a familiar face, someone he liked to fancy that he knew, although he didn’t in actuality. The man with the shock of red hair in a fashionable tousle above his forehead was being berated by a broader man in a pale grey suit. Arthur didn’t like the expression on the larger man’s face one bit. He was hectoring the man in front of him, pushing at his chest with his finger whilst he ranted. It smacked of routine disdain that bordered on being abusive. The redhead was trying to shake him off, but the sneer he had adopted was sliding off his face, a more genuinely distressed expression taking its place.
Arthur felt all his instincts towards fair play and autonomy rise to the surface. Before he had time to consider what he was doing, and realise the danger he was putting himself in, he was pushing his body between the two figures with a phrase of objection on his lips.
“I say, stop that! Stop that at once!”
Arthur stood in the Gents’ toilet holding a folded napkin full of ice to his face, kindly given to him by a member of the bar staff after the altercation had ended and the man in grey had stormed off. The redhead hovered anxiously.
“Y’alright, mate?”
“I shall be, don’t worry, I’m fine.”
He tried to smile, but it turned into a wince. The big American guy had a mean right hook. He had thought his jaw might have been broken at first, but it appeared that it was just bruising. His cheek was split a little too, the man had been wearing a signet ring.
“You didn’t have to do that, y’know. I’d have been fine.”
“It - it wasn’t fair, how he was treating you - the things he was saying. He was pushing you around, I - I couldn’t stand to see it.”
“Why’d you do it? I’m nothing to you, you don’t know me.”
“I do though, sort of,” said Arthur, attempting another smile. “You probably don’t recognise me in this outfit, but you’ve been saying hello to me every morning for the past year or so.”
“What…? I have?”
The man looked deeply nonplussed. Arthur made a gesture with his free hand, as if he was gripping on to something at the level of his ribcage.
“I cycle past you every morning on my way to work. We always seem to see each other on that bit where the cycle path shares the footpath for a while through the park.”
Arthur had started noticing the man more than a year ago, just as the nights had started becoming longer as autumn closed-in over London. He had spotted him walking one morning, noting the red hair, the stylish silhouette and the walk that verged on being a swagger. After that he hadn’t been able to help seeing him, picking out his distinctive figure morning after morning.
It hadn’t been long before he had noticed that the red haired man seemed to follow his progress as he cycled by. He was extremely attractive, the sort of man that Arthur would never have believed would look at him twice. But he was looking, he looked every morning. He had a thin, serious face with high cheekbones. On bright mornings he wore fashionable sunglasses. His clothing was beautifully styled and fitted him well, the jeans obviously designer, the coats and jackets well cut and expensive looking. Arthur felt rather shabby in comparison, in his comfortable trousers and trusty overcoat. Still the man looked.
One morning, when a mist hung over the bare shapes of the trees and the grass was white with frost, Arthur had drawn-in a sharp breath and wished the walking man a hearty good morning. The face he looked at as he pedalled by had split into a beautiful, wide smile, and his greeting was returned with a drawl of ‘morning’ and a raised hand. Arthur had flushed, pleased that he had dared to make contact, and had dealt with the Library’s clients that day with an extra cheerful attitude.
After that they had fallen in to a pattern. Sometimes Arthur waved as he said his hellos, receiving an answering lift of the redhead’s hand. Days that contained the exchange of greetings always seemed brighter. Those when Arthur failed to discern the familiar strolling figure on his ride through the park never seemed to go so well. Arthur was in a lot of ways a creature of habit. He was very glad to add this spot of happiness into his quotidian routine. Although he was tolerably friendly with his colleagues, he wouldn’t have called them friends, exactly. He was in essence a lonely man, with no partner or family he had kept in touch with to provide the intimacy he would have liked in an ideal world. This quasi-friend was a strange kind of compensation for this, and he treasured each and every interaction they had between them as a welcome piece of uncomplicated pleasure that brightened up his life. Now here he was actually talking to the man he saw so frequently. He might get to know his name. There was a smirk on the redhead’s face, a roguish smirk that Arthur found distinctly attractive.
“Bike guy!” the man said, his face lighting up, a genuine generous smile replacing the lopsided expression of before. “It’s you! I didn’t recognise you. You don’t look the same without the helmet. Swapped it for some other headgear have you?”
He gestured at Arthur’s head, where the foolish horns were wedged into his curls.
“Ah, yes, I am supposedly at a work outing. It’s fancy dress, and my colleagues suggested that I come as a demon for a change. I usually adapt one of my old bedsheets and come as an angel.” He gestured at his own head. “The hair you know, I feel it suits me better. But this year they said they wanted a change. I look ridiculous.”
The red haired man tilted his head and surveyed him, his pale brown eyes assessing him from red plastic shoes, past the silly cape, to his face, and the rather uncomfortable yellow contact lenses that he had thought might help the look.
“You’re a fallen angel then,” he said, his smile turning into a grin. Lord, but he was beautiful close-up, all legs and broad shoulders and slender waist. Arthur felt a little flustered all of a sudden.
“I suppose I am, rather.” He blushed and turned away from the assessing gaze of the other.
“I think I’ll remove these,” he said, laying down the napkin full of ice and approaching the row of sinks. He washed his hands and popped the lens out of each eye. “Ahhh, much better, they were nipping my eyes.”
“Didn’t you get a red pitch fork - with the outfit, I mean? It’s usually what comes with that sort of thing.”
“Oh I did, but I gave it away.”
“You what?”
“I gave it away. My neighbour’s little boy took a fancy to it, so I just let him have it. Ridiculous thing. I would only have ended up poking somebody with it, and starting some sort of altercation. It’s so busy in here tonight.”
“You got in a fight anyway, you might as well have had the fork thingy.”
“I don’t feel that was fighting, not really. More like an assault. I would go to the Police Station and report it but it will be a complete nightmare this evening, so I think I’ll let it go. But you, are you alright? I mean…”
He blushed again. The intensity of the other man’s gaze made him feel awkward and foolish. He had interfered, it wasn’t the kind of thing he did normally. The red haired man probably hadn’t wanted him to get involved. He felt hugely out of place suddenly.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t even know your name. Forgive me it’s none of my business. Just… the way he was speaking to you… Are you safe? I mean, is he…? Does he…?”
“It’s Crowley, Anthony Crowley, and it’s fine, I mean it’s good of you to ask - kind. But it’s no biggie - we argue all the time.”
“And are you okay? Oh, I’m Arthur, by the way, Arthur Fell.”
He stuck his hand out and the other man, Crowley, took it. They stood hand-in-hand for a moment, until Arthur collected himself and shook, twice, letting Crowley’s hand go on the downswing. It had been a lovely hand, fine-boned and pleasantly cool, he regretted its loss as soon as it left his own.
“He hasn’t hit me yet, if that’s what you mean. But we’re not happy, I suppose. We haven’t been for a long time.”
“Why do you stay, then?”
“Its… complicated. I owe him so much.”
“Forgive me, but he called you a little bitch, that doesn’t sound like something one should say to a loved one.”
“Yeah, well, I know what I’m doing, it’s fine.”
His voice had an edge to it now, and Arthur regretted that he had pushed. He never knew how to talk to people when it mattered. He felt a small pang of hurt, then immediately chastised himself inwardly for his selfishness
“I’m so sorry, I’m being intrusive, and we don’t know each other, really, do we?” Arthur picked up the ice-filled napkin, which was melting all over the sink unit, and prepared to leave.
“It was lovely meeting you, nonetheless. I imagine I’ll see you again - on the way to work, I mean I wasn’t suggesting…”
“No, it’s fine.” The smile had gone from Crowley’s face, and a shuttered-off look replaced it. “You were only trying to help. I’m just sorry you got thumped for your trouble.”
“My own fault. Right then, I’ll get back to my table. Mind how you go.”
“Yeah, ciao… angel,” said Crowley, and watched intently as Arthur coloured up at the endearment.
That had gone south rather quickly, Arthur thought as he left the Gents’ and edged his way through the crowd. Turning the corner of the bar, he braced himself for the inevitable questions from his colleagues about the state of his face. He thought he would just collect his coat and leave now, his happier mood of just a few minutes ago having been soured somewhat. Now he knew the man’s name and his circumstances, he would worry about Crowley and his overbearing partner.
As if he had been summoned, he saw the grey-suited bulk of the man in question on the other side of the bar, coming in from the entrance at the top of the stairs. He scanned the room, his head stilling suddenly. Arthur followed his line of sight and there was Crowley, slouched on a stool at a table, drink in a small glass in front of him. He sipped at the amber coloured liquid as the man in grey approached and looked down at him. He leaned over and they appeared to be exchanging words. The larger man patted Crowley on the cheek and stepped back. Crowley rose from his seat and followed as his boyfriend led the way to the top of the stairs. He looked back once, catching Arthur’s eye. They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Crowley turned away again to join his partner where he waited for him by the door.
When Arthur got back to it, he found the table where he and his colleagues had been sitting occupied by another set of people entirely. Obviously Michael and Sandy had left without him. He excused himself and retrieved his coat from behind the back of a very inebriated woman, then left the pub and the enthusiastic crowd, removing the ridiculous plastic horns and placing them in the first bin he came to. So much for welcoming in the new Millennium - it was the wrong year for that anyway, he thought to himself, spitefully, as he stepped along.
Arthur walked down to the river to watch the fireworks and listen to the sonorous voice of Big Ben ushering in the New Year. He then carried on to his flat, letting himself in and immediately pouring a glass of whisky and drinking it where he stood, coat on, in his cosy living room. He saluted the shadowy outline of his face that he could see reflected in the dark glass of his window as he gazed outside. Sporadic fireworks were still going off, even though it was past one in the morning.
“Happy New Year, Arthur, old chap,” he said softly, raising his glass, then swallowing the measure in one long gulp.
He put a plaster on his cheek, cleaned his teeth whilst gazing at the lines on his face and bags beneath his eyes in the mirror above the sink, then switched the bathroom light off and went to bed.
The first morning back at work was not brightened by any slinking black-clad figure in the park when Arthur cycled through on his commute. He didn’t see him the following day either. The encounter had left Arthur distinctly unsettled. He explained away the mark on his cheek as an accident in his home when his colleagues asked, and didn’t tell anyone a thing about what had happened in The Lamb on that New Year’s Eve night. Still, he felt like some old bird that had had its feathers ruffled, out of sorts and irritable. His regulars noticed, a couple asked him if he was alright. He answered as best he could given that he didn’t entirely understand it himself. There was part of him that was tired of being nice Mr Fell at the Library. He wanted to be Arthur to somebody, to hear his name whispered deep in the night with a fondness borne of habit.
In the morning we arise and start the day the same old way
After a while, he got used to the absence of Crowley, and stopped looking around him on the path in the park, just keeping his eyes ahead of him as he cycled along, avoiding the dogs and the joggers, humming to himself occasionally.
Then it snowed and not just the sprinkle that London usually received, but enough to drift and pile up, enough so that children ran and slid and built snowmen in the park. Cautious Arthur never cycled in snow and ice. When the weather made him feel unsafe, he repaired to the crowded confines of London Transport’s finest double-decker buses.
He had bought a Guardian that morning for something to read while he waited at the stop and during the short journey between his flat in Soho and the library in Mayfair where he worked. The bus was cold, particularly the top deck where he liked to sit and see the city moving past him. Little chance of that on this particular morning, as all the windows were thick with water vapour, rivulets running down them sporadically like tears. Arthur snuggled into his overcoat and sunk his chin into the folds of the scarf about his neck. He was deep into the review section of his paper when he became aware of a figure passing his seat and taking the one behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and met the pale brown eyes he had been missing since December.
Crowley.
He wondered should he greet the man but then he felt a hand land lightly on his shoulder.
“Hey, Arthur. Got into any good fights in pubs lately, then?”
He twisted round to glare at the man behind him and was met by one of those stunning smiles. Crowley looked pleased to see him. All the things that he had prepared to say should he meet Crowley again rose to his lips, then scampered away as if chastened. He found himself meeting the smile with one of his own, and only managed to say “Crowley” in a voice he knew dripped with inappropriate fondness. He felt his face heating, and dropped his eyes. Crowley swung out of his seat and sat down heavily beside him.
“It’s bloody freezing today.”
He gave a dramatic little shudder and eyed Arthur in his thick coat and scarf.
“Well, if you will insist in not dressing properly for the weather, what can you expect?” said Arthur, looking at Crowley’s light silk jacket and open-necked shirt
“That’s me told then.”
Crowley was smiling again, that lopsided grin, and Arthur couldn’t help but respond in kind. Crowley looked beautiful, his red hair glossy, his eyes bright. He did look cold though, his face was pale and when Arthur looked closer he could see that the man really was shivering
“Here,” he said, and reached up to his neck to remove his scarf. Before Crowley could protest, he was looping it over his head and tying it in a bulky knot at his throat, tucking the ends into the space between his thin lapels.
“That should keep you cosy.”
Crowley made a noise consisting of compound consonants that made little sense, but that Arthur was able to intuit was intended as a protest.
“Don’t worry, dear boy, your need is greater, and my overcoat is thick enough, see?” He buttoned the coat up to his neck, and turned up the collar. “Snug as a bug, I’ll be fine.”
“But this is tartan!”
“I think you’ll find that certain tartans are quite in vogue at the moment.”
Crowley sniggered and rolled his eyes. Arthur looked back at him, and felt a chuckle escape from deep in his own throat. His pleasure at seeing this man again sat hotly in his stomach. Arthur was about to venture to suggest that they might meet up intentionally another time, when the bus jerked to a halt, and people started filing down the stairs. He wiped a circle in the condensation on the window next to him with his arm, then let out a squeak of consternation.
“Oh dear, this is my stop, I must get off, if you can let me out.”
“Sure, angel,” said Crowley, rising to stand in the aisle while Arthur gathered up his paper and shimmied past him. Arthur hastened towards the front of the vehicle. He paused at the top of the stairs and looked back to find Crowley sitting in his spot by the window. He gave a little wave, then plunged down the stairs before the bus set off again.
“Damn,” he said when his feet hit the pavement. He had no way of contacting Crowley and didn’t know if he would ever see him again. A curious feeling of desolation engulfed him. Then he shook himself, remembering that this was no meet-cute in some romantic novel. Crowley had a partner, they probably lived together, and Arthur was not the kind of man that someone like Crowley would ever consider as anything more than an acquaintance anyway. He must put this inconveniently attractive person out of his mind and get on with his life.
Arthur spent the rest of the day failing spectacularly to do anything of the sort.
I hear you calling my name
The British Museum was busy. Arthur had come for the Book of Kells exhibition but was now dawdling along looking at some of his old favourites and wondering if he should include a visit to the lovely tea room as part of this afternoon’s treat. He turned sharply to head in that direction and cannoned abruptly into a figure heading the other way.
“Oof! I do beg your pardon,” he began, then looked up to see that the man he was currently standing chest to chest with was none other than Crowley. “Oh Good Lord,” he said without thinking.
Crowley was so beautiful under the gallery lights, dressed in his usual tight jeans and jacket with what looked like a silk shirt in blood red underneath the well-cut lapels. As Arthur took him in properly he saw the fine amber eyes outlined in smoky shadow and eyeliner. He looked distractingly handsome, and was smiling at Arthur now, fine lines around his eyes crinkling in an expression of what looked like fond pleasure.
“Arthur! We’ll have to stop meeting like this, people will talk!”
He leaned in and Arthur could smell something of musk and spice and leather from him, something expensive and heady. There was a chuckle in his voice and Arthur stepped back, feeling a pang in case he was being mocked. Crowley was so lovely, and here he was in an old suit and one of his bow ties. He became aware of the bulk of his body suddenly, and how he must look in comparison to the svelte, expensive lines of the man in front of him.
“Oh, er, ah well,” he stuttered. “It’s ah, yes.” He cursed himself inwardly: smooth, Arthur, very smooth.
“What are you here to see?” he finally managed to say. He glanced down at the man’s hands in front of him and noticed that they appeared to be stained at the finger tips and along the length of his index fingers and thumbs.
“Oh, just browsing really. You?”
“The Kells exhibition - the illuminated Bible you know. It’s been such a treat to see it in the flesh, as it were. Aha, it’s funny though, saying that because it is essentially true, as it’s made of parchment, animal skins, but you probably knew that. Anyway, yes, it’s astonishing, the pages look as fresh as if it had been created yesterday. Of course the conservation department at Trinity probably deserve some credit for that but, even so, it’s a marvellous thing…”
He realised that he was babbling and stumbled to a halt before he made a complete fool of himself.
“Sounds amazing, I’ll have to come back and see it sometime.” Crowley was nodding and looking at him with what appeared to be genuine interest
“You’ll have to be quick, the exhibition ends tomorrow. I always seem to leave coming to these things until the last moment.”
“Listen, Arthur, it’s been lovely seeing you but I gotta run, I have a - a thing, y’know? Maybe catch you again sometime.”
“Ah, yes, indeed,” stuttered Arthur, but Crowley was already striding away. Arthur stood and looked after him then turned back, wondering what it was he had been about to do. He saw the direction sign for the exit and made his way to the double doors to the corridor that led out of the building. Once he was standing outside looking vaguely up at its imposing facade, he sighed to himself as an expression of his frustration. He still had no contact details for Crowley, and he had entirely forgotten about his tea. It wasn’t worth going in again, he would just go home and make himself a cup. He felt vaguely disappointed, and not just about the tea. Part of it was most definitely the fact that it was very unlikely that he ever would ‘catch’ Crowley again sometime.
“Ah well, probably for the best,” he muttered as he walked to the Tube station, remembering the slickly-dressed American, and the fact that his own set of moral values put Crowley firmly out of his reach. He tutted, irritated at himself: Crowley was merely being friendly, any interest that existed between them was undoubtedly one-sided. This conclusion left what felt like a cold hollow in his chest that persisted well into his evening.
You look so lovely, you with the same old smile, stay for a while.
The English Baroque Soloists were one of Arthur’s favourite ensembles, and he had been looking forward to this performance ever since he had received the tickets. Bach’s Musical Offering, a piece that, on the face of it, might seem austere, but that Arthur found deeply moving in a way that avoided any scrap of sentimentality. He liked romantic music well enough, but felt his heart touched by the sublime when transported by the clean lines of the baroque, Bach in particular.
St John’s Smith Square was a beautiful, intimate space that had been a church until it was almost destroyed by a German incendiary bomb in 1941. Resurrected as a concert hall in the 1960s, its baroque splendour was, Arthur felt, the perfect setting for chamber music. He was taking a first sip of his customary pre-concert gin and tonic in the little cafe in the crypt of the venue when he felt someone touch his shoulder and spilled a little of his drink down his chin at the shock of it. He turned his head to his right, then to his left, and there was Crowley, holding a glass of wine, with a mischievous grin on his face.
“What are you doing here?” Arthur blurted out as he looked around to see where he might put his glass. He blushed immediately once the words were out, then fumbled in his pocket to find his handkerchief with the intention of wiping his chin. Crowley coolly handed him the napkin he had in his hand.
“Nice to see you too, Arthur,” he drawled, one eyebrow raised as he watched Arthur juggle his drink, his programme and the napkin, wiping his face and then, for the want of anywhere sensible to put it, pushing the paper into his jacket pocket. He remembered the napkin full of ice at New Year, and blushed more deeply.
“Oh, I do beg your pardon, that was terribly rude of me. It’s just that I wouldn’t have expected this to be your sort of thing.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, angel,” said Crowley. “As it happens, I come here regularly, I love the band and this piece is a particular favourite of mine.”
“Oh really?” said Arthur. “Me too. I do so appreciate the chance to hear it played by an ensemble rather than on the harpsichord or piano, it’s so rich when interpreted in this manner, and of course Gardiner is at his best when he tackles this stuff.”
Crowley was smiling at him in that fond way he had, that made Arthur’s insides do little somersaults. He found himself relieved that he was well dressed for the concert, in his smartest suit and a new shirt. He was wearing the most expensive cologne he had and felt relatively well put together, even if he was in no way as chic as Crowley, in a beautifully cut black suit this time, with a matt black shirt and skinny tie. He looked sinfully good standing there with his wine.
“Shall we?” said Crowley, indicating the hall above them with a pointed finger and taking a step towards the door of the little bar.
“Oh yes, indeed. After you,” said Arthur.
The concert was indeed sublime. There was a spare seat next to Arthur that Crowley occupied without comment, despite the fact that his designated place must have been in another part of the little auditorium. Arthur was painfully conscious of the man sitting so close to him until the power of the music took over and he became lost in it in his usual way. He felt tears well up at one particular variation, and found his handkerchief this time. He hoped Crowley hadn’t noticed the movement he made retrieving it. When he ventured a glance at the other man, he was looking at him with what he thought was the same fond expression from before, and from when he had talked about the Book of Kells, and before that when he had gifted him the scarf on the bus. Crowley turned his head sharply away when he saw him looking, so Arthur kept his face turned towards the performers for the rest of the piece.
Afterwards, they headed out together into the night air of London and stood facing each other outside the pale arches of the facade.
“Well, I suppose I should be off,” said Arthur, tight lipped and awkward at the sudden silence between them.
“We could, eughh, I dunno, go for a drink?” said Crowley, “the Marquis of Granby’s just along there, and they have a decent selection of wines.”
“We could, yes,” said Arthur, cautiously, then managed a smile. “Bold of you to assume I drink wine.”
“Hah, you’ve got wine drinker written all over you angel. Come on, my treat.”
They walked companionably to the pub and found the perfect table free by the window. Crowley bought them both a large glass of very acceptable claret and they chatted happily about the concert for a while, then moved on to other performances they had seen. Unlikely though it seemed on the surface, their musical tastes converged in many areas. Although Arthur preferred jazz to rock, they both agreed on their liking for many baroque and classical composers and their dislike of Elgar and Stravinsky.
“I know he was the darling of the avant garde, but he gives me a headache.” Arthur had drawn back at that, thinking he might be coming across as too opinionated, but Crowley merely gave a sharp bark of laughter and carried on looking at him, his eyes dancing.
Arthur listened, interested despite himself as Crowley rambled about some rock groups he wasn’t familiar with. Crowley in turn laughed until he was pink when Arthur attempted to argue that there were some parallels between The Velvet Underground and the work of Charlie Parker.
When asked, Arthur told Crowley about his job and his patronising colleagues, and Crowley spoke intensely about his love of his local library when he had been a boy, asking Arthur if he knew just how much some kids needed those spaces and the refuge that they represented. Arthur, was moved to speak about how much that idea had always motivated him, especially when he ran out of patience with some of his more demanding customers.
“I love some of my readers, especially the little ones who get caught-up in the characters. I just adore talking to them about how they feel and what they would like to read next. It makes it all so worthwhile.”
“People like you,” said Crowley, touching his arm lightly, “make all the difference. I hope they appreciate you.”
“I’m nothing special,” said Arthur, looking at his hands as they lay on the table, his face warming at this unexpected praise. “Just doing my job, you know. It’s what they pay me for. Now, you know all of my secrets, what about you, Crowley, what do you do to fill your time?”
“I don’t really have a job, as such,” said Crowley, playing with the stem of his wine glass. He looked up and gifted Arthur with the intensity of the gaze of his pale eyes. “I’m an artist, actually, or trying to be one. Don’t know if I can say that I’ve got there yet, but I’m inching towards that distant goal. I do my best.”
Arthur remembered the stained fingers the day that they met in the Museum.
“Oh how marvellous, art is so wonderful. What do you specialise in?”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, angel, I’m not well known or anything.”
“I bet you’re wonderful though, you have such an eye for detail when you’re talking about the things that interest you, you’re just being modest.”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t sold anything much yet. I do all sorts, to answer your question, watercolours, oils, acrylics. I have tried sculpture and I would love to get back to that one day. I’ve painted scenes of stars and nebulas in outer space, and sold a few of my fantasy works online - dragons and stuff - that kind of thing goes down really well. At the moment I’m planning a triptych based on what supposedly happened in the Garden of Eden, that’s more of a personal thing though, don’t know if it would sell the way I envisage it.”
“Blasphemous is it?” said Arthur, leaning his chin on his hand and gazing at his companion. Now that he was talking about his work, all the usual cynicism of expression had vanished from his face, leaving it open and bright.
“Sorta,” said Crowley, swishing his wine in his glass. “I think the serpent is the most interesting character, to be honest.”
“Milton agreed with you, you know,” said Arthur, softly. “Here we may reign secure and in my choice, to reign is worth ambition though in Hell, better to reign in Hell than serve in Heav’n,” he intoned and smiled at Crowley. “He really is the most fascinating character in the whole poem.”
Crowley was staring at him now, an impenetrable look upon his face. “You,” he said, and Arthur hadn’t heard that tone in his voice before, he tried and failed to place exactly what it signified, “You really are quite something, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Arthur, “I’m just a dull little librarian you happen to know, nothing to write home about.”
He cleared his throat and carried on before Crowley could say anything in response.
“I would love to see some of your work, if that is something you would be comfortable with,” he took a gulp of wine and smiled brightly to hide how awkward he was feeling under the intensity of Crowley’s stare.
“Maybe someday, angel. It’s not ready yet, and I’m not happy with anyone seeing my stuff till I feel I’ve got what I’m looking for.”
Arthur felt it was wisest to drop the subject and instead asked Crowley what artists he liked the best, and before long they were arguing animatedly about the Pre-Raphaelites.
All in all it was a wonderful end to the evening. They parted ways outside the pub, Crowley to catch the night bus, Arthur to walk back to his flat in Soho. Arthur, tipsy and still glowing from the feeling of having made Crowley laugh so much reached St James’s Park before he remembered that, once again, they had not exchanged any contact details. He wondered why they kept doing this, considering it as he walked. Then it came to him, the realisation that he knew the most likely explanation. Crowley was in a relationship, he might enjoy Arthur’s company as a one-off, but he wouldn’t want to spend any length of time with him, the whole thing was just a series of coincidences that Crowley had been kind about. Of course he didn’t want Arthur as a friend, or anything else for that matter.
“I’m a silly old fool,” he berated himself back at his flat as he pulled on his pyjamas. Much sobered by his realisation, he climbed into bed, a piece of the Bach running through his head and the memory of Crowley’s delighted expression as he talked about his work hovering in his mind’s eye as he fell asleep.