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The staff at the London Ritz become quickly familiar with the regular customers that come into the establishment, especially if those regulars were polite and easy to remember in some way or another. A pair that stood out to every member of staff after a while were the two men that came in at least a few times a month, always seeming to have a reservation despite never ringing to book one. No one ever brought up that fact, why should they after all? Customers were customers after all. And these two were very polite customers (at least one of them was). New staff would comment on how strange the pair looked together, complete antitheses of each other in almost every way, style of dress, the way they spoke, their attitudes. However, it only to seeing them dine together once to see that they belonged together. A few of the waiters who had been waiting on them for a while had bets on when the tall, lean man in darker clothing (Mr Crowley) would ask them to put a ring in one of the glasses of champagne or something cheesy like that; it seemed like something the other man (Mr Fell) would find very sweet and endearing.
They always ordered pretty much the same thing; a selection of pastries or something sweet for Mr Fell and nothing for Mr Crowley (he rarely ate anything other than maybe a bite or two of whatever Mr Fell had ordered) and most likely their finest bottle of wine to share or a hot chocolate for Mr Fell and a black coffee for Mr Crowley. There was never any kind of schedule for when the two of them would come in to share a meal, so it was a pleasant surprise for whoever was working that day. Mr Fell was a joy to speak to, always happy to hear about your day and send compliments to the chef for the delicious food that always seemed to be ‘even better than last time, I just don’t know how you do it!’ And despite the lack of conversation that came from Mr Crowley, all the staff had to admit it was sweet to see him watch the other man with what could only be described by a few of the waiters as heart-eyes as Mr Fell ate his meal.
Mr Fell and Mr Crowley became such a comforting constant that it was almost unnerving when neither of them showed for a month. It was a topic of conversation at least a couple times a week in the kitchen.
‘Has anyone seen Fell and Crowley lately? It’s been a while.’
‘Are they in today? I hope everything’s okay with them.’
And since they seemed to always be so attached at the hip, it was even more unnerving when one damp, dark Sunday afternoon, Mr Crowley came stumbling in alone, not even throwing the maître d’ a look as he swept past the front desk, found his usual table which was, as always, empty just when he needed it to be, and collapsed down into the seat. He looked a mess compared to usual. His hair was long down to his shoulders, ragged, wild, and untamed, and a stubble had grown on his face. The clothes that always looked so crisp and well-pressed were crumpled and looked as though they’d been slept in. Mr Crowley had always seem slightly more casual than Mr Fell but this was another level, very out of the ordinary indeed.
Their pianist was playing a song that was a favourite of most of the diners, including Mr Fell and Mr Crowley, but the moment she pressed the first few keys, Mr Crowley practically growled and flicked a hand carelessly towards the piano. There was a loud snapping sound, like someone cutting through a cord, and the pianist’s hands jumped away from the keys as the strings of the piano broke suddenly, interrupting the piece. She peered inside the instrument with a bemused look and shrugged at the waitress nearest to her. Mr Crowley dropped his head into his hands and took a deep breath. All the wait staff shared a look across the restaurant before one of them stepped forward towards the table.
“Ah, Mr Crowley,” The waiter – James – said, clearing his throat and leaning down close so he didn’t have to speak too loudly. “How are you doing this afternoon? We hadn’t seen you for a while and had started to become worried!”
Mr Crowley simply grumbled out something that could have been words into his hands in response. James coughed awkwardly and looked up to one of his colleagues, shrugging. They’d seen Mr Fell and Mr Crowley in many moods; elated, defeated, drunk, sombre, almost every way that he could think. But never like this. He couldn’t even really place this emotion.
“Um, I assume you’ll be having your usual afternoon order?” This was a very strong black coffee with multiple espressos added in, an order that had baffled everyone the first time they’d heard it. At the mention of that, Mr Crowley finally lifted his head and James failed to hold in a light gasp. His sunglasses had fallen slightly down his nose and… well it must have been a trick of the light because he could have sworn that his eyes were yellow and slitted down the middle. They were red rimmed like he’d been crying and he was scowling at James.
“No. I will have 2 bottles of your finest wine, in one of those pretty little mugs that you have, the ones you put hot chocolate in.” He said, sounding like someone who had already drunk that day. James bit his lip and looked around anxiously. A few other diners were catching onto his state.
“Are you sure Mr Crowley? Is that a wise-“
“Oh please, I can sssober up whenever I want!” Mr Crowley hissed, making James jump. He wasn’t exactly sure what the man meant by that but he wrote the order down in his notepad anyway, not wanting to be shouted at again. He then peered to the empty seat opposite.
“Will Mr Fell be having his usual when he joins you?”
Mr Crowley’s scowl turned to a vicious glare and James shrunk in on himself. Mr Crowley took a couple of heaving breaths before he raised a shaky finger and pointed it at James. His eyes were glowing and there was no way it was the light. He looked furious, close to blowing, but James couldn’t place what emotion would come out. Tears were brimming in his eyes but his brows were furrowed tight and he was on the receiving end of one of the angriest stares he’d ever seen. Mr Crowley’s face went red and it almost seemed like he was steaming up, quite literally in fact.
“No you idiot, does it look like Mr Fell, will be fucking joining us this afternoon?” He punctuated his sentence by slamming his fist down on the table, causing cutlery and glasses to shake and fall to the ground, the noise echoing through the restaurant. There was silence now, all the diners watching Mr Crowley, though he didn’t seem to notice. James was just thankful it was a quiet day.
“My apologies Mr Crowley, I just assumed-“
“Yeah well assumptions are dangerous Jim.” Mr Crowley spat, standing suddenly, and slamming his palms onto the table, more so to steady himself than anything else. James squinted at the nickname that no one had ever used for him (in fact he didn’t even remember giving Mr Crowley his first name at all). “You can go through 6000 years of knowing someone, spending all your best moments with him, only really understanding joy when you’re next to him, thinking that maybe you’ve finally found your light in this never-ending torture that we call existence, and then it all get ripped away the moment you actually tell him all of this. It’s- It’s just…”
Mr Crowley slid back into his seat and push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. James simply stood next to him, shellshocked, feeling the eyes of customers and colleagues alike on the two of them. He watched as a tear fell from beneath Mr Crowley’s sunglasses and dropped onto the white tablecloth.
“No. Mr Fell won’t be joining me. I don’t know if he will again.” Mr Crowley after a few moments, in a much quieter and calmer voice, still shaking with emotion though. “I’m… sorry. Please, could I just have my order. I just… I just want to sit here for a bit. Please?”
James nodded and moved to pat Mr Crowley on the shoulder in a comforting manner but flinched away when he jerked back like the brush of James’ fingers on his blazer had burned him. So instead he cleared up the cutlery and glasses, nodded once more and went off to the kitchen.
“Is Mr Crowley okay? Where’s Mr Fell?” One of the waitresses, Diane, asked James as he passes on his way.
“Definitely not okay.” He replied, eyeing Mr Crowley a final time to see him leaned forward on the table with his head in his arms. “And he says that Mr Fell might never be joining him again.”
“Stop it right now.” Diane gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “There’s no way, they’re so-“
“I know. But look at him.”
The both looked. His breaths had turned deep and shaky as a new musician had arrived to replace the pianist and soft violin started to flow throughout the restaurant. It looked so desperately wrong to see him sitting at that table alone. Like one without the other was just incomplete. Even people who didn’t know them could see clear as day that they needed each other. James sighed.
“There’s nothing we can do but give him his order I suppose.”