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Across the embroidered throw, Crowley sat cross-legged on the bed. For what could have been minutes or years, they had been watching Aziraphale across the room. In the mirror, Aziraphale scrutinised between whether to add more ochre pigment to his eyelids. He had brought so many things with him: Crowley'd not even thought to ask where he’d got them for he'd been so overwhelmed with nervous excitement about it.
Az's eyes had never shone bluer with the brown-orange he painted around them; the candlelight only further illuminating his brightness. His lips were berry-red and sticky. A dusting of dark red made his cheeks warm and cherubic.
"What do you think, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, looking at him in the mirror with an childlike grin.
He looked perfect.
He always looked perfect.
Crowley nodded imperceptibly: nothing is imperceptible to an angel. Turning to approach, Aziraphale's face was a strange mix of excitement and worry.
"Do you... Do you like it?"
Crowley could not look at him, could not look at his face.
A slow hand touched Crowley's cheek, with almost no pressure, it compelled him to look. It was not often they were so close, no matter the circumstance. The dusting of vermillion on Aziraphale's cheek might not have been there at all; Crowley's cheek matched it perfectly.
"Well?" Aziraphale whispered, eyes wide, moments from slipping into needing reassurance.
"You... Well, hmm, you look... You look lovely," Crowley managed to say.
Aziraphale's nose scrunched as he smiled, a coy hand covering his mouth as he giggled.
"Would you like to try it too?" Aziraphale asked.
Since Aziraphale had entered, Crowley had been sweating. Something deep within and hidden unlocking itself, unravelling the neatly sealed space that Crowley had pretended was not within them. He knew, although Aziraphale had expressed his own interest, that this was all for him. Aziraphale had found all these tinctures, had painted his own face first, had hidden them away from the world just so Crowley might take any single step in this direction. Crowley tried hard to be discreet, tried not to let his eyes wandered, hoped that Aziraphale would not guess his thoughts (although they always could for one and other).
Again, no words had left Crowley. Crowley was not certain they'd ever been able to speak. This was their state of being: shaking and overjoyed; silent and enraptured. They nodded, as close to a nod as they could manage at least. Aziraphale’s gaze upon them, warming and constant, a reminder of love and safety.
Crowley expected Aziraphale to turn, to grab any one of the small decanters he had procured and begin to apply it to Crowley's face.
"Lips first?" Aziraphale asked.
Crowley nodded and with the first duck of their head, Aziraphale's hands found home in the tressed curls above Crowley's ears. Leaning in purposefully, knowingly, Aziraphale's pressed his lips to Crowley's.
"Oh," rasped Crowley against Aziraphale’s plush lips.
Wide, peering yellow eyes could not bring themselves to close. The done thing, perhaps, but Crowley could not lose the moment of his angel so close. Crowley could feel the hot breath, could see the delicate fluttering of Aziraphale's closed eyelids, the inescapable wetness of their meeting lips. Of things he had wished and dreamt, things he had pretended were unnecessary, unwanted. This confirmation hit him too late; just as they went to kiss in return, Aziraphale pulled back. Crowley's head followed, chased the loss of Aziraphale's touch.
With his right hand, Aziraphale caressed soothing circles into Crowley's scalp, which Crowley had no choice but to keen into. A half-parted mouth could only blow out stuttering breaths, a reclining head could only look up at Aziraphale entranced, disbelieving. Placing his pointer finger upon Crowley's lip, Aziraphale spread the pigment across it. Crowley let his lips grow wider, let their body be guided by the push and pull of Aziraphale's soft hold.
Aziraphale put his thumb to his own tongue and wet it lightly before running it across the corner of Crowley's mouth to remove a smudge.
"There you go," Aziraphale hummed.
Crowley looked up, looked at the way the pigment across Aziraphale's lips had begun to bleed at the edges. They knew it would be right to offer to tidy it up; they only hoped there might be opportunity to mess it up even more. But they could do nothing at all, they were close to putty. Aziraphale pulled them by the wrist from the bed and Crowley followed him easily across the floor until they were in front of the vanity.
"Sit right here for me," Aziraphale said, patting the stool.
As he descended to sit, Crowley caught the sight of himself. His eyes were so wide, he looked drugged. This was effect Aziraphale seemed to have on him perpetually.
"No, no, the other way! You must promise you won't look until I'm finished," Aziraphale whined. "It just won't be the same."
Crowley shuffled around on the seat until his back was to the mirror. On their lap, Aziraphale placed vials and pots that seemed to contain every colour that existed in the world. Crowley was immediately entirely overwhelmed.
"You can choose whatever you like, dear, but I got this from Tyre, just for you," Aziraphale said, picking out one particular bottle. "It's not really the "in-thing", but I just thought it might look nice. What with your eyes being that pretty colour."
"Ah, hmm, well…"
"Just say no. I will not be offended," Aziraphale promised. "Please pick whatever you like."
"No, I... I would like it if you chose," Crowley admitted.
“Well, then,” Aziraphale said, his hands balling in excited fists. “I’m so glad you said that because I know exactly what I want to do to you.”
As Aziraphale began sorting through the products, picking out each he was to use, Crowley was glad not to be facing the mirror, not to have to watch every expression and reaction to what Aziraphale would do. He wondered if his face was as red and scrunched as he felt it ought to be.
“Everyone loves pale, unblemished skin at the moment – Heaven knows why – but you’ve already got the perfect complexion, so I’ll skip the white lead for now,” Aziraphale explained, as if reading Crowley’s mind.
Crowley nodded slowly – like it were some awful secret that they should know anything on the subject. Like reading Ovid, listening in on conversations, perusing apothecaries were to be guilty for. But if Aziraphale knew all of this too, it could not be so wrong. Perhaps this, more than the makeup itself, was what Aziraphale was bestowing upon him. It changed the guilt, shifted it, until he could only wonder if he was making Aziraphale do the wrong thing.
He always feared as much.
"I think I'll use this one – poppy and rose – for your cheeks," Aziraphale said, holding up the chosen container. "It'll give you a nice healthy pink glow, or so I’ve heard."
"Where did you learn about all of this?" Crowley asked quietly.
"Well, there are so many lovely women around here," Aziraphale said. "They always say that they will do anything for payment, so I've just been having them teach me! It's quite fun, I like it more than I expected."
If not for how it touched him, Crowley might have laughed at the thought of Aziraphale propositioning women only for them to teach him about cosmetics. He could not deny the joy of feeling, although it somehow caused him guilt, that Aziraphale had gone to all this effort just him. But that any effort was being taken in his direction that he was not immediately reciprocating, he felt was doing something wrong.
“Close your eyes,” Aziraphale said, resting his hand gently on Crowley’s cheek to steady the movements of his brush.
“You didn’t need to do all this for me.” With closed eyes, Crowley felt a little braver, a little more able to speak.
“Or, my dear, maybe I wanted to do all of this for you, hmm?” Aziraphale fussed. “If it makes you feel better, just imagine I’m doing all this for myself then. Just because I want to see you all done up and pretty.”
Even beneath closed eyes, Crowley could hear the happiness in Aziraphale’s voice. With soft cooing sounds of appreciation, Aziraphale painted the royal colour across Crowley's lids.
“Open.”
Aziraphale did not speak, like a great artist he scrutinised his work between half-closed eyes. After a moment, his lips parted in a circle, his eyes blew similarly wide, as if he’d only just realised the extent of his masterpiece. The extent of his adoration could not be mistaken, and this caused Crowley such great embarrassment that they might have turned away were it not for the strong hand against their chin keeping them in place.
"Keep your eyes open for me."
Crowley did not want to let Aziraphale down, Crowley needed that smile to shine upon him for all eternity. With unwavering care, Aziraphale lined Crowley's eye with dark kohl. Crowley had not kept their eyes open for so long and were more than glad that only a little light entered the room. He stared at anything but Aziraphale, anything but the pretty face right in front of him, anything but those pretty stained lips.
"Just one moment longer, I know it’s difficult, but you're being so good, dear."
If not so focused on staying still and not blinking, Crowley would have wilted away and been lost between the floorboards as a melted, pathetic thing. They felt the increase of their heartbeat and prayed Aziraphale would finish soon, so they would not ruin all of his hard work. Crowley wanted, more than anything, the praise to continue for as long as Aziraphale would pour it upon them.
"Look at you," Aziraphale praised, his hand running along the side of Crowley’s face and down to their arm, gesturing for him to look into the mirror.
As Crowley turned, terror churned in his stomach, this was the moment it was revealed. This was the moment they were revealed to themself. What if it was not what they hoped; what if they looked a fool? It was not even seeing something stupid on their face that hurt the most, but the thought that Aziraphale had gone to all this effort that they would not want to disappoint him by being disappointed.
For a moment, Crowley could not decipher what he was seeing. This was, this was... Was this him?
Their eyes had never glowed more, they looked like firelight, the setting sun. Lips parting wider the longer he looked, Crowley could not ignore how pretty the colour was. Even the flush on his cheeks, which he’d feared would make him look clownlike, was… was… lovely. Pretty. How pretty he was.
This was every dream, every moment of wonder realised, and it did not disappoint him. He leaned as close as he could to examine himself; Aziraphale had been right about the colours.
Aziraphale had been right about everything.
“I hope you like it, dear,” Aziraphale said softly, peering at Crowley through the mirror and rubbing their shoulder soothing.
Crowley turned, quick as they could manage. Kneeling up on the bench, they propped themself against Aziraphale. The fingers of each hand digging a little as they pressed into the soft flesh of Aziraphale’s biceps. He could only look, could only watch Aziraphale’s eyes jump between each feature as he took in his work up close.
"Thank you, thank you, angel,” Crowley whispered.
Aziraphale seemed not to know what to say, but his look of adoration was more than enough. This gaze twisted Crowley's heart, softened it, regrew it in ways Crowley did not know were possible. Aziraphale’s hands, which had been limp at his sides, held Crowley now, determined to have them close. One hand found Crowley’s hip, the other the same of their back; the hold rocked them close, Crowley’s hands moved with the flow of the tide, happy wherever they landed.
“You look perfect, Crowley, you look... Oh, you are so beautiful.”
Against the hard wood of the stool, Crowley’s knees were weak and trembling. He was glad to have Aziraphale to hold, glad to have a reason not to let go. In return, Aziraphale held tight; through the thin fabric of his shirt, Crowley could feel each small movement of Aziraphale’s fingers as he attempted to steady them. All in white, Crowley was too scared to lean in closer – to ruin Aziraphale’s pretty toga with the colours across his face, but Aziraphale’s hands were persistent in their coaxing.
Before Crowley could stop it, he felt the first tear welling in his eyes, felt it threatening to fall.
"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale whispered gently, a gentle thumb coming up to meet the tear as it descended Crowley’s cheek. "Don't ruin your pretty makeup."
Leaning now without abandon, without fear, Crowley let the full weight of their body press against Aziraphale’s. The warmth of Aziraphale’s body was engulfing, mesmerising as its softness. And Crowley knew he’d never wish to let go. With each subtle move, with each press further into the comfort of him, Crowley reeled in the sensation of Aziraphale’s hands. Always moving, always touching, always keeping them safe.
In the nook between Aziraphale’s shoulder and jaw, Crowley want to sink down warm and safe forever. His hot breath against Aziraphale’s lobe made his angel shiver; Crowley felt powerful in ways he never had, let his breath grow more pronounce just to see the quakes it caused. Up and down their back, into their hair, against their ears, Aziraphale’s hands were somehow intense and comforting all at once. They moved, Crowley understood, as desperate against them as he moved into him.
Crowley leaned back a little, assessed every perfect inch of Aziraphale’s face. He gave himself no moment’s pause, no time for second guessing. Not this time.
This time they moved first, closing their eyes despite how it upset them to lose the sight of Aziraphale. But they could feel him, the heat of him against their chest, a hand on their back, a hand on their waist, his lips. His lips. His tongue. Crowley pressed back, knowing it would ruin the makeup; a knowledge which only thrilled them all the more.
Crowley's hand raked into Aziraphale's short locks, holding them closer together despite Aziraphale making no move to pull back. Aziraphale was, as he was with every meal Crowley provided for him, needy and insatiable. He might devour Crowley; Crowley might let him.
As if something known with no prior knowledge, tentatively Crowley pushed his tongue between Aziraphale’s inviting lips. Against it, he felt Aziraphale’s own, felt the way he pressed his tongue in return and coaxed them into circling each other.
This kiss might last eternity, or at least however long Aziraphale had the room, and Crowley would not he satisfied with its length. There was hunger, hunger he had never felt before. Intrinsically it was all linked, Aziraphale, this moment, Crowley, the blush being transferred across each other's cheeks in their back and forth. All other sensation, emotion, memory was lost; it was this moment, this feeling, this touch that sustained them. Crowley was desperate in ways he had never been. Desperate to be held, to hold. Desperate to be known as only Aziraphale had ever managed.
Eventually he pulled away, breathless, missing it the instance it was gone.
“Angel.”
“I’d wondered what that would feel like…” Aziraphale said, pulling away in order to flatten his robe and attempting to wipe out the small marks their makeup had left upon it.
Crowley could sense Aziraphale’s timidity breaking through. They did not want to let the moment seize him – could not bear that he might regret it, so darted up from their seat to meet him. The hug was without expectation; Aziraphale startled and then softened, wrapping his arms tightly around Crowley in return. He leaned back to better look at Crowley’s face.
“I, uh…” Aziraphale smiled as he spoke. “I think I’d better touch you up, dear.”
“You already touched me up. Quite a bit, in fact.”
“Oh stop it, you… demon.”
“Forgive me,” Crowley said, lightly.
“I will,” Aziraphale whispered. “If… If you kiss me again.”
Who was Crowley to deny such an angel such a request?”
They had the room for a few more hours; they held each other close, not just to kiss or touch, but to be close. To remember themselves through the other. In this room, hidden from Heaven and Earth, only they existed. The sweet freedom of being seen only by those who see you, and not the twisted version the world thinks it sees. It was love, even if they did not see it yet. Even if the Earth would spin thousands of times before they even though the words, their hands met now, fingers locking like only joints meant to be together, and said the words silently and better than the words aloud ever could be.