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The stars were beautiful this time of year.
Aziraphale enjoyed laying on a blanket in the park with Crowley, describing the stars to him. Crowley would always frown, though. Complained that the pollution was ‘too thick to see in this part of the city’. The two of them always knew that that was just a lie Crowley would tell himself every time they laid there.
They would retell stories to each other, the two of them. The flowery quilt they shared under the big expanse would’ve probably known them all if it were sentient. They would go pointing out their favourite parts of the era, or their appearances, or the occurrence. Then they’d go back to staring. Longing. Wishing. For nothing in particular. But also for everything they could’ve been. Could be. If one of them had the metaphorical balls to just ask the other. Tell him how he felt about the other. About the two of them.
Sometimes they’d take a lovely bottle and some snacks. Some biscuits, usually. They’d go eating them and drinking, smiling through sips of their wine. They’d get about half way through the bottle every time before Aziraphale would put a stop to it. Explaining that they were in public, so shouldn’t be getting intoxicated. Too much so, at least. Crowley would call him boring or some other nickname. Aziraphale knew how much alcohol the two of them could handle and, even though it was definitely more than half a bottle each, he didn’t want to be seen under a bad light to passerby’s. Not that there were many.
After that, Aziraphale would get to watching the deep abyss of stars and planets and all other space phenomena. So would Crowley, in a way. He would watch the way Aziraphale’s eye crinkled with smiles only he would receive. The way his eyes would glow subtly. The stars that shaped his pupils growing sharper and blunter as Aziraphale blabbers on about whatever would be on his mind. And Crowley loved it. They truly were beautiful this time of year.