Work Text:
Venice, 1531
Lorenzo Lotto’s workshop
"Contemporary gay men have seen in Sebastian at once a stunning advertisement for homosexual desire (indeed, a homoerotic ideal), and a prototypical portrait of a tortured closet case." -Richard A. Kaye, 1996
“Tilt your head to the right just slightly more, please?”
Aziraphale did as he was told, grateful for direction.
With one arm stretched overhead, he shifted his weight to his back foot and tried not to overthink about the (literal) position he found himself in: standing on a plinth, nude, under the appraising gaze of the artist whose studio they occupied and the passive regard of the artist’s assistant, who strangely never seemed to make any attempt to paint and was, stranger still, Aziraphale’s hereditary enemy.
After the personal and professional devastation of the Plague Aziraphale had lingered in Venice, heartened by the way humanity was picking up the pieces and striving forward after their recent wars. He busied himself in his work, falling in with a number of talented and ambitious humans and influencing them towards the Glory of God. To an outside observer this looked a lot like many nights of enjoying good meals and good wine interspersed with long breaks of reading, but reports of his deeds to Heaven were received with no feedback, so he saw little reason to swerve from his methods. On one notable evening at a gathering of statesman patrons and their proteges Aziraphale found himself cornered by a particularly enthusiastic artist who attempted to ply Aziraphale into modeling for his next work with flattery (to Aziraphale’s annoyance) and wine (to great effect). WIth his fair elegance and round cheeks, the artist had proclaimed Aziraphale “the living embodiment of the beauty ideal designed by God himself” and the angel had half-listened to the man prattle as he nursed several glasses of wine and at some point found himself agreeing to the man’s request simply to escape the conversation.
The next afternoon found Aziraphale swallowing his regrets and working to settle a beatific smile on his face as he walked along the canals towards the artist’s workshop to keep his word. And really, how could one say no? As irritated as Aziraphale had been, he reasoned that his feelings were his own and of little consequence in the grand scheme of things. In truth the artist was kind and begged for favor, and he was working on a painting of sacred themes. Something about St. Sebastian, Aziraphale recalled fuzzily. There was some danger of the sin of Pride, but on the whole this was perfectly aligned with God's plans (inasmuch as Aziraphale had any idea what that was).
The door to the workshop had opened almost as soon as Aziraphale arrived on its threshold. The artist greeted him warmly and thanked him for coming, whisking him by the elbow into the stucco-faced brick room ensconced in warm light from a large inflected arch window. In direct contrast to the previous night the man was now all business, directing Aziraphale to step onto a platform and carefully arranging the angel’s limbs as he described his process and what Aziraphale could expect from the afternoon, interspersing direction with words of gratitude for agreeing to be his subject. After a beat, the man had stopped and stepped back, taking in his handiwork.
“This should do nicely. Antonio, could you please come help with his clothes?”
The hours flowed by, silent but for the rustle and clink of brushes dipping in and out of paint and the crackling licks of flame from the fireplace. With arms tucked behind his back and all his weight on one hip, Crowley was the picture of passive boredom. He had been standing there- lurking there- half in shadow, for more than three hours without a task from the artist.
Seeing Crowley turn the corner had been a shock. After their disastrous interlude in Wessex, Aziraphale had steered clear of the being that clearly couldn’t be trusted not to tempt him for nearly one thousand years. Ostensibly Crowley was in Venice to “make some trouble”, and Aziraphale knew Crowley always found himself in the artsier circles of societies. Crowley was probably there to work his influence to make the art a little less holy and a little more earthly. Well, Aziraphale could beat him at his game. That was his role on earth, wasn’t it? An eternal game of chess with the wily serpent. And while it was unfortunate, Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel some relief to see a familiar face.
“We’ve met before, Maestro,” “Antonio” had replied with a smirk of tacit understanding when the artist made their introductions. Aziraphale had been grateful for the lifeline that let him keep his composure, the smooth transition over centuries of absence. If Crowley had been rattled by Aziraphale’s appearance he didn’t show it, instead deftly busying himself with preparing brushes and pigments. Perhaps he had already known Aziraphale was in Venice, had heard the artist name the model he’d recruited the night before.
“An excellent form for our St. Sebastian, yes?” the artist called to Crowley.
“Ah yes, our saintly plague intercessor. Hard years-” he shot a quick glance to Aziraphale- “or so I’ve heard,” he added offhandedly.
And so the day moved on without friction, settling into a comfortable rhythm and putting Aziraphale at ease. Crowley’s not so bad, he thought. Untrustworthy perhaps, and decidedly on the wrong side, but maybe someone to talk to and get information from. Maybe after this they could talk about Wessex, and what happened in the years after.
He could still be a friend.
Aziraphale let his mind wander peacefully, occasionally checking in to his body and willing his corporation to relax into the pose that would have left it strained had he been a little more mortal. Careful not to shift his head, Aziraphale let his eyes drift around the room, taking in the trappings of canvas and pigments laid tidily around every surface. He could feel eyes on him and turned his attention back to the artist, anticipating his steady stare. But the man’s face was not visible, his focus pressed deep into a small point on the canvas he worked with his brush. If not him, then- Aziraphale traced the sensation to the far corner of the room and found- Crowley.
Still shrouded and unmoved, the demon’s yellow eyes burned over the top of his glasses. Aziraphale shrank a little and felt a small pang of chagrin. Yes, this whole scenario was a bit silly and of course it was uncomfortable to be vulnerable in front of an acquaintance he hadn’t seen in ages and the whole thing was a bit of a bother really but still, he didn’t need to make a joke out of everything, least of all Aziraphale who was just trying to do the right thing, and what would Crowley know about that? And the demon was still staring!
But the longer he looked at Crowley, it slowly dawned on him that Crowley wasn’t staring at him in jest. The insouciance Aziraphale expected to find was absent. Instead, Crowley’s affected pose covered but couldn’t hide the tension wound tight in his shoulders. His gaze remained intensely unbroken as Aziraphale’s mind clamored to identify the emotion it cast.
Warm, open, almost-
reverent.
Aziraphale recognized that he had not quite caught the demon’s eyes with his own; they were profoundly focused...lower.
On what?
The answer came as soon as the question formed in his mind.
My mouth.
Unbidden, Aziraphale’s lips parted with the realization.
Slowly, impossibly, incrementally–
Crowley’s gaze tipped upwards to meet Aziraphale’s.
Aziraphale’s skin pebbled as a shiver ran over his body.
CLACK!
The moment broke with the sound of a brush palmed onto a palette. The painter stood up with a look of concern. “Are you cold? I’m sorry, you should be as comfortable as possible.”
Aziraphale pinked at the edges, embarrassed at the acknowledgement of how deeply he was being observed. Had his thoughts been so clearly broadcast?
“It’s no trouble, I’m quite warm actually-“ (and he was; had he ever felt this warm?) His protest was cut off by a sharp dismissive wave from the artist. Placing his brush back in hand, the artist turned to his apprentice. “Antonio, please, more wood for the fire?”
With a sharp nod that left his eyes on the floor, Crowley quickly turned on his heel and silently left the room.
Aziraphale stilled, eyes remaining on the empty doorframe, with one unangelic thought ringing in his head.
What the hell was that?
Lotto would leave Venice the following year due to declining demand for his work and would end his days as a monk. His legacy as a High Renaissance artist would wane in popularity, but a showing of his work in Venice in 1953 reintroduced him to popular consciousness. Several attendees recall seeing a remarkable doppelgänger observing the painting of St. Sebastian, accompanied by a very knowledgeable redhead discussing the details of the work as if the man had been there himself.
