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The air is hot and thick and sticky and if it were anyone else on stage, Aziraphale would go home.
Every bone in his celestial body longs to push his way through the crowd and go back to the bookshop. His ears are ringing with the sheer noise of this place: the pounding of music from the speakers, and the roar of the audience, and the relentless drone of the band's instruments. The people beside him jostle him and swear and dance and irritate him beyond belief, and yet Aziraphale stays. Would stay forever, if he could.
His eyes are fixed on the stage. All he can see is Crowley. Crowley with his hair slicked back against his head, his face lit by the spotlight, his mouth pressed against the microphone. Crowley, with his low, gravelly voice, and the flush in his cheeks, and- Aziraphale can hear his pulse in his ears and it has nothing to do with the noise or the crowd.
Aziraphale hadn't believed it when he'd seen Crowley's face on a poster taped to the wall in Soho. Crowley, in a band! He'd needed to see it for himself. Now he's here, he still can't quite get his head around Crowley being a rockstar. He’s sinful and ridiculous and, somehow, completely captivating. Aziraphale would never listen to this music out of choice, and yet-
Crowley croons against the microphone, and Aziraphale hangs on every word.
I want your love, let's break the walls between us
Don't make it tough, I'll put away my pride
Enough's enough, I've suffered and I've seen the light
Baby, you're my angel
Come and save me tonight
You're my angel
Come and make it all right
Aziraphale has never heard Crowley sing before. May never hear him sing again. So he closes his eyes and breathes it in. He knows that he has broken some sort of rule just by being here, but he doesn't particularly care. Right now, all that matters is the honey-thick sound of Crowley's voice, filling the room, swallowing him.
When the set ends, Crowley runs a hand through his hair. He gives the crowd a grin, smooth as anything, and the stage and the audience and the world is under his command.
"See you in hell." He drawls, and then he's swaggering off the stage. Aziraphale shouldn't smile, but it's blooming on his lips regardless.
He watches Crowley disappear backstage and begins to make his way through the crowd, performing a tiny miracle so that nobody stops him from slipping through the backstage door. When he's backstage, Aziraphale can hear the murmur of conversation, and the sound of Crowley's laughter, bright as the stars he helped create.
"Good crowd." He's saying to his bandmates, grinning with his teeth, "I had them under my demonic thumb..."
His voice trails away when he sees Aziraphale standing in the doorway. For a moment, it's just the two of them in the whole world, and then Crowley turns to his bandmates.
"Sorry." He says. "Can you give us a minute?"
There's a murmur of curiosity as the band disperse. While they leave, Crowley grabs a bottle of wine from the counter and takes a long swig right from the bottle. Aziraphale takes him in, tight jeans and leather jacket, his lips red from the wine. Good lord, he thinks.
"What," Crowley says, "Are you doing here?"
Aziraphale smiles sheepishly, his eyes still fixed on Crowley's stained mouth.
"You've been busy, I see." He says, trying to sound teasing, though he can hear the tremor in his own voice and curses himself for it. "A band, Crowley? Really?"
Crowley holds out the bottle of wine. Aziraphale hesitates, and then takes it, startling when their fingers brush. There's a spark of electricity when they touch, hot and painful.
Aziraphale takes a swig of wine quickly, trying not to think about how the rim is still warm from Crowley's mouth.
"Not much going on at the minute." Crowley says, falling onto the sofa and taking off his glasses. Aziraphale meets his serpentine eyes and has to look away again. He can feel the flush in his cheeks. Has he turned pink? He hopes not. "Hell doesn't care what... extracurricular activities I get up to. As long as they're nothing good."
Aziraphale supposes rock and roll couldn’t ever be considered good - it’s a hotbed of sin.
"What did you think?" Crowley asks, giving him a wicked grin, and Aziraphale has to bite his tongue lest he say, I couldn't look away.
"It isn't really my sort of music." Aziraphale says primly, but he can still hear Crowley's voice in his ear, warm and enchanting. A bit of truth slips out. "But you were-"
His voice cracks. Goodness, he is risking so much by being in a place like this, in such dangerous company, saying such treacherous things, but he doesn't want to be anywhere else. When did he start taking risks like this? When did he stop fearing heaven's retribution?
Then Crowley licks his lips, tasting the remnants of wine with his tongue, and Aziraphale's thoughts stop.
"I was what?" Crowley asks, oblivious to his turmoil. "Terrible? Ghastly? Hellish?"
"I was going to say wonderful."
Crowley blinks.
"Eh?"
"You're really, ah," Aziraphale pauses, "You're really very good."
Crowley stares at him for a moment. Then he rises to his feet, and strides to where Aziraphale stands in the doorway. Aziraphale thinks oh as Crowley looks down at him, so close they are sharing breath.
"Huh." Crowley hums. He takes the bottle from Aziraphale's hand and takes a swig, holding his gaze. "You think so?"
"I do." Aziraphale admits. "You're quite the performer, you know."
Crowley tilts his head. His lips twitch.
"Not very angelic, you being here, is it?" He says. "Didn't think this would be your scene."
"It isn't." Aziraphale says. But you are, he thinks. "But I just had to see this. You, in a band!"
"Shut up." Crowley says, grinning.
Aziraphale smiles back at him.
"I really think-" He says warmly, "Well, you could be a big deal, Crowley. A real rockstar. Fancy that."
"Oh, now you're flattering me, angel." Crowley laughs and hands the bottle back to him. Aziraphale takes another long swig, grateful for how the alcohol is numbing him, chasing away his fears, "This is just a laugh."
Yes, Aziraphale thinks fondly, because a demon like you couldn't possibly care about something. He knows better than that, knows how Crowley has been following rock bands around the country and spending his evenings in bars, swaying to his favourite songs.
They gaze at each other and something in Aziraphale cracks and he wants to ask, what am I doing here? and what are you doing to me? and how can I even try to resist you when you look like this?
Somewhere outside of the room, laughter erupts. It startles them, breaking the moment. Aziraphale stares resolutely at the wall, avoiding the pretty yellow of Crowley's eyes.
"Should we get out of here?" Crowley asks, suddenly. Aziraphale glances at him, and the hope in Crowley's eyes makes him feel nauseous.
"Oh, I better- I better be getting back to the bookshop." Aziraphale says, weakly, though every inch of him wants to stay.
"I'll walk you back." Crowley suggests, and this time, Aziraphale doesn't say no.
He smiles a little, and let's Crowley lead him through the crowd with a hand between his shoulders. The touch burns through Aziraphale's blazer and he leans into it, lets Crowley hold him up.
The night air is blissfully cool against Aziraphale's hot cheeks. He breathes in the fresh air, and tries to ignore the weight of Crowley's gaze on him, all the way back to the bookshop.
At the front door, he looks at Crowley in the dark and wants to ask him to come in, to keep passing a bottle of wine between them, to watch the sun come up. But there is too much unspoken, and Aziraphale is drowning in doubt and fear and want and he is painfully aware that he can't look away from the tight fit of Crowley's trousers, and the way his jacket clings to his arms.
"Well, then." Crowley says, and then winks. "See you at my next show?"
Aziraphale laughs, soft and breathy.
"One was quite enough." He says, though he hopes one day he'll hear Crowley sing again.
"Shame." Crowley says, with more sincerity than Aziraphale expects. There is a heavy tension between them, tight as a pulled string. "Right. Night, then. Keep me in the loop about upstairs, yeah? I'll be up North next week if you need any miracles doing."
"I will." Aziraphale says, helplessly. If he were not an angel he would pull Crowley into the bookshop by his collar. If he were not himself he would be braver.
Crowley gives him a nod. Lingers a moment, as if he has something else to say. Then he's turning away and Aziraphale can't take it.
"Wait." He blurts out.
When Crowley turns, his eyes are flickering with that damn hope again. Aziraphale hates to put it out.
"I, ah-" He swallows. "I-"
If only, if only.
"Goodnight, Crowley." He says, and Crowley's face falls. He gives Aziraphale a small smile and then he's turning away, disappearing again, but all night while Aziraphale reads, Crowley's voice echoes in his mind. Never really gone.