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“You’re here,” Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief as he rounded the stairwell and found his friend lingering on the landing between the third and unused fourth floors: their usual meeting place, and their usual meeting time as the setting sun turned Crowley’s auburn hair alight like living fire. “I thought maybe… maybe you wouldn’t be.”
“Yeah.” Crowley fingered the ornate silk betrothal collar around his neck, the pendant dangling from it bearing the crest of the Morningstar house. “He wants me to stay in training. My parents wanted to send me to London to be closer to him, but I told him I liked it here and he listened to me, so that’s something.”
But Aziraphale knew as soon as Crowley presented properly, which could happen tomorrow or it could be years from now, his friend’s duty would call him away. He looked down at the field below them, where a group of beta boys around their age — attendees of the sister school across the street — tossed a ball amongst themselves. Between throws, they opened their mouths to catch the heavy snowflakes that had been drifting down all day, clinging to coats as everyone moved their things from their carriages into their dormitories. The melting slush made them shiver as it ran down their necks.
A glance at Crowley confirmed he was watching the boys too, his eyes following the ball with a sullen glint. No omega would be permitted to join the betas in such crude activity; the locked gate at the front of their own school ensured that.
“It’s much too cold to be out there tonight. Look, the snow is even sticking on the bushes,” Aziraphale said, trying to distract Crowley. As thin as he was, Aziraphale’s friend was always shivering through the winter, even after wrapping himself in extra cloaks. All Aziraphale earned for his trouble was a quiet utterance with an impressive lack of vowels.
Sighing, Aziraphale pressed his shoulder against Crowley’s. “I hear he’s scary, your alpha. But I suppose any politician in London must be a little scary.”
Crowley shrugged. “He’s been the perfect gentleman. Giving me all of the appropriate tokens of affection and doing nothing that would endanger his pending claim on me.” The young omega paused. His scent turned sharp. “Yet.”
Aziraphale pressed closer and turned to rub his neck across the sharp line of Crowley’s jaw. Crowley resisted the offered comfort for a moment, trying, Aziraphale knew, to take care of himself as he’d always had to do before he and Aziraphale had found each other… and how he’d have to again when they were forced apart. But the temptation of a quiet rumble in Aziraphale’s throat, just the first few notes of a purr, eventually drew Crowley’s nose to Aziraphale’s scent. Their purrs grew, still quiet enough that no one would hear them outside of their safe little alcove, but loud enough for them to feel it passing between them as they pressed their bodies together. Together, they curled up in a dusty corner of the landing, sharing comforting nuzzles that would earn harsh corrections if they were to be caught.
“I hate him. I hate them all,” Crowley whispered when their purrs at last died out. His voice was quiet, but sharp. It was the kind of voice Aziraphale imagined when he heard of an omega slipping poison into their alpha’s evening glass of whiskey, or, for the bolder, a knife between their ribs as they slept. It was the kind of voice Aziraphale wished he had.
Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s neck, annoyed by the lace that covered it, muddling his scent and veiling the softness of his virgin skin. Annoyed even more by the claim it represented: a claim made for Crowley’s body, for its ability to produce an heir worthy of a Lord thanks to his own parentage. Likely for the handsome face that adorned it as well. At least, Aziraphale had always thought it handsome.
“I’d claim you if I could,” Aziraphale murmured. “If I’d been an alpha instead of an omega. Or we both could have been betas and wouldn’t have had to worry about any of this claiming business.”
Crowley nuzzled Aziraphale back. “I just hope this isn’t the last I see of you. Lucifer will let me write, I think. He’ll want to look at the letters, of course, but we can stay friendly. If your alpha allows it too.”
Aziraphale bit his lip. “I hope they do, though letters are a poor substitute to holding you in my arms.”