Chapter Text
St. Bede’s Academy sat on the edge of a windy Scottish hillside, all gray stone walls and ivy that refused to die even in winter. It was the sort of private school that had traditions older than most countries and uniforms that everyone pretended not to hate.
Crowley hated the tie most of all.
He tugged at it as he leaned against the lockers in the senior hallway, one foot braced against the wall, guitar case resting beside him like a loyal dog. His hair—dyed a stubborn, wine-dark red—fell into his eyes as he glanced up and down the corridor.
“Mate,” said Adam from the bench nearby, “you’ve been staring at the entrance for ten minutes.”
Crowley didn’t look at him.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
Crowley clicked his tongue irritably.
Then the hallway doors opened.
And there he was.
Aziraphale.
White-blond hair neatly combed, uniform perfectly pressed, tie straight, blazer buttoned despite the warmth inside. He carried three books against his chest like they were important historical artifacts instead of boring school texts.
He looked… composed. Grounded. Like he belonged in this place in a way Crowley never had.
Crowley’s stomach did the same stupid flip it did every single morning.
Adam snorted quietly. “Oh. Him.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re pathetic.”
Crowley ignored him, which was impressive considering he felt like his entire nervous system had just short-circuited.
Aziraphale walked down the hallway calmly, greeting people with small nods. Teachers liked him. Students trusted him. Even the headmaster seemed weirdly fond of him.
Crowley suspected it was because Aziraphale looked like the sort of student who’d voluntarily read three extra books just for fun.
Which, annoyingly, he did.
Crowley straightened slightly when Aziraphale got closer.
Right.
Today.
Today he would do something.
Something subtle.
Something smooth.
Something that would very clearly signal *hey I am desperately in love with you please notice* without actually saying it out loud.
He nudged his guitar case open and casually pulled the neck of the electric guitar out.
Adam groaned. “Oh no.”
Crowley strummed a quick riff—loud enough to echo slightly in the stone hallway.
Aziraphale’s head turned immediately.
Eye contact.
Direct.
Bright blue meeting gold-brown.
For a moment the entire corridor seemed to narrow down to just that.
Crowley lifted an eyebrow in what he hoped looked cool.
Aziraphale smiled politely.
Then walked over.
Crowley’s brain immediately stopped functioning.
“Good morning, Crowley,” Aziraphale said warmly.
His voice was calm, gentle, a little amused.
Crowley coughed and leaned on the lockers like he’d totally meant to do that.
“Morning, angel.”
Aziraphale tilted his head slightly.
“Practicing already?”
“Band rehearsal later,” Crowley said. “Figured I’d warm up.”
Aziraphale nodded approvingly.
“That’s very dedicated of you.”
Crowley stared.
Dedicated.
He had just played the guitar in the hallway purely to impress him.
And Aziraphale thought it was… dedication.
Adam made a strangled noise somewhere behind them.
Crowley ignored it.
“So,” Crowley said, attempting something resembling casual confidence. “You coming to the performance Friday?”
Aziraphale’s smile widened.
“Of course. I always do.”
Which was true.
Every performance.
Every year.
Front row.
Crowley tried not to think too hard about how much that meant to him.
Aziraphale adjusted the books in his arms.
“Well,” he said kindly, “I’d better get to literature before Mr. Campbell decides to lock the doors again.”
“Right.”
There was a pause.
Crowley could feel something sitting right there in the air between them—something almost obvious.
Aziraphale met his eyes again.
For half a second it looked like he might say something more.
Instead he just smiled.
“See you at lunch, Crowley.”
Then he walked away.
Crowley watched him go.
Watched him disappear down the hallway corner.
Adam walked over slowly.
“…You played him a guitar riff.”
“Yes.”
“And he complimented your work ethic.”
Crowley groaned and slid down the locker until he was sitting on the floor.
“I’m going to die.”
Adam shrugged. “You could just tell him you like him.”
Crowley looked horrified.
“Are you insane?”
“You’ve been pining for him since third year.”
Crowley pulled his tie over his face dramatically.
“It’s not pining.”
Adam raised an eyebrow.
“Crowley, you wrote a song called Angel in the Hallway.”
“That was artistic expression!”
“It's literally about him.”
Crowley groaned louder.
Down the corridor, Aziraphale paused near the stairwell.
He glanced back.
Just for a second.
Crowley was still sitting on the floor with his tie over his face.
Aziraphale smiled to himself and continued walking.