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Anthony finds his husband in their garden. Asa’s sitting in the chair on the right, the one that has, by unspoken agreement, become “his” over the many long years they’ve lived here. It’s a beautiful, clear, late summer night; the broad, exuberant expanse of the Milky Way spilling across the dome of the sky is visible in all its glory through the branches of the apple tree overhead, and the nearly-full moon, just risen, hangs huge and bright on the eastern horizon. It’s a bit yellow, the moon, and Anthony knows this is due to atmospheric refraction; but also, yellow is Asa’s favorite color and it just feels right, tonight.
“There you are. I thought you’d gone to bed.”
“I couldn’t sleep. Were you looking for me? I hope I’ve not worried you, dear.”
“Nah. Hadn’t gone up yet. Just thought you might be out here. Call it instinct, I suppose.”
It’s true, Anthony’s always had a bit of a second sense when it comes to his husband. Can always find him. The part of him that’s a scientist, a rationalist, thinks this is a skill born of habit and years of familiarity. It’s inevitable when you know someone as well as he does Asa, when you’ve lived with them, shared more than half a lifetime with them. The part of him that’s read too many works of classic romantic literature (or had them foisted upon him, if anyone were to inquire), insists that it’s something less easily explained. Something more like Shakespeare’s marriage of true minds.
But either way, it boils down to the same thing, doesn’t it? Love. Always love.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here. I was feeling restless, but less so now that you’re here. Sit with me a while?”
Anthony eases himself down into his chair, the one on the left. It’s a slow and not entirely pleasant process – his back and his joints aren’t what they used to be, and long gone are the days when he could fling himself willy-nilly into chairs without fear of gravity or injury – but comfortable enough once he’s seated. Asa reaches out, takes his hand. The two chairs are pushed up flush against each other, as they’ve been for decades, and their joined hands rest easily on the shared armrests, their wedding rings gleaming pale gold in the moonlight.
He thinks Asa’s got it right about tonight. There is something abroad in the air, the imminent changing of the season perhaps, making him feel both restless and calm all at once.
He notices that Asa’s got something in his lap, atop the well-worn tartan blanket that he’s nicked yet again from the sofa in their sitting room.
“What’s that you’ve got there?”
Asa picks the object in his lap up and shows it to Anthony. A snow globe. He gives it a shake, and they both watch the tiny flakes of snow fall and settle over the little scene inside. It looks a bit like stardust, out here in the night. A tiny bit of the Milky Way come down to Earth.
Anthony recognizes it, of course. It’s only been sitting on their mantel since the day after they’d moved into this cottage together.
“I was feeling sentimental, I suppose. Do you remember when we got this?”
*
Thirty-something years ago
“Here,” Anthony’s godson Warlock says, striding through the front door into their new sitting room. His two partners, Adam and Josh, follow him in. “This is for you two. Something to put up on your new mantel.”
“Oh, how charming!” exclaims Asa. He takes the snow globe from Warlock and shakes it, and they all watch snow fall over the tiny scene inside depicting what appears to be an old-fashioned-looking corner shop with an equally old-fashioned black car parked in front of it.
“Look closer. At the sign.”
Asa has to get out his reading glasses to make out the words printed above the door of the minuscule shop. One of the many indignities of having reached middle age. Although a small one, and the glasses are rather nifty, so he doesn’t really mind. And anyway, as Anthony is fond of telling him, those indignities are all far outweighed by the sheer joy of finding his better half, the one who makes him complete, at exactly the right time in both their lives.
“A. Z. Fell and co, purveyor of books to the gentry,” he reads aloud. “Oh, goodness! That’s almost my name. Only— why the zed? My middle name doesn’t begin with a zed.”
“We didn’t have it made,” Adam says. “Josh found it, when he was helping his dad clear out their old house.”
“It was my mum’s,” says Josh. “She collected them. Or that’s what my dad said anyhow. I don’t remember anything about her, really; she died when I was just a baby.”
“Oh, but we can’t take this then,” protests Anthony. “You ought to keep it.”
“Nah. I’ve got loads. More’n we have space for in our flat, that’s for sure. She had a massive collection. Besides, it just feels right for you two to have this one. It’s practically got Asa’s name on it, for one thing. And it’s a bookshop.”
“That is quite the curious coincidence, isn’t it,” murmurs Asa, peering closer at the globe. The bookshop inside looks a bit different from the one he runs – it’s red instead of blue, for one thing, and rather larger and more distinguished-looking, somehow making him think more of a museum than a place where books were sold – but it nevertheless reminds him quite sharply of Derek’s little shop, and the man he’d met there nearly a decade ago now. The man whom he’d eventually marry, and then move into this cottage with. The man whom he loves.
“Funny old world, innit,” says Anthony.
“Did you notice the car?” Warlock asks him. “I thought it looked a bit like those vintage Bentleys you were always drooling over every time you took me to the classic car show as a kid.”
“I did not drool.”
“He still drools over them, you know,” Asa tells the boys in an undertone.
“Hey, don’t you lot go ganging up on me now. That’s not fair!”
“We’re not ganging up on you, love.”
“Says you. Anyhow, this’ll be the closest I’ll ever come to owning a Bentley, I’ll wager.”
“Oh, I don’t know, darling. There’s still time for you to write a best-selling book. I have faith in you.”
Together, they set the globe in the very center of their new mantel, and watch the little flakes settle over the bookshop and the Bentley. And maybe it’s just all the love in the room, or the fact that they’re both too sentimental for their own good, but when their fingers touch at its pole Anthony would swear it feels like some kind of magic. It’s the same feeling he’d had the first time they’d kissed, on their third date (because Asa has standards, thank you very much) and every subsequent time since.
“Very well then, boys, we’ll keep it, and happily, but you lot have to promise to come visit, alright?”
*
They’re a lot older now than they had been then. The small indignities of middle age have slowly given way to the much larger, less easily dismissed, and rather less nifty indignities of old age. But getting old is not without its joys, too, and on balance the good still outweighs the bad by a very large margin. They’ve been blessed with decades here and even longer together, time enough to watch the apple sapling they’d planted the summer they’d moved in grow into the lush, mature tree whose branches spread out above their heads now, heavy with fruit. Time enough for nightingales to have come back to this part of the South Downs, and for them to make a home every spring and summer in the branches of the apple tree. Time enough for Anthony to have written several more books, one of which did indeed sell well enough to allow him to buy the vintage Bentley of his dreams. Time enough for Asa to have inherited the bookshop from Derek after he’d passed on, and for him to have worked to help make it into a haven for the lost and lonely with a beautiful, thriving community all around it.
Warlock, Adam, and Josh are still together and well into their own middle ages now, with a house and family and life of their own; but they’ve kept their promise and still come by to visit regularly, the most recent being just yesterday. The bookshop is still thriving as well, although Asa had given over the day-to-day running of it some years ago to his long-time assistant, Muriel; he has no doubt that they’ll be a faithful steward of his beloved shop when they inherit it from him, one day not too long from now.
And of course at the center of it all, there’s this cottage. A garden, a library, each other. This life. Their life. The universe out there, and this group of the two of them. Growing old together. Grown old together.
“We’ve had a good go of it, haven’t we, love?” says Asa softly.
“Aye. That we have,” says Anthony. He’s never quite lost his Scottish accent, even after decades here in the south, and Asa still adores it just as much as he had when they’d first met. “I have no regrets. I love you.”
Asa takes Anthony’s hand in his. Runs a fingertip over his wedding band, the gold worn smooth from decades of wear but still bright and beautiful in the moonlight. Draws him in for a long, unhurried kiss. It still feels like magic. Somewhere above them, the nightingale trills its now-familiar song.
“I love you too,” he says. “Are you ready?”
“I’m ready,” says Anthony, squeezing his husband’s hand. Together they watch as Asa tosses the snow globe up into the air, as it bursts open in a shower of tiny, brilliant motes of light like a star or a galaxy or a whole universe being born, as the light grows and grows and grows to encompass everything like a human mind expanding to comprehend and contain the infinite, vast and limitless and omnipresent as their love.
“I love you, Crowley.”
“I love you too, angel. I’ll see you real soon.”