Work Text:
Anthony J. Crowley-Fell had lived a good life, he rather thought.
He had spent the first fifty-seven years of it in a blur of academia, desperate for the answer that would make everything click. He had married once, in his twenties, a dark thing he'd fled when Luke lost his job and chose his fists over his words. He battled with religion, with his sexuality, with the cosmos themselves when they refused to give him answers. He’d authored seven books and published two.
And he’d spent the last thirty-six years in total, desperate, all-consuming love for Asa Crowley-Fell, and he had spent the last two hundred and forty-one days entirely alone. Thirty-six years of hot cocoa and gentle kisses and constant teasing with his angel had been cut short by a heart attack and now he was alone. They were old, the pair of them, and they always knew one of them would go first. Anthony never thought he would be the one left alone though.
He had once said that he had everything he had ever wanted: the universe above him and his angel at his side.
He had spent two hundred and forty-one days alone, and he was ready to join his angel and his stars.
The pills were prescription, meant to ease the burden on his liver when the drinking got bad again. Everything got bad again without Asa.
Anthony Crowley-Fell went to bed that night, a golden ring clutched tight in his fist. It wasn’t his, it would have been much too big, though his own had matching calligraphy declaring a toast “to the world.”
He was ninety-three years old at the end, and the coroner would declare the thing an accidental overdose.
He was going to see his angel, and they were doing to dance.