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"You know, out of all pride events you could've taken me to, I wasn't expecting one with classical music,” Crowley grumbles.
He glances over at Aziraphale – Aziraphale, dressed in billowing white skirts, and a beige waistcoat, and a bloody yellow bowtie to top it all off; Aziraphale smiling brilliantly as he looks over the hall.
“Then again, why am I even surprised…”
“Did you say anything, dear?” Aziraphale turns that brilliant smile Crowley’s way and seeing it, Crowley reaches for his hand. He can’t help it – for all the complaining and grumbling and whining, especially having been woken up from a nap for this, the effort is worth it, if just to see that sparkle in Aziraphale’s eyes. He squeezes and Aziraphale’s smile softens, turns fond.
“Nope,” Crowley says quickly. “Nothing at all. Shall I get us some drinks, angel?”
“Oh, would you?” Aziraphale bats his eyelashes. “I could go with you,” he adds, but his eyes are already wandering, taking in the paintings on the walls, the band on a makeshift stage, the rest of the crowd.
“Nah,” Crowley shakes his head. From where they are standing, he can see the queue to the bar is practically endless, but, whatever. He’ll find a way to slither his way in there. “I can handle it. You can mingle or admire the art or… I don’t know, get everyone to dance the gavotte.”
Aziraphale gives him an amused look, but then he’s on his tip toes and pressing a kiss to his cheek, right there, by the entrance, with people passing by them from every direction. Crowley, unused to this much PDA, huffs and sniffs and pulls away before his face turns the color of his hair.
“Just don’t get into any trouble, got it?” he mutters, pointing a finger at his chest. Aziraphale is still smiling and Crowley stalks away from him hurriedly. It hurts, sometimes, just how much he loves him.
Hands in his pockets, he makes his way to the top of the queue. He ignores the looks of the surrounding people, mutters something about having been here before. Who’s gonna stop him, anyway? It’s a bloody queer ball, no one’s gonna kick him out for cutting a line.
A woman standing directly behind him laughs. “You definitely weren’t, mate, but I’ll let it slide because of how cute you and your partner are.”
“My–” Crowley sputters, looks at her, looks at Aziraphale, in the distance. He’s chatting to someone by a giant painting of an angel, hands fluttering excitedly. “It’s not– we’re– not– not cute,” he grumbles, defeated.
“Were you gonna say he’s not your partner?” she asks, gentler now. Crowley doesn’t respond. Aziraphale turns his head, notices him staring. He waves and Crowley is powerless but to do the same. “Because from where I’m standing, well…”
“We… are,” Crowley says slowly. He licks his lips. “Partners,” he tries the word out, how it tastes on his tongue, unlike anything else he’s tasted before, how it’s better. Well, maybe besides Aziraphale. Nothing would ever taste better than him. Not even husbands. “We just…”
She doesn’t urge him on. Doesn’t speak at all. Something about it gives Crowley the courage to continue.
“Never done something like this,” he admits. “Our families– we never could.”
It’s not much of an explanation, but she seems to understand regardless. She puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. He forces himself not to flinch from it. “I get it,” she says. “My girlfriend’s family was the same. It was fucking tough, hiding all the time. I think I might have cried, first time we held hands in public.”
Crowley turns to take proper stock of her then - she seems younger than him, by at least ten years, which makes him feel a bit silly about the whole thing. He crosses his arms. “Was?”
“She cut contact with them after a while.” The queue moves forward while she speaks. “Even if she hadn’t, though… it’s worth it, isn’t it?”
Naturally, Crowley feels his gaze drift over to Aziraphale – now chatting with one of the musicians, his hands still on the move, a bit of a wiggle and a sway to his body, like he can’t help but follow the sound of the music with his whole being. He can already imagine how Aziraphale is singing the band’s praise, how he’s inquiring about their instruments and how none of them are annoyed by it, but rather enamored with Aziraphale’s warmth and kindness.
“Oi, sunglasses. What can I get you?”
Torn out of his thoughts – and from staring at Aziraphale – Crowley hurries to make his order. For a moment he returns to boring reality, rattling off drink names, pulling out his card, making his payments. The woman doesn’t try to engage him in any more small talk – it’s only once he has his two glasses in hand, whiskey, neat, for himself; sherry for Aziraphale, that he turns towards her.
“It is,” he says, meeting her eye. “It’ll always be worth it.”
She smiles at him and nods her head towards where they’ve last seen Aziraphale. “Have fun, loverboy!”
He rolls his eyes but returns her smile.
He finds Aziraphale lingering near the edge of the dancefloor. At the sight of him approaching, Aziraphale lights up. He opens his mouth to say something, but Crowley is quicker – he shoves one glass into Aziraphale’s hand, reaches for his cheek and pulls him into a kiss.
“Oh,” Aziraphale gasps, but doesn’t resist. Crowley feels him smiling against his lips and he’s pretty sure some of their drinks are being spilled this way and that as they stand there like this, locked in a kiss for a good half minute.
“Got you a sherry,” Crowley breathes out once they part. He strokes Aziraphale’s cheek with his thumb.
“Goodness.” Aziraphale chuckles. His gaze flickers from side to side, but there is no one paying them any attention and he relaxes. “Well, hello, darling.”
“We should dance,” Crowley decides. Aziraphale raises his eyebrows in amused surprise. Crowley doesn’t dance, certainly not this type of dancing, but what the hell? “To your bloody classical music.”
“Our drinks–” Aziraphale tries, but trails off when Crowley’s response is merely to down his entire whiskey all at once. “Crowley!”
“Come on, angel!”
Aziraphale huffs, but Crowley knows his angel, knows that he won’t back down from a challenge. He’s shaking his head in disapproval, sure, but even as he does, he’s raising the glass to his lips and chugging. The second he’s done, Crowley pries the glass out of his hand and puts it away on the nearest surface, along with his own – he barely resists the urge to just toss them both away. And then, he’s pulling Aziraphale with him, straight into the dancing crowd.
“You’re being silly!”
Crowley grins at him. “Complaining, angel?”
Aziraphale rolls his eyes at him. “Not at all, dear.”
He’s already getting into the spirit of things, though, putting one hand on Crowley’s hip and the other on his shoulder, taking over the lead now that they are, in fact, attempting to dance. It’d be a rather pitiful attempt, had he allowed Crowley to lead.
“Good,” Crowley mutters, leaning in so that he can press his cheek to Aziraphale’s shoulder as they sway. “This is nice, isn’t it?”
He feels, rather than sees, Aziraphale nodding.
“You know I…” Crowley trails off.
“I know, darling.”
He lets out a shuddering breath, nearly a chuckle, and presses a barely there kiss to Aziraphale’s jawline.
“I know,” Aziraphale repeats, the words blurring with the sound of music. “Me too.”