Chapter Text
Crowley hated the first week of school.
It wasn't a new opinion.
He had hated it ever since he was six years old, when his mother left him at the door of the city's public school with a used backpack and a warning not to cause trouble.
Since then, problems had come to him on their own.
At that moment, however, as he walked along the cracked sidewalk toward the red-brick building of Tadfield's only school, Crowley had a completely different reason to hate that day.
It was the last first day.
The last year.
Last time.
After that, everything would change.
The idea left him strangely uneasy.
"You're late."
Crowley looked up.
And there he was.
Like always.
Aziraphale stood near the school gate, holding a book against his chest. His uniform seemed too neat for someone who had woken up before seven in the morning.
Her blonde hair was a little longer than the previous year.
The golden curls fell over her forehead.
Crowley immediately looked away.
Because that's what he did.
For years.
"I'm not late."
"He's five minutes late."
"You arrived early."
"I like to arrive early."
" You also like books about people drinking tea that last three hundred pages."
"Eight hundred."
"That doesn't help."
Aziraphale smiled.
That was unfair.
Deeply unfair.
There should be some law against that smile.
Crowley put his hands in his pockets.
"So," said Aziraphale, "last year."
"Hm."
"Is that all?"
"What?"
" Your reaction."
My reaction is sophisticated."
" His reaction was "hm"."
"Exactly."
"Crowley..."
"I'm processing it."
"You're scared."
" I'm not."
"Yes, it is."
"I'm not."
"Yes."
" I'm not."
"Yes."
Crowley sighed dramatically.
"You are unbearable."
"You adore me."
His heart skipped a beat.
One.
Unique.
Dangerous.
Aziraphale continued walking, oblivious to everything.
Or at least Crowley hoped he hadn't understood.
Because if he had one, he would probably step on an open manhole cover and disappear from the face of the Earth.
They had known each other for eleven years.
Crowley remembered the first day perfectly.
It was an annoyingly vivid memory.
I was six years old.
He was sitting alone during recess.
A group of older children had stolen their snack.
He was trying to decide whether to cry or pretend he didn't care.
Then a round, blond, and extremely serious boy sat down next to him.
Without saying a word.
Without asking anything.
He simply placed half of his own sandwich on the table.
Crowley looked at him.
The boy looked back.
"My grandmother says that food should be shared."
"Your grandmother seems strange."
"She is wonderful."
Crowley took half of the sandwich.
That was it.
Eleven years later, they were still together.
Somehow.
The first class was History.
The second was Mathematics.
The third was a particularly cruel torture called Physical Education.
Crowley was lying in the bleachers of the gymnasium pretending to be dead when someone sat down next to him.
Aziraphale.
Naturally.
"You should participate."
"I'll participate."
"Lying down doesn't count."
" It matters emotionally."
That doesn't count."
" I disagree."
"Crowley."
" Aziraphale."
"Crowley."
" Angel."
Silence.
Crowley froze.
Aziraphale froze.
The two stared at each other.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
He didn't usually call out Aziraphale like that out loud.
It was an old nickname.
Very old.
He would escape sometimes.
Especially when I was distracted.
Or when I was looking at him.
This was a recurring problem.
Aziraphale's ears turned red.
"Ah."
" Ah."
"Okay."
"Okay."
Neither of them knew what to do with it.
Then the teacher blew the whistle from the other side of the court.
Thank God.
Or thanks to the universe.
Or thanks to whatever cosmic entity took pity on them.
After class, they went to the library.
Aziraphale's favorite retreat.
And consequently, Crowley.
The librarian, Tracy, looked up when they entered.
"My favorites have arrived."
"I'm clearly your favorite," said Aziraphale.
" You return the books."
"It saw?"
"But Crowley is funnier."
" Betrayal."
"Justice."
Crowley threw himself into a chair.
Aziraphale went to help Tracy organize a stack of books.
And then that thing happened.
That annoying thing.
That thing that always happened.
Crowley observed.
The way Aziraphale spoke.
The way he smiled.
The way he tilted his head while listening to someone.
The way he seemed genuinely happy to help.
As if kindness were as natural as breathing.
Something tightened in Crowley's chest.
Familiar.
Painful.
Old.
Because that's how it started.
Always.
He was looking at Aziraphale.
And I felt it.
I felt something I couldn't explain.
Something that no relationship had ever managed to replicate.
Something that wouldn't disappear.
It wasn't decreasing.
It wouldn't go through.
Even after years.
Perhaps especially after all these years.
" Crowley?"
He blinked.
Aziraphale was looking at him.
"What?"
"You're staring at me."
" I'm not."
"Yes, it is."
" Prove."
" You didn't even hear what I said."
"Of course I heard."
"Then repeat it."
"Easy."
Silence.
"Okay, maybe I didn't hear."
Aziraphale laughed.
And Crowley thought, for the thousandth time, that he would do practically anything to keep hearing that sound for the rest of his life.
The thought came quickly.
Natural.
Scary.
He looked away.
Because I couldn't think about it.
Not now.
Not that year.
Never.
Because Aziraphale was his best friend.
Because friendships could end.
Because people were leaving.
Because he had already lost too much to risk losing that as well.
So he buried the feeling where he always buried it.
Very deep.
In the same place where it had been for years.
And he pretended that everything was fine.
Across the table, Aziraphale watched his friend for a few seconds.
With a strangely gentle expression.
Almost sad.
Almost nostalgic.
As if I were thinking exactly the same thing.
Neither of them said anything.
And that was the problem.
It always has been.