Work Text:
Darling Crowley,
I hope you don’t mind me writing you a letter even though you’re only in Glasgow for a week and a half. It’s Pride month, and Brighton is so festive during June, so it’s a shame you’re not here for the beginning of the festivities. The streets are festooned with banners and streamers, there’s an infectious liveliness in the air, and everything is so wonderfully gay that I feel like I never left SOHO. That lovely little LGBT bookshop in town is running a community event for Pride this Saturday, and today the owner invited me to give a short talk about the history of queer English literature, which I accepted. You should be back in town by then, no? I’d love it if you came. I’ll be talking about Oscar Wilde, of course.
You know, it’s been more than a century now, yet I’m still heartbroken over dear old Oscar’s fate, the poor man. Remember those days of lavender marriages and men pinning green carnations on their lapels, meeting secret lovers in the dark and living in fear of their own shadows? I’ll never forget when Henry VIII passed those shameful laws that outlawed homosexuality in England, that odious man. Even now, decades after Pride started to make waves in this country, I am still occasionally awe-struck when I see two people of the same gender kiss in public, or when I meet someone who openly expresses their gender in ways society doesn’t expect from them. It warms my heart seeing how far the world has come, but I’m frightened of it ever returning to those intolerant times. Still, pendulums swing, and tides turn, and I hope that it’ll only get better from here on.
Naturally, this all makes me think of you, and of how difficult it was for us to find our way into each other’s arms. I know our situation is not quite the same as it is for queer humans, but I can’t help but relate to them. When I see a rainbow flag fluttering triumphantly and think of all the different types of love it symbolizes, I can’t help but feel it symbolizes mine, too. Angels and demons were never allowed to love one another, after all, and yet you and I do.
I tell you this all the time, but I’ll say it again: I love you, just as you are, and I’m not ashamed of us. I'll see you soon, my dear.
Yours eternally,
Aziraphale