Chapter Text
Aziraphale Fell adjusted his bow tie for the fifth time, a nervous gesture he couldn't control. The mirror in the small bathroom of the apartment reflected his image: worried blue eyes, perfectly combed white hair, and an expression of someone who would rather be anywhere else.
"I really don't think it's a good idea," he murmured, more to himself than to the two women watching him from the doorway.
"Don't be silly, Aziraphale!" exclaimed Anathema, with an excited glint in her eyes. "You need to get out, have some fun! You spend your days holed up in that bookstore."
Maggie, standing next to Anathema, nodded in agreement. "She's right. And today's band is simply incredible. You're going to love them, trust me. They're... electrifying ."
Aziraphale sighed, resigned. He knew there was no way out. Anathema and Maggie were his closest friends, and although they were passionate fans of the band, they had no idea of the real reason why he was so reluctant to go to a rock concert.
He didn't have the courage to tell them that the lead singer and guitarist of "Eden" was, in fact, his childhood friend. Anthony J. Crowley.
Crowley.
The name echoed in his mind like a familiar, painful melody. He remembered him as a skinny boy with red hair and a mischievous smile, always with a guitar in his hands. They were inseparable. They spent hours in Crowley's parents' garage, with him strumming chords while Aziraphale listened, enchanted. There was one song in particular, one that Crowley had composed for him on his birthday, that Aziraphale kept in his heart like a precious secret.
And then, fame happened. The boy who played chords in the garage became a rock idol. Crowley was everywhere, on magazine covers, on the big screens, in the voices of millions of fans. And Aziraphale stayed behind, in the bookstore, silently watching from afar the star he loved.
He loved Crowley. He had loved him for years. But he never had the courage to say it. He thought it was a one-sided love, a fantasy of a librarian in love with his rock star friend. Crowley, with his glamorous life full of tours, certainly wouldn't remember him anymore, much less share his feelings.
"Aziraphale?" Anathema's voice brought him back to reality. "Are you alright?"
He forced a smile. "Yes, of course. I'm just... thinking. Let's go, then. Let's go see this band."
As he followed his friends out of the apartment, Aziraphale felt a tightness in his chest. He didn't know Crowley was on tour. He didn't know "Eden" would be playing that night.
But deep down, a small spark of hope stubbornly refused to be extinguished. A spark that, perhaps, upon hearing Crowley's music once more, could rekindle a love he thought was lost.