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Asa Fell could not begin to describe what happened when he saw his husband for what he allowed everyone to believe was the first time. As far as anyone else is concerned, he was instantly smitten by a kind yet mysterious, and most importantly handsome stranger that came into the book shop one day, heralded by the terribly romantic stylings of Vera Lynn on vinyl.
That is not truth.
It should’ve been impossible but he saw it so clearly, sitting with this man at the Ritz of all places, the very same song lilting softly as his heart danced in the joy of being near him. And that’s not all, Asa imagined, no, remembered a shared history that stretched from before the very beginning of time. The explosion of the infant universe before them, and somehow he was still the most dazzling thing in the cosmos. Sad familiarity in the rains of a vast desert. A quiet celebration in 1941, the smell of old books and the warmth of wine. The giddiness of their shared defiance, a long time coming, against the barriers between them.
A dance. A kiss. A goodbye.
Each meeting was painful, even frightening at times, but all the man had to do was look at him in that special way he did, and it all became a privilege. That was the other reason he thought he had to be going senile, he could’ve sworn those eyes were a bright, golden yellow. The man hated them, constantly kept them hidden, but it was Asa’s favorite color in the world. Oh how he loved it so.
Asa suddenly became aware that his face was flushed, and to his surprise, hot tears began to blur his vision. Smearing the man and the shelves of books together into something he recognized even more strongly. He brought his fingers to his own cheek, confused, and embarrassed, and angry. Asa had no idea what happened, but how dare he let it. How dare he forget this stranger even for a moment, and God only knows how long it’s really been.
He wished the man would turn around but silently begged him not to at the same time. What if all this craziness was showing plainly on Asa’s face? What was he thinking, of course it was showing on his face! The mere thought of that mortification was unbearable, and yet…
The stranger turned around quickly before stopping dead in his tracts, holding a book on astronomy. One look at his face and just like that, the missing piece of those memories tore through Asa’s mind like twin planets crashing on the same orbit. The brilliant, frenzied whirl of all that was and all that ever will be, in that second their eyes met. Asa took in a sharp breath before quickly turning away and heading towards the back room, but the man followed. “Wait- wait!”
He was flustered to find he had closed the space between them in only a few strides, and relieved to see he looked as vulnerable as Asa felt. “I, um…” he did a strange and endearing routine of putting his hands in his pockets to fein nonchalance while looking around in a very non-nonchalant manner. “Do I er, do I know you from somewhere?” The familiarity of it all gave Asa courage.
“You know, I was just thinking the very same thing. May I get your name?”
“Anthony Crowley.”
The tears threatened to return as the word played in his mind like the old remembered song. Crowley, Crowley. The record crackled before recovering from the stumble and resonating all the more clearly.
“And you are?”
“Oh, I’m uh- Asa! Asa Fell.” He answered, mouth dry, while sticking his hand out in an ill-fittingly formal manner. The world had been turned so upside down in just a few minutes that he actually had to think about what he was called for a moment. Did he get it right? The only reply was Anthony’s hand lingering in his, giving the barest hint of a handshake.
After a few minutes he spoke, but seemingly more to himself than to Asa. “Asa… Fell..” A wondering stare in the near silence coaxed away the nervous edge of Asa’s smile like a door gently closing on the mundane chaos of life. “I… you-“ He waited with embarrassing hope that his heart sang with, but Anthony only let go of his hand and broke the breath held between them with a chuckle. “Never mind, it’s too ridiculous.”
Asa’s eyes widened. “No! No what is it?” He coaxed with overwhelming desperation. He needed so badly to bring Crowley back to him, out of his memory and into the real world again.
“God this’s gonna sound like a bad pick up line- I’ve been having these reoccurring dreams of an angel, and you look exactly like him. Down to the letter.”
The answer came easy to Asa, as simple as finding one’s own kitchen at 1 am without switching the lights on. His voice cracked like it was the first word he spoke after centuries asleep. “Aziraphale.” He whispered, and now it was Crowley’s turn to see a forgotten universe form again before him.
“And like an echo far away…”
Aziraphale had never heard this song before but he knew somehow it was coming to an end, and that this was a terrible thing. It can’t. He wouldn’t let it. He spoke up with conviction, suppressing the shake in his voice as best he could.
“Was his name Aziraphale?”
Crowley answered with his own question.
“I.. do you-?”
He leaned nearer ever so slightly in an expectant, almost impatient gesture. He was close enough for Aziraphale to tell how shallow his breath was, and that had to look almost inappropriate from the outside, but he didn’t care. They spent 6,000 years together and it still wasn’t enough. In the end, the magnitude of their gratitude and grief was something neither of them could speak of. Not here, not yet. So Aziraphale just took Crowley’s hand again instead, presumptuously gentle this time.
“Let’s get dinner, anywhere you want to go.”
Crowley swallowed hard and nodded, then leaned over to grab a pad of paper on front desk. He scribbled something out in a hurry and pressed it into his palm. It was a phone number.
“I know, cause I was there. That night…”
Scrap of paper still tucked tightly between their hands, Crowley answered with the intensity of an unspoken promise. “Saint James Park, near the duck pond, 9 o’clock. I’ll bring cake.”
And with that he turned and strode quickly out the door just as fast as he approached, leaving the last notes of the record crooning in his wake.
“In Berkeley square.”