Work Text:
Sometimes it frightened the Crowley-Fells, just how the years have crept on them. Twenty-five years married today, twenty-eight passed altogether, and everything has melted into a fantastic combination of comfortable and entirely novel.
Every day reflected the last, the sun tracing the same arc through the sky, but somehow the old men managed to find something new. Asa discovered a childhood scar on his darling’s ankle, pressed a kiss to the skin there, and Anthony kept a list of markets and gardens with which he could surprise his husband on Saturday mornings.
The routines had evolved, yes, as their relationship did— as they grew to share a flat, then planned a wedding and purchased a cottage and set out on walks through the soft green grass and counted the eternally shifting stars through silvery wisps of cloud.
The core was the same though, a slow waking beneath a thick tartan quilt, eggs for breakfast on Wednesdays and Sundays and lazy evenings in the garden with cocoa and a soft man reading aloud from his book to the spindly man who cradles his head on a delightfully thick thigh.
They danced, today. The same hummed melody, the same soft sway they’d rehearsed in the Ritz hotel after their wedding and in cottage gardens on London bridges. The men are old, now, their bodies wearing the toll of eighty-odd years held subject to Earth’s whims, yet they danced and kissed and fell into bed for kisses and soft caresses and whispered nothings.
“Mon amor, mon ange,” is whispered into the dark, sighed against the pale curve of a neck.
“Mon chéri,” is the response, Asa’s cheeks pink with pleasure and his eyes soft with affection.
“Twenty-five years, angel— if you hadn’t gone after me…”
“I’ll always follow you, darling… through every universe.”