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Aziraphale had been living with the weight of his crush on his best friend Crowley since they had met in secondary.
Crowley was a transfer student. Rumors were that he had been expelled from his other school for some unspeakably bad behavior, and his devil-may-care attitude, face tattoo, and indoor sunglasses had all but confirmed those rumors. Aziraphale had heard everything about Crowley before the boy had sauntered into their after school drama club, and had resolved to have nothing to do with him.
Until he saw his face.
Crowley was breathtaking. Red hair, sharp cheekbones, broad hands and clever looking fingers, legs for days and days… And Aziraphale, having the hormones of a sixteen year old boy, had been smitten. Immediately, Aziraphale knew he had to get to know this new boy.
He watched in awe as Luke had walked over to Crowley and shaken his hand. Luke was friendly, charming, good with people in a way Aziraphale had never been, and the director of the drama club. Aziraphale was fumbling with his toga and trying to review his lines even as he kept peeking up over his script at the gorgeous redhead. Luke was pointing out some of the better regarded members of the troop – Gabriel, Bea, Michael, Dagon – when Crowley had raised a hand to stop him.
“Who’s the cutie with the sword?” He’d asked.
“Name’s Carmine,” their would-be Viola, the star of the show answered. She and Crowley seemed to have so much in common. Both confident, both ginger, both insultingly good looking. She strutted over to Crowley to properly introduce herself, and, diva that she was, commanded his attention throughout the rehearsal. Crowley had happily let her, smiling winningly at her whenever she tried to meet his eyes behind his ever-present sunglasses.
Aziraphale had done his best to stifle his disappointment as he’d tucked his own sword away. It stood to reason that beautiful people would flock to one-another, and the prettiest men were always straight. But he pushed the pain aside. After all, the show must go on.
He eventually did get to talk to Crowley. And within minutes of actually speaking, the two of them became fast friends. They had so much in common. Interests, senses of humor… It did nothing to help him get over his crush. If anything, it made things worse. Crowley was the perfect man for Aziraphale. Except for the little problem of his sexuality.
Luke, handsome and charming as always, called him a sinful temptation, and Crowley had laughed it off. “Skinny like a snake, that's me.”
In Uni, their classmate and Crowley’s occasional lab partner Ferg, shy and sweet, had tried to ask him on a date. “Erm, this is really embarrassing, but… who are you again?”
After Uni, their temporary flatmate Eric, bright-eyed and adorable, had invited him out to the club. “What I do isn't what you’d call ‘good’ dancing, but you have fun!”
Aziraphale had felt bad for all of them. Especially Ferg, who really hadn't deserved the devastating blow to his ego.
Crowley was off limits to men, that much was clear. Aziraphale was frankly relieved that he’d managed to clock that fact before talking to him. It had spared him at least a little bit of heartache.
Only a little bit, of course. He really did wish things were different. He’d put up with many failed relationships, and if he was honest, most of them had failed because he kept comparing the other men to Crowley. None of them were as good-looking, but that went without saying. Aziraphale expected to settle for less than perfect looks. But none of them were as funny, as kind, as clever, or as much fun as Crowley, either. By wide margins.
It almost didn't matter. Aziraphale and Crowley lived together as flatmates. They went to shows together, their love for performing fading with the pressures of adult life, but their love for the theater never waning. They went out to different restaurants together, delighting in new cuisines and exotic cocktails together. They even walked in the park together, chatting about anything and nothing as they fed the ducks.
If it weren't for how much Aziraphale ached, how much he yearned, how much he wanted, he would have been quite content with their little arrangement.
If.
Aziraphale had been debating how to bring it up with Crowley for years, but he’d finally committed to the idea that he had to say something after he’d woken up on the sofa with Crowley's head in his lap, his beautiful red locks caught in the rake of Aziraphale's fingers, after a night of drinking. It had been so domestic, so heartbreakingly sweet, that Aziraphale had wanted nothing more than to kiss Crowley senseless. And his heart broke because he couldn't.
A man couldn't keep living like this. He’d made up his mind. He had to move out. He had to move on. A half life, a half love wasn't fair. It was killing him.
So he’d invited Crowley out for dinner. He needed a clean break. Somewhere public so he wouldn't turn into a puddle of despondent tears, which, if he knew Crowley, would lead to his stupid, selfless, wonderful friend trying to comfort him, possibly even trying to spare his feelings. They needed to make new arrangements, and to do that, they needed closure.
But fifteen minutes after they were supposed to have met at the sushi restaurant Aziraphale had picked specifically because it carried Crowley's favorite sake, Crowley still hadn't arrived. Aziraphale worried. Crowley was a speed demon behind the wheel of his Bentley and was almost never late. And if he were going to be late, he always sent a text.
But there was no text.
Aziraphale’s anxiety began to swirl like the clouds of a gathering hurricane. Maybe he was just caught up at work. Maybe traffic was bad. Or maybe Crowley had got into a car accident and was dead on the street. Or he had realized what Aziraphale was about to discuss with him and cut and run.
Before Aziraphale could get much further in his thinking, though, Crowley’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Sorry I’m late, angel. Had to stop at Tesco.”
He flopped into the chair with a grunt and reached for the menu.
The touch and the reach were both with his left hand. Crowley’s right hand was wrapped securely in a black hand brace.
“Oh, good Lord, Crowley, what happened to your hand?” Aziraphale exclaimed.
Crowley peeked over the rim of his sunglasses. “Carpal tunnel flare up,” he said with a grimace. “It's nothing to worry about. I’ve had them before.”
“Oh, but,” Aziraphale looked down at the chopsticks neatly placed in front of Crowley on their charming little fish-shaped stand, “how will you eat?”
Crowley grinned. “Ah, you don't have to fret. I’m bisexual, it's fine.” He picked up the chopsticks in his left hand with only a hint of clumsiness and clacked the tips of them together. “I can go both ways, no problem.”
Aziraphale stared at him, mouth slightly agape. “Excuse me?”
“Sure. Have been all my life. God knows it got me in trouble as a tyke. ‘You have to pick one,’” he said, his voice a screeching imitation of God only knew who. “Like, bugger off, and let me live my life, right?” He chuckled and gave Aziraphale a look clearly expecting agreement.
“Why haven't you mentioned this before?” he asked, doing his best to rein in the shrillness of surprise, of years of thwarted dreams. Could it be that there was a chance? That maybe he hadn't been fruitlessly yearning, and had just foolishly assumed that if Crowley liked women he couldn't also like men?
Crowley arched an eyebrow, looking confused. “I guess it's never come up. I thought you already knew.”
“No!”
“Really?” Crowley leaned back in his chair and tapped the chopsticks on the plate. “I guess that's fair. I only play tennis with my left hand.”
Aziraphale blinked at the apparent non sequitur. “Sorry? What does tennis have to do with–”
“Well, everything else I normally do with my right hand,” Crowley said, raising his injured hand and waving it awkwardly. “And I guess if you can get by with your right, no one ever asks if you can use your left, too.”
“Is this a metaphor?”
“A what?”
“For your sexuality.”
Crowley’s brows furrowed. “What? What does my sexuality have to do with which hand I use?”
“That… is exactly what I want to know. You were the one who said you were bisexual.”
Crowley opened his mouth and then closed it. Then opened it again. “What's the word for when you use both hands?”
“Ambidextrous?”
Crowley pointed at Aziraphale and clicked his tongue, his cheeks flaming. “That's what I meant.”
“Then… you aren't bisexual.”
“No,” he said sharply with a wave of his hand across his neck, as if cutting the idea’s head off.
Aziraphale's heart sank. A fool’s hope. “Oh.”
“Might’ve had an easier time of it if I was. Plenty of girls back at Heavenward Academy offered, but nooo,” he said with a wry grin, “I had to be the fag who got caught snogging the football captain in the gym showers. Unlike him, I was rubbish at sport, and I already had this,” he gestured at the snake on his temple. “They were thrilled to be rid of me. It's why I transferred to Eden Academy. They were much more accepting of queer kids there.”
Aziraphale gawked. The waitress came over while he did, and Crowley helpfully ordered for them. Once she left, he waved his hand in front of Aziraphale's face.
“You alright?”
“Ithoughtyoulikedwomen,” he said in a rush.
Crowley looked over the rim of his sunglasses, utterly bewildered. “Sorry?”
“I thought you liked women,” he said, trying to keep his breath level.
Crowley still looked confused. “Why?”
“You… well, I mean–” he cleared his throat, “I’ve never seen you date a man.”
“Obviously not! But you definitely have never seen me date a woman, either!” Crowley shifted in his seat and leaned forward on both elbows. “Look, I like to wear black, yeah? Rainbow pins don't exactly go with my look, but I marched with you at Pride, didn't I?”
“Every year.”
“Did that stint in the burlesque club as Lady Golgotha, remember that?”
Aziraphale squirmed in his seat. “Plenty of straight men enjoy crossdressing.”
Crowley’s eyes were bulging with bewildered disbelief. “Name one woman I have ever given more than a polite nod to.”
“Carmine Zuigiber,” Aziraphale answered. “That cutie with the sword, remember?”
Crowley’s jaw dropped. And then he reached across the table and swatted Aziraphale on the side of his head. “Idiot! I wasn't talking about Carmine!”
Aziraphale's brows furrowed, and he rubbed the side of his head with a pout. “You weren't?”
“No! Course, now you mention it, I remember Her Majesty strutting up and talking my ear off.” He rolled his eyes. “I wasn't talking about her , I was talking about you .”
Aziraphale's heart skipped several dozen beats. “Me?”
“Always had a weakness for broad-shouldered blondes,” Crowley admitted with a wry grin. “How long have we been friends? Twenty years now? And you never noticed how gone I am on you?”
As Aziraphale's brain quickly processed this new information, the waitress brought out a tray of sushi and a bottle of sake and sat them down on the table.
“I think we will need a box, my dear,” Aziraphale said to her hurriedly. “Something rather urgent has come up.”
“Why? Is something wrong?” Crowley asked warily.
“Yes. I’ve spent twenty years pining over a man who I thought was straight who I probably could have been snogging this whole time,” Aziraphale said, pulling his wallet out and handing the waitress a wad of notes that would more than cover the meal.
Crowley’s eyebrows climbed higher with interest as she scampered off to get them boxes. “Snogging, yeah, or shagging, if you’d like.”
“Which is exactly why we are leaving.”