Chapter Text
There is something almost ethereal in the way vapour clings to grasses and hovers over streams on cold mid-March mornings. How mist shrouds the rolling hills, as if it can hide a bit longer from the sun’s banishing rays by melding with the valley’s shade. Aziraphale sighs and watches his breath linger before it scatters, returning from whence it came.
The cusp of the changing season has always struck him as romantic and sorrowful, brimming with nostalgia and promise alike. Which one fills his cup has always depended more so on the season of his life than the season of the year. He wonders what draught this spring will bring.
Each March he walks the town in the early dawn light, sketchbook in hand, creating quick roughs, taking mental pictures to reference later. He has never been able to truly capture what he sees on these mornings with charcoal and paper. How do you draw a sensation? Art can elicit a feeling, but how does one illustrate the emotion itself? What combination of lines and colours create longing and yearning and hope?
It’s like trying to describe the colour ‘blue’ in words.
As if venturing to offer an answer, the wind flits to life and flutters his coat. He hopes it will whisper his fortune and he shuts his eyes to better listen, navigating the familiar path by a sixth sense. If the wind answers it does so in a language Aziraphale does not understand. The breeze fades, replaced by the crunch of gravel and grass and fragile frost beneath his feet.
He knows the road on which he walks, the quaint homes with picket fences and gardens tucked against gently rolling hills. The house he grew up in is still farther down but he no longer resides there and has no desire to visit; it is not his home. Instead his steps have led him to this place, where a moss-lined stone path winds up a gentle hill.
A home sits at the top, a quiet sentinel observing the picturesque lane a few meters below. At first glance it is inviting with its broad wraparound veranda and banisters and shutters that are all painted spruce green.
In his youth, the home was well kept but now it is beginning to show its age. The white paint flakes from the siding and the window boxes look lonely, devoid of flowers. The house lights and windows are dark; only the sky’s light is reflected, phosphorescent blue slashed by matte clouds of peony and plum, muted in the dusty panes.
He rubs his numb fingertips against his palms. The skin is rougher than it once was, the fine lines that were a young man’s hands etched deeper, hollows eroded slowly with age; his own chips and dust. He smiles wanly at the home atop the hill.
Carefully he ascends the path, watching for patches of ice and slick stones. It leads up and around to the back of the home, ending at a rusted, wrought iron fence that opens into a spacious, if overgrown, garden. He rests a hand on the gate and breathes deeply. Clean dew and sharp cold needle at his nose and sting in his lungs. A perfume permeates the air, syrupy and rich, as if he can smell the candy floss clouds being spun beside him. He swings the gate open and ventures into the garden.
Crocus and narcissus poke through the soil, the first heralds of the imminent thaw. Bright green shoots tipped in alabaster and amethyst hint at and the promise of blooms to come. Ivy winds around trellises that will support honeysuckle and clematis as the season advances. Hydrangeas are beginning to set buds. Annuals, their seeds sown once again by wind and wing, are preparing for their yearly showing. The hands of men are crude implements at shaping soil and water and air, but the Earth herself will occasionally safeguard their visions if she does not find them wanting.
At the edge of one of the mounded beds is a cluster of flowers, dark blooms draped against jagged, viridian green leaves. The upper petals are a violet so saturated they verge on ebony. The indigo recedes in the lower petals creating a border, tendrils of darkness snaking their way to the center of the bloom through a field of vibrant gold. By all appearances, the blossom is a common garden pansy, but Aziraphale has never seen blooms this large or coloration this vivid. And the scent: the earthy warmth of an autumn fire curls over his lips, sweetly-bright spice nips at his nose…The perfume is intoxicating, powdery-soft and lingering. It hangs in the air—collects on the sharp edge of the spring chill like dew droplets that trickle down Aziraphale’s throat and permeate his lungs with every quickened breath.
Aziraphale does not remember kneeling beside the flowers, nor picking a bloom. It is not until the soft petals slip against his skin as he inhales the tantalizing aroma that he realizes his lips are parted, preparing to taste. Hastily he pulls the flower away from his mouth, a moment too late. The tip of his tongue barely grazes a petal and the taste bursts across his tongue: smooth honey coating the bitterness of dark chocolate that effervesces into smokey, aged spirits. He gasps at the intensity in the mere sample and his breath hovers, suspended, before melting away with the last of the taste.
His fingers are clumsy as he pinches the pair of blooms from their stems. If his hands tremble as he renders the leaves barren and dull, devoid of their treasures, he tells himself it is merely the cold. The flowers would only survive another few days were he to leave them, no sense to let them decay here, alone. After all, there is no one in the cottage to miss the last winter blossoms.
He takes them with him, cradling the blooms gingerly in his shaking hands until he reaches his kitchen and settles them in a bowl. The certainty that the pansies ought to be brewed is as unfounded as it is absolute. He readies the kettle and teapot quickly, telling himself his impatience is borne of the desire to chase away the cold still stinging his fingertips with a warm cuppa. His favorite cup and saucer–the painted mourning doves bordered by red poppies, faded but still recognizable–are already set out but he arranges and rearranges them to busy his hands as he waits. One of the blooms is already carefully secured in the tea strainer when the kettle boils; he sets them to steep without permitting a second thought. A small hourglass on the counter times his brew and he chides himself for watching the grains of sand trickle down with growing impatience. In an attempt to distract himself, he collects all the accoutrements he can imagine—cream, sugar, honey, lemon.
Even had he not been watching the timer he is certain he would have heard the last grain of sand fall.
Without preamble he pours, fills his cup with a liquid of copper and rust and brings it to his lips. The aroma from the garden is cradled in the steam that ghosts against his nose, its sweetness mellowed by the water, the richness deepened by the heat. Whatever expectation he had from the taste in the garden evaporates as the first drops pass his lips. The flavours have merged and shifted, the sharp and bitter notes of the raw blossoms are rounder, stitched together by tobacco, dry peat whisky, and the depth of oak and earth.
Cup and pot are empty and Aziraphale still stands in the darkening kitchen, unspeakably tired. He leaves the porcelain doves and poppies to be tended in the morning and climbs the creaking staircase, readies himself for bed and slips beneath the covers.
Let the poets wax at length about the warm breezes of late spring that stretch into summer on long slanting sunbeams. It is these early spring days that teeter between waiting and waking that call to Aziraphale like a moth to flame.
The thought flickers and fades, scattered like the frost mist as sleep wraps around him.
There were hands on him—two hands, soft and gentle. Aziraphale sighed as fingertips traced languid lines over the swell of his belly and tugged his consciousness to the surface against the pull of sleep. A slight shuffling behind him and the bed dipped, weighted down by the presence of another.
A man, by the size and carefully controlled strength of the hands on his stomach, the stubble that grazed his shoulder. And the cock that twitched, half-hard against his buttocks.
Aziraphale hummed softly as he eased into the warmth of a narrow chest, braced against his own broad back. The man held him tight, squeezed gently around his midsection and Aziraphale snuggled deeper into the welcome embrace.
He was content here, burrowed between these sheets and sheltered in these arms. The warm lips pressing chaste kisses into his shoulder and neck felt right. He shivered at the touch despite the building heat from their bodies. The man chuckled, sweet and fond, a warm puff of breath where a sharp nose was tucked behind his ear.
Aziraphale reached behind with one hand and skimmed across a strong jaw. Teeth and lips nipped and pressed against his fingers and he yelped in the darkness. He tried to assemble the features, each faintly familiar but without form. His fingers sketched the outline of the sharp nose he tapped in playful dissuasion, appreciating the thin lips that curled into a crooked smile, the high cheekbones pressed against his own.
Blindly Aziraphale’s hands tangled in the other man’s hair, strands snagging around the base of his fingers. He guided the man’s mouth to the curve of his neck, tensing in anticipation of the teasing kisses he always yearned for on too-quiet nights.
But the softly pressed kisses never came. Aziraphale shuddered as canines caught against his collarbone and skated across thin skin. The man traveled trails once well-blazed, hidden from disuse. The wet heat of tongue and breath pooled in the shallows of his neck. Each drag of teeth and press of lips skittered down Aziraphale’s spine, soaked into his pores, nourishing anew.
Desire bloomed where breaths mingled and their bodies touched. So basal and insistent it amplified the first whispers of recollection. He arched against that mouth, urged it closer, held it in place with tightening fingertips as he pressed his hips back, searching for more. The slow tease across his neck continued, punctuated by their combined whimpers and grunts.
The arms that surrounded him rocked gently and Aziraphale understood. With a last teasing roll of his hips, he shifted onto his back. A moment later lean thighs bracketed his sturdier legs, anchoring him to this moment, this place, this man. His hands knew the path to thin hips and a trim waist. There was no exploration needed to draw a moan as he teased and twisted his bedfellow’s nipples.
More incomprehensible was that the man returned the attention in kind. Fingertips danced featherlight over his closed eyes and fine eyelashes. Gentle hands smoothed his brow with a tenderness that was startling before carding through his hair, twirling the mussed curls, pulling so very gently until Aziraphale was panting with the overwhelming affection in every little touch.
The dream was not the script of a fantasy imagined to fill a void. Each touch was laced with fondness, every whine and moan had been unearthed through patience, sought and discovered and revisited for their pleasure. These were the adorations of a man who had studiously explored Aziraphale’s body and sincerely enjoyed revealing all that he had learned.
These were the hands of a lover.
Aziraphale tried to open his eyes but they would not budge, held fast by sleep and the unwillingness to risk disturbing the dream. He moaned in frustration—at being unable to see the man atop him, at the teasingly gentle fingertips tracing his face, shoulders, chest and pausing on his stomach as he twitched in anticipation. He could wait no longer; he brought his hand to where his cock stood against his stomach but slender fingers wrapped around his wrist.
“Relax, sweetheart.” It was the first time the other man had spoken, the first sound he’d uttered aside from soft laughter and quiet sounds of pleasure. His voice was gravel-roughened silk, deep enough to drown in without ever wishing to come up for air.
“You’re all right.” The words were drops in a pond, disturbances that rippled across the fragile calm of the surface. They fell against Aziraphale’s lips like a spring rain, sweet and cool on his tongue. “I’ll make sure you’re all right.”
A broad, slick palm teased at his length, long fingers curled, encircling them both so they slid against one another with each languid stroke. The man shifted, the tip of a nose skimmed Aziraphale’s cheek, nuzzled at the corner of his mouth. Aziraphale hissed and thin lips covered his own. The man kissed him, softly at first, gentle sips, then more deeply, coaxing the air from his lungs. He tasted of honey and chocolate, whisky and earth. Aziraphale knew the taste and a word began to form on his lips.
The man quickened his pace, his hand sliding from root to tip and teasing over slick heads. They keened and pressed against one another. Kisses grew messier, open mouthed and panting as their breaths grew shallower and their thrusts more urgent. It made no difference that Aziraphale could not see, he needed only to taste this man, to be surrounded by him, to hear the name in his mind.
Ripples compounded, amplified by every whine and moan, drop after drop overfilling the reservoir. Every press and roll together strengthened the currents, pressed at the banks until the waves broke over the embankment with wordless cries and abandoned vowels. They stuttered, suspended, as broken thrusts and senseless consonants shook the night.
Behind his eyelids, the darkness shimmered, surged with his pulse and calmed with his breath. A hand cupped his face, a thumb rubbed against his lip. The man spoke again, the words so soft he barely heard.
“Aziraphale, open your eyes.”
Aziraphale’s eyes fly open and immediately he pushes himself to sit, his heart racing and he gasps lungfuls of air in quick, panicked gulps.
He clutches the damp bedding in his fists as he scans the room, looking for anything that may linger to prove it was not a dream.
Early dawn peeks through the pale yellow window curtains as a single sunbeam snakes its way to the too-empty bed. There are no tousled sheets where another had lain, the strands of hair on the pillow case belong only to him. There is no spend but his own drying on his belly. He strains to hear, hoping for the soft latch of the bathroom door or the creak of floorboards beneath another’s feet.
The house is silent but for his shallow breaths. A shaky exhale hovers in the air before him, a little pocket of warmth. The gray light sweeps it away, carrying his lover’s name with it.