Chapter Text
28 Years, 10 Months, 1 Day
Anthony J. Crowley could not stop smiling. To anyone who knew him well, which, admittedly, wasn’t very many people, this would be decidedly disconcerting. Of course Anthony smiled. He smiled plenty, loads of times, every day—okay, most days. Probably. There was his patient smile with his students, and his polite smile for sharing good news or chuckling at jokes. He had his professional smile when interacting with colleagues and collaborators and he had mastered the smile-to-keep-from-baring-his-teeth when someone was a total arse. It was no effort to don his genuine smile when spending time with Tracy and Shadwell.
But this, this was new.
Smiles were fine, good even. But this beaming, face-splitting, shit-eating smile that made his cheeks hurt—that slipped away only when he fell asleep and returned each morning when he awoke—was the direct result of a white-blond-angel-masquerading-as-a-man-named-Ezra. The statement needed to be amended; Anthony was not smiling. He was grinning like a bloody fool and he had absolutely no desire to stop.
He’d noticed the man immediately. It was impossible not to when he looked like a time traveller in his classic tan trousers, warm caramel oxfords, velvet waistcoat and tartan bow tie. Tartan-Time-Traveler wasn’t classically handsome; he was beautiful . Only slightly shorter than Anthony, he was more substantial, broader in the chest and shoulders, fuller in the hips and thighs compared to his own sharp angles and lean frame. The slightly upturned nose and light pink that dusted the apples of his cheeks gave his full face a youthful look. Anthony was sure it would deepen prettily when the man blushed. He realised, rather suddenly, that he wanted to make the other man blush. What the hell?
Anthony wasn’t sure how he’d plucked up the courage to talk to Tartan-Time-Traveler, much less carry on an alarmingly pleasant, incomprehensibly easy conversation. When he heard the words, 'Apologies, I don’t think I caught your name?’ he was surprised they were spoken in his voice, and that’s when he realised he was smiling.
'Ezra,' the man had answered with his own shy smile, 'and you are…?’
I’m royally screwed, I suspect. No, not an appropriate answer. 'Anthony,’ he replied, grateful his brain was filtering thoughts before translating them into speech.
'Pleasure to meet you, Anthony.'
'Would you like to get a coffee?’ So much for his brain considering words before shooting them off to his vocal cords. ‘Erm, not today,’ he hastened to add. ‘I mean, rather bad timing for it, today but…’
‘Tuesday, perhaps?’ Ezra offered easily. ‘I know a lovely little place in Soho- Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death…’
'Yeah, Tuesday’s good.’
‘We could meet there, say, 9?’
‘Yeah. Yep. It’s a da-ngk…’
The Tartan-Time-Traveler-named-Ezra smiled coyly, looking at Anthony through blond lashes. ‘Quite. See you Tuesday, Anthony,' before he gathered his umbrella and went on his way.
Coffee (tea for Ezra: Assam, two milks and two sugars) turned into a two-and-a-half hour affair of meandering conversation and spirited discussion. Neither noticed the side-eye the cafe’s cantankerous owner was giving them for occupying a bistro table for so long, as engrossed in one another’s company as they were. It was Ezra’s stomach rumbling that drew their attention to the time.
“Oh my, it’s 11:30! No wonder my stomach is interjecting,” Ezra commented and then paused, considering something while Anthony contemplated the man sitting across from him.
Ezra Fell — he’d learned the man’s family name — was bemusing. He shouldn’t have been attracted to him. It’s not that Ezra wasn’t attractive; he was, undoubtedly so. But the combination of angelic beauty, antiquated clothing, exceptionally posh manner of speaking and his timidness should, on paper, have been dissuading. By all logic Ezra ought to have been a wallflower, part of the scenery; a man for whom Anthony spared no second glance. Not his type. Instead, he was fascinated by the contradictory juxtaposition of romantic beauty and classic simplicity, of keen wit wrapped in a genuinely demure kindness. He was a mathematical statement that humans had yet to be able to prove, a question to be answered but every answer just led to more questions. Anthony’s analytical, rational, reason-based mind was confounded; he was besotted. All the more puzzling was that Ezra seemed to be equally enamoured with him.
Anthony wasn’t unattractive, providing one found individuals who were too much —too tall, too lanky, too acerbic, too blunt, too anxious, too sharp, too angular, too fervent—attractive. Most people, he’d learned, did not find his particular breed of excess enticing. But, if this conversation was any indication, if the playful smile could be believed, if the small shufflings under the table where their feet or knees or calves just barely brushed weren’t coincidence… ‘M doomed. In possibly the most amazing, agonising, exciting, eviscerating way.
“Would you,” Ezra seemed to have made up his mind, rolling his shoulders he continued, his nervousness betrayed only by how quickly he spoke. “Would you care to get lunch?”
“I would love to–” Anthony immediately hated himself for the way he’d phrased it, knowing there was a 'but’ coming. Ezra’s face had lit up at the acceptance and dammit, that smile. That clouds-parted-and-heaven-sent-sunshine smile. But, now that Anthony knew that smile existed he could set out to discover all the ways to make Ezra smile like that, at him.
He cringed as he finished the inevitable response, “But I have an appointment at 1.” Oh no, there it was; the crestfallen angel, the cloud obscuring the sun, making everything cold and dreary. Bring back the sun, bring it back! “If coffee is any indication, I’m not sure we’d manage a quick meal.” He ventured a lopsided grin and tried to catch Ezra’s eye.
Ezra managed a small smile, barely looking up at Anthony from where his gaze had fallen to his hands in his lap, still dejected.
“’S my fault, really.” Anthony continued, desperate to make Ezra smile again. “I thought I’d left enough time, but I ought to have known better.”
“How so?”
“I should have been able to guess you’d be fascinating.” In a moment of bravery, Anthony let his foot slide and leg fall so their ankles were touching under the table. And there was the smile again! Yes! “I’d have cancelled the class,” he drawled.
The smile grew brighter, a touch of mischief playing in Ezra’s eyes, “And you can cancel a class, how…?”
It was Anthony’s turn to be impish, he leaned forward as if telling Ezra a secret, and he realised their ankles were still touching. “One of the benefits of being the professor.”
Ezra huffed a laugh, leaning in conspiratorially, and Anthony could smell the verbena and musk of his cologne. “Oh, I see. So, Professor Crowley, what subject is it you teach?”
“Oh, I’d love to tell you more about it, Mr. Fell,” he raised his brows in mock innocence, inhaling the scent of the other man. “But, I’m afraid we don’t have time to get into the details. I really must be going. Perhaps another time…over dinner?”
The charade broke as surprise spread across Ezra’s face before he could master it into a more pleased expression and Anthony’s heart gave a painful thump that pressed at his ribs.
“Here,” he gestured, “give me your phone.”
Without a word, Ezra produced his phone from the inner pocket of his coat and unlocked it. Anthony took the offered phone, tapping rapidly on the screen before passing it back. “There, you have my number now. If you’d like to get dinner—and I very much hope you do—text me. If not, well, just delete my contact.”
Anthony rose, shrugging into his black leather jacket (not quite warm enough for the chilly November afternoon, but he’d chosen it knowing it suited him), and waved with far more nonchalance than he felt as he walked toward the door.
His phone buzzed before he could exit the café and he nearly tripped on his own heaven-be-blessed feet.
Anthony turned around to see Ezra still sitting at the table, eyes fixed on him, sunlight radiating from his cherubic face. Anthony couldn’t imagine what his own face looked like; he didn’t think he’d ever smiled like this. He texted back, standing at the door, still facing Ezra.
He could hear Ezra’s laugh as he turned and walked out of the coffee shop.
28 Years, 9 Months, 29 Days
Anthony strode up to the entrance to Marguerite’s at 5:25 on Friday evening. He had chosen a pair of slim-cut, inky blue jeans with such a tight denim weave they nearly shimmered and a fitted, deep burgundy button-down that didn’t clash with his hair while drawing out the gold in his amber eyes. His black blazer was tailored so it accentuated his narrow waist. The leather jacket from the coffee shop was replaced by a knee-length woollen coat in a charcoal grey. He wanted to be able to walk Ezra as close to home as possible without shivering like a damned fool. Ezra was waiting at the hostess’ stand, chatting pleasantly with her, giving Anthony a moment to appreciate his appearance unnoticed. As seemed to be his custom, Ezra was wearing tan trousers that accentuated his strong thighs before flaring out from his leg. He’d traded his favoured, worn velvet waistcoat for a tweed variety over a cornflower blue dress shirt.
Under normal circumstances Anthony would have been embarrassed by the ridiculous grin that curled his lips and crinkled his eyes when he caught sight of Ezra. He’d have schooled his features, silently called himself a bloody fool and resumed a neutral expression if not a scowl for good measure. But, it was difficult to be anything other than a besotted idiot when he saw the fondness reflected back in Ezra’s own smile.
The hostess showed them to their table, tucked against a window where they could see the busy nightlife of the Soho streets. Anthony pulled Ezra’s chair out for him and was rewarded with a pretty pink flush blooming on Ezra’s cheeks. He draped his coat over the back of his chair before attempting to settle his long limbs into something that passed for civilised sitting and not ungainly sprawl.
There are moments in a life that take on a transcendent quality upon recollection. Logically, the mind knows that the moon did not smile down upon them, that time did not stand still nor speed up; the streets of town were never paved with stars. Yet, when it comes to recalling memories, these are the images the mind conjures to recount the tale—hyperbole and metaphor and romanticism summoned to underscore the importance of singular, short moments in an all too brief human story. The factual events of the moment are inextricably linked to the senses and emotions that accompanied them.
For Anthony, this evening was defined by such moments.
Ezra asked his opinion on what wine to order, while Anthony was marvelling at the way the warm light from the window next to their table lingered in Ezra’s curls and illuminated his face in the deep persimmon and gold of a late November evening.
Their conversation about Anthony’s research as a professor of plant genetics was forever tethered to his surprise at Ezra’s genuine curiosity. He asked questions, damned good ones for not being in the field, and Anthony realised, belatedly, that he’d been prattling on for some time.
“Sorry,” he murmured, shaking his head. “’S not interesting, got a bit carried away.”
“Oh, no, my dear. I confess I don’t understand much of it, but you speak about it with such passion .” A little flutter of eyelashes and a bashful smile, “It’s always enjoyable to listen to one speak about something that they truly love.”
He couldn’t help the sigh as he rested his chin in his palm, leaning on the table. “And you? What do you do, Ezra? What’s your passion?”
The sunshine-bright smile was back, a light ignited from within that emanated from the man’s face. How was no one in the room looking at Ezra? Could they not see the radiance? No matter, their loss; more sunshine and warmth for him. “I work in a bookshop, but I personally specialise in rare editions and restoration. That’s what I find most fascinating.”
“What’s your favourite book?”
Ezra scoffed, feigning offence. “Impossible to say. I could give you a list of my top 25, if you afforded me a few days to really consider.”
Anthony chuckled and shook his head fondly.
The other man returned the warm smile. “Well, what about you? Do you enjoy reading? Do you have a favourite book?”
“Ah, honestly, not so much.” Anthony grimaced as he gave the response, hastening to add, “I spend so much of my time reading professionally—student’s manuscripts, peer-reviewing articles, keeping abreast on the latest research, reviewing grant applications…”
He hazarded a glance at Ezra, relieved to see an expression of consideration rather than disgust. “By the time I get home, if I don’t end up bringing work home with me, ‘s difficult to read for pleasure. Tired of hearing my own voice in my head, ya know? S’pose I prefer to be told stories instead of reading them. Prob’ly why I like the cinema and theatre.”
The topic of stories would forever be bound to the subtle movement of Ezra’s leg beneath the table to bring their ankles together in the same reassurance Anthony had offered in the café. They remained that way for the rest of the evening, a gentle shift in their position occasionally breaking the contact, but their legs always found one another again.
The little sensations continued, tiny hooks on which each memory hung.
Knees knocking beneath the table sent a thrill through him as they jostled while debating their favourite composers and shared their enthusiasm for the symphony.
The soft melody of Debussy’s Clair de Lune[1] lilted in the background when Anthony confessed he played piano and Ezra sighed, casting a glance at his long fingers, “I think I should rather like to hear you play.”
Leaning in as if they were sharing secrets, Ezra revealed he could sketch ‘a bit’. Anthony caught the scent of Ezra’s cologne, sweet and rich, as he teased, “If I have to play for you, you have to show me a sketch.”
Blink
Hands inched closer until they were barely touching as their voices dropped, sharing the mutual understanding of leaving home young. The warmth from the small contact was a salve over the old wound of the loneliness from having to make their own ways after being cast out by the people whose love ought to have been unconditional.
Their stunned expressions were followed quickly by sheepish smiles and deep flushes when Justine—the restaurant owner— approached the table and, kindly, explained that closing time was thirty minutes ago. She’d only left them alone this long because ‘Mr. Fell is one of my favourite regulars’.
They shrugged on their coats and made their way into the now rather late, rather cold night.
“May I accompany you home?” Anthony asked.
Ezra gave him a look and Anthony sputtered.
“Ah, erm, ‘s not what I meant… Ah, just, don’t know how far you are and I’ll take you anywhere you wanna…ngk, not like that- just-” Words. Make words now . “Car. I have a car. Not sure how you got here, happy to give you a ride and drop you at yours. Or, if you’re not far, I’d be happy to walk you home. Or-”
The smile Ezra had been trying to stifle as Anthony stumbled over his words broke free with a chuckle. “I understood your meaning, dear. You’re welcome to walk me home, I’m not far at all.”
Anthony rubbed at the back of his neck as he felt his cheeks flush and offered Ezra his arm, following his lead as they crossed the street. A few steps later Ezra stopped in front of the old wooden doors to a deep red storefront that read A.Z. Fell & Co with a smug grin.
“This is me.”
Anthony gave a bark of laughter, “When you said ‘not far’, I wasn’t expecting to count the distance in steps!”
Ezra shrugged and coyly looked up at Anthony, their arms still interlocked.
“Also ‘work in a bookshop’ and ‘ own a bookshop’ aren’t quite the same thing.” Anthony said, glaring with absolutely no malice.
Ezra huffed and playfully rolled his eyes. “Do you have far to go?” he asked, and Anthony was suddenly very aware of the warmth of his hand on his arm, the wisps of their breaths between them in the chilly night, the insistent beating of his heart against his ribs.
“Nah, Mayfair,” he swallowed and watched as Ezra’s gaze flickered down to the motion of his throat. “Just down the road.” He turned so they were facing one another, catching the bright blue eyes as they slid back to his face before Ezra spoke.
“I, ah… Thank you, for dinner. I had a wonderful time.”
Anthony couldn’t help but stare: at the streetlight that caught in the other man’s blond hair; at his full cheeks, flushed pink from the cold and wine and their closeness; at the soft, gently parted lips and the almost enchanted expression on the cherubic face. How did I garner the attention of an angel? He shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts.
“So did I. Can I, uhm,” he wanted to kiss him, badly. To know if the full bottom lip was as soft as it looked, to feel the little hitch of breath when their mouths would first meet, to know if Ezra’s hands would first seek his back or his shoulders or his hips or… too fast, I want this to last . “Can I see you again?”
“Oh Heaven, yes,” the response was all breath.
With a soft chuckle Anthony shifted to pull away, but Ezra did not withdraw his hand.
“Tickets,” he whispered.
“…Pardon?”
Ezra’s eyes were trained on Anthony’s lips. “I have tickets to Much Ado About Nothing. For Thursday, a performance at a small theatre in the West end. Would you like to accompany me?”
“If you already have two tickets, wasn’t the second meant for someone else? Wouldn’t want you to throw over a friend.”
“Is that what this evening was?” Ezra asked, raising an eyebrow tartly “Dinner with a friend ?”
Oh, bit of a bastard eh? Let’s see then . He leaned in to whisper “No… s’pose not,” letting his nose just glance the delicate skin in front of Ezra’s ear. Anthony placed the lightest kiss on Ezra’s cheek and thrilled as he felt Ezra subtly lean towards him.
“I’d love to join you.” He slipped his arm from Ezra’s hand and felt him shudder as the contact broke. Anthony took a few steps toward the road before turning to add, “Text me the details? Maybe we can get dinner first, time permitting?”
Ezra nodded before recovering his voice, “S-splendid. I’ll s-send the details once I get inside.”
Anthony grinned at the shakiness of the angel’s voice.
“Goodnight, Anthony.” Ezra’s expression was soft, his eyes fond, and Anthony’s stomach swooped before soaring into this chest.
“Goodnight, A— Ezra.” He turned and sauntered towards his car.
28 Years, 9 Months, 23 Days
By the time Thursday dawned, Anthony was rather convinced his days were no longer bound by the constraints of the physical world. Rarely had he experienced a day to pass so agonisingly slowly, only to have everything after 3 p.m. pass in the blink of an eye. He was so eager for the day to be over he had, honest to goodness, herded one of his postdocs out of his office at 3:15 ( good ideas, Pepper. Why don’t you, erm, take the weekend, jot down the manuscript outline and we can review on Monday. Out. Now. Thank you. ) and pretended he didn’t hear his undergraduate research assistant calling for him. Pepper’s still there, she’ll help him.
Blink
He pushed through the door to his flat, toeing off his shoes and dropping his satchel on the sleek, black leather sofa as he maintained his state of perpetual motion to get ready for the evening. Brush teeth, mouthwash, shower, deodorant. With the least little bit of gel in his hands he styled the longer hair on his crown into a carefully effortless tousle, trying to remember if he’d already brushed his teeth. Better do it again, just to be safe. Right. Brush teeth, get dressed. Thankfully, he’d already decided what he’d wear, had done so on Saturday, but no one needed to know that. Slim-fitting charcoal trousers with a navy button-down beneath a slate grey jacket. He grabbed his wallet, keys, and coat and made for the door, tripping over the shoes he’d left strewn in the walkway; he’d never so much as sat down.
Blink
It was precisely 5:30 when he parked the Bentley at the curb of A.Z. Fell & Co . He’d talked Ezra into letting him pick him up rather than meeting at the restaurant. He cantered up to the shop and was about to knock when the door opened beneath his hand and he nearly rapped his knuckles on his date’s forehead. His date .
Ezra giggled, ducking to avoid the knock that was already in motion. “Hello, Anthony.”
“Hi,” was all he managed as he revelled in the laughter in Ezra’s pale blue eyes and the pursuant blush that coloured his fair cheeks. “Shall we?” He offered his arm even though the car was only a few steps away.
Blink
They were seated at a little Italian bistro a few blocks from the theatre. The wine tasted like Pavarotti’s Nessun Dorma[2]. Their conversation sounded like the warmth of calves touching beneath a starched white tablecloth and the thrill of fingertips barely meeting between glazed white dinner plates. The meal smelled like the candlelight that reflected in Ezra’s eyes and glinted in his stunningly long eyelashes. Their laughter was the simultaneous buzzing of the mobile alarms they had set so as not to miss the curtain.
Blink
They weren’t watching Much Ado About Nothing. They were far too engrossed in the story that was unfolding between them.
Act I was the hesitant inching of shoes closer together.
Act II was allowing their knees to rest against the other’s.
Act III was shifting so they sat thigh to thigh.
Intermission was spent leaning closer together at the bar, sipping glasses of wine, not caring who was watching or whispering as they lost themselves in the other’s eyes.
Act IV was finding one another’s hands, memorising the valleys and crests of the other man’s knuckles with their thumbs.
Act V was exploring palms and wrists, knees and thighs.
The applause shocked them out of their own stunned thoughts.
Blink
Anthony parked in front of the bookshop, hastening out of the car to open Ezra’s door. This time, instead of offering his arm, he offered his hand and Ezra took it without hesitation. They lingered in the doorway, just as they had nearly a week ago, now hand in hand, close enough Anthony could smell Ezra’s cologne, feel the friction as their coats brushed against one another. He watched Ezra’s hooded blue eyes roam over his face.
“When can I see you again?” Ezra breathed.
“Tomorrow, the day after, the day after that,” he swallowed and captured Ezra’s gaze with his own. “Just tell me when, I’ll be here.”
Ezra rested his free hand under the lapel of Anthony’s suit jacket, a playful press clearly not meant to create distance and Anthony leaned into the gentle touch. “Surely you have other obligations.”
“Nope, none that matter,” he whispered as he bent toward Ezra, the tips of their noses brushing. “At your beck and call, I am.”
“You fiend,” Ezra lifted his chin.
“If I’m a fiend, then does that make you an angel?” he murmured as their lips met.
Anthony released Ezra’s hand to slide his fingertips into the soft blond curls at the nape of his neck, and Ezra brought both hands to Anthony’s lapels, drawing him in as his breath hitched through parted lips. It was all the encouragement Anthony needed. He stepped closer, capturing Ezra between himself and the shop door, cradling his head against the wood and glass, and deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding over soft, full lips to find the gentle heat and press of the other man’s mouth. Ezra’s hands slid from Anthony’s chest under his jacket, one resting between his shoulders and the other on the small of his back, pulling him into an embrace, and Anthony relaxed into the comfort of being held. He tangled his fingers into Ezra’s hair as his other hand slid to his waist, pressing over his shirt into the soft skin beneath.
Gentle, tentative kisses like this have a moment, when supple skin meets for the first time. Lips bind, weakly but surely, and resist being separated when the kiss is broken. A soft, sticky stretch as they are pulled apart if the parting is done slowly, if the kiss lingers because neither person wants it to end. It is as if the lips themselves know that they have found where they are meant to be and plead not to be taken away; they have the greatest thing they will ever feel or taste or speak, what other purpose could they have, knowing what they now know? This is what they were meant for, all along. When the kiss ends the feeling lingers: a glistening on bottom lips, a tingle where even the gentlest parting is too harsh, bursting the fragile cells and exposing new layers previously hidden, delicate and raw and vulnerable.
They— lips and people— are changed, they can never go back to what or who they had been.
Ezra and Anthony lived in that kiss for a second and an evening. For an hour and a day. For a year and a lifetime. No matter how long they stayed in that moment, it wasn’t long enough.
Please, give us more moments like this .
When he pulled away, Ezra’s beautiful blue eyes shone in the streetlight, saying more than any words could in that moment. His face was honest and affectionate and Anthony could see he felt it, too – this thing between them that was fragile and precious and so full of potential.
Anthony rubbed his thumb against Ezra’s cheek where his hand still rested. “I should go…”
“Yes,” Ezra chuckled softly, returning his palms on Anthony’s chest as he resettled his lapels. “I think that would be wise.”
Neither man moved. Instead, Anthony leaned in again and Ezra met him gladly, pressing their smiles together in quick, chaste, giggling kisses.
Ezra swatted him playfully, finally turning his face away laughing. “Shoo, you tempter, before we give the neighbours more to talk about.”
With one last quick peck Anthony walked to the car, making a show of shuffling his feet on the sidewalk as if he’d been sent off against his will.
“Good night, Anthony.” Ezra called after him, still leaning against the bookshop doors. “Mind how you go.”
Anthony rested his forearms on the roof of the car and perched his chin on his hands. “Goodnight, angel.”
Ezra scoffed at the endearment before turning and letting himself into the bookshop. Anthony stood there and waited until the shades were drawn in the shop and lights were turned out before he got in the Bentley and started the engine.
Blink and you’ll miss it .