Aziraphale (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
temptationaccomplished) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tramitem_comm2020-10-19 12:46 am
temptationaccomplished) wrote in tramitem_comm2020-10-19 12:46 am
self indulgent fluff and now I will return to actual tags
A letter, hand written and hand delivered on October 20th (because we cannot be too meta) by Fell in the morning (before he suspects 2/3 of the residents will be awake, and as he himself heads off for work) to the mailbox of the building inhabited by the Crowleys.
Addressed on the outside of the envelope to "Anthony" in a pretty gold ink, and sealed.
One of the great joys of a life long lived is the accumulation of memories.
Many of those have significance even isolated, even in the eyes of an outsider (which I'm afraid is a bit of what I am, right now, to my own past). But many more have their significance in the context of our greater experiences together--
Context. Sadly, I feel that's what so many of these scattered memories are lacking. (Oh, I know logically I should not believe what is happening to us is real. But we've been over that and yet still, here we are.)
Even without understanding how or why or when… I love you. I feel that I should say that more. I love you, and I loved you then, I'm sure of it, now more than ever. You can view your memories of me through that lens, that come Hell or high water, your angel loves you. Even if he cannot say it.
It frightens me that I may never truly fully appreciate how valuable it is that I can put words to my love for you, now, here in this arc of our shared existence--or that I may never know how much you have meant to me, what you've done and how you've cared for me. Our life is so long and our memories so vast. Forgetting hasn't spared me from heartbreak or pining--I want to know the richness and depth of everything. I want to indulge in the good and the bad. We have been done a great disservice, losing that part of ourselves.
I regret that sometimes I've doubted that a demon could love an angel. (I don't know that I have ever truly doubted the reverse--naturally I would love you. You are kind and wickedly charming and good--and handsome, but you know that all too well, it hardly needs mentioning, but you are beautiful down to your core--and I loved you even when you weren't mine to love.)
If you saw what I saw--
Perhaps I am not the best angel, or even the best person. Perhaps some of the decisions I made were callous or selfish. But you-- with your brash swagger and your refusal to accept praise. You, who "happened to be in the neighborhood," who came to the rescue of an angel despite the trouble it might get you into, all to spare me the indignity of "paperwork"--
I may not understand why the books were so significant, but you saved them. You loved me enough to save them. You risked punishment because you loved me. I have no doubt you loved me and I wonder if I knew then. I hope I did.
I hope I cherished every moment with you. I fear I didn't--how can an undying being properly appreciate the fragile ephemerality of their existence?
It is a bit ridiculous of me to mourn things I cannot remember, but the more I see of our past together, the more I know I am missing so much, big and small. I suspect we'll learn the big things in time, but can anything really replace the little moments? The little things that we don't catalogue, that we take for granted because they are not Earth shatteringly momentous: the smell of your cologne, your hair under a particular lighting, the touch of a demonic miracle.
We have so much history. We must, through all those years. I want it. To hoard it all, covet it-- So few of these memories feel like mine and mine alone. These are ours, Anthony, yours and mine together, and I am both so profoundly moved by that we once shared these, and so utterly devastated at the thought that it is all gone, recovered at the whims of… whatever entity or power is controlling all this. What if we never recover it all? What if it vanishes from our memories again?
This seemed like such a sensible, romantic idea at half-past-one this morning, but now I think it's become something of a rambling mess. The point is, if you've reached the end of all this rubbish, I love you, Anthony. I love you dearly.
Addressed on the outside of the envelope to "Anthony" in a pretty gold ink, and sealed.
One of the great joys of a life long lived is the accumulation of memories.
Many of those have significance even isolated, even in the eyes of an outsider (which I'm afraid is a bit of what I am, right now, to my own past). But many more have their significance in the context of our greater experiences together--
Context. Sadly, I feel that's what so many of these scattered memories are lacking. (Oh, I know logically I should not believe what is happening to us is real. But we've been over that and yet still, here we are.)
Even without understanding how or why or when… I love you. I feel that I should say that more. I love you, and I loved you then, I'm sure of it, now more than ever. You can view your memories of me through that lens, that come Hell or high water, your angel loves you. Even if he cannot say it.
It frightens me that I may never truly fully appreciate how valuable it is that I can put words to my love for you, now, here in this arc of our shared existence--or that I may never know how much you have meant to me, what you've done and how you've cared for me. Our life is so long and our memories so vast. Forgetting hasn't spared me from heartbreak or pining--I want to know the richness and depth of everything. I want to indulge in the good and the bad. We have been done a great disservice, losing that part of ourselves.
I regret that sometimes I've doubted that a demon could love an angel. (I don't know that I have ever truly doubted the reverse--naturally I would love you. You are kind and wickedly charming and good--and handsome, but you know that all too well, it hardly needs mentioning, but you are beautiful down to your core--and I loved you even when you weren't mine to love.)
If you saw what I saw--
Perhaps I am not the best angel, or even the best person. Perhaps some of the decisions I made were callous or selfish. But you-- with your brash swagger and your refusal to accept praise. You, who "happened to be in the neighborhood," who came to the rescue of an angel despite the trouble it might get you into, all to spare me the indignity of "paperwork"--
I may not understand why the books were so significant, but you saved them. You loved me enough to save them. You risked punishment because you loved me. I have no doubt you loved me and I wonder if I knew then. I hope I did.
I hope I cherished every moment with you. I fear I didn't--how can an undying being properly appreciate the fragile ephemerality of their existence?
It is a bit ridiculous of me to mourn things I cannot remember, but the more I see of our past together, the more I know I am missing so much, big and small. I suspect we'll learn the big things in time, but can anything really replace the little moments? The little things that we don't catalogue, that we take for granted because they are not Earth shatteringly momentous: the smell of your cologne, your hair under a particular lighting, the touch of a demonic miracle.
We have so much history. We must, through all those years. I want it. To hoard it all, covet it-- So few of these memories feel like mine and mine alone. These are ours, Anthony, yours and mine together, and I am both so profoundly moved by that we once shared these, and so utterly devastated at the thought that it is all gone, recovered at the whims of… whatever entity or power is controlling all this. What if we never recover it all? What if it vanishes from our memories again?
This seemed like such a sensible, romantic idea at half-past-one this morning, but now I think it's become something of a rambling mess. The point is, if you've reached the end of all this rubbish, I love you, Anthony. I love you dearly.
With Love,
Your Angel
Your Angel
no subject
It was so very tempting, the thought that they could whisk off to Venice for a raucous celebration, enjoy a little wine and the culture, the music and the moonlight, and of course the food, all the food~! He'd never been to a real carnival before, only the more local versions. Anthony would be treating him to his first.
He tipped his own glass to clink against Anthony's. February felt so very far away and his imagination was already running wild with escapades. "To plausible deniability."