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Aziraphale stares down at the lush greenery of the Garden. They're sending him there at once and he wonders if he should ask Management about this mishap.
His corporation is terribly constricting; he hasn’t really caught up with all the perks and minutiae of it, and perhaps that’s the reason why his attempts are still fruitless. Aziraphale tries to apply, yet again, Gabriel’s instructions to sense the love inside him, the reflection of the deep devotion and cherishment from the Heavenly host, assumingly keeping him alight from the inside. Aziraphale closes all his eyes, planar and ethereal alike, and catches a thread of his essence. He searches and unravels every filament of his being to find the pouch storing the love of his brethren.
Once more, it’s useless. He’s empty, his core bright from Her Grace and nothing else. It’s impossible of course, a malfunction of sorts, clearly he’s blotching the procedure and the outcome is his fault and no one else’s.
So Aziraphale masks his turmoil with a nervous smile when Hanael approaches him and sets him on his path to the Garden.
Oh, well. After all, there’s no need to make a fuss, so he ponders his options carefully.
He still has time to hone his ability.
He doesn't try again, after terribly disappointing experiences on the second day, long before the cast-out. Granted. He'd been able to recognize a weak wavelength of love when Eve and Adam were there, probably an extension of their attachment to the Garden and to one another, but Aziraphale's inward source was still empty. Utterly infuriating.
As it is, nobody has come to relieve him from his duties, even when the other principalities were recalled after the first storm. Aziraphale has roamed about alone for what feels like ages, but probably are just days, feeling less than adequate, tripping over his own ruminations over things he can’t explain. The sun blazes with its seemingly endless fuel, scorching with rage, and he would very much prefer to pluck some berries from the shrubberies below, and bask at the shade of a luscious oak. He has been feeling rather forlorn, and looking at the desert, relentless and cruel, pulls at his newly formed heartstrings.
He sighs and flies down the wall, intently looking for the best raspberries, with an eye trained by countless raids led by Eve. He's busy ravaging what seems to be the perfect bush, when he hears a brash, overjoyed laugh. A sound that ripples with glee and sets Aziraphale already in a far better mood than the thing that was brewing inside him a few minutes ago.
With his berries in hand, he makes his way to the core of the commotion, and his breath catches in his throat at the sight. Crawly's there, kneeling in the fragrant grass, attentively looking at something out of Aziraphale’s sight. He has seen the demon once or twice, and the initial distrust has completely bled out of him by now. Right now, Crawly looks lovely, the sunbeams filtering through the trees making his fire red hair look like molten copper, like rivers of sunset, those black wings shimmering with iridescent speckles. It’s hard to remember he’s a Fallen, with the way he laughs and chats and enjoys things that are frankly mundane. Things that Aziraphale enjoys as well. Common ground as one would say.
Aziraphale blinks a few times and trudges forward, some leaves crunching under his footfalls.
"Hello there," he says, with an honest smile.
Crawly gazes up at him and Aziraphale's gut flip flops at the honey hue of his eyes. It's an odd reaction and he stores it away for future analysis. "Oh, hey, angel! How are things?" Crawly leans back and sits on his haunches, patting the grass next to him.
Aziraphale takes the invitation, carefully handling his berries. It would do no good to lose such a scrummy morsel. "Quite good, not much to do right now. And yourself?"
"Stuck here for the time being. Can't say I'm not glad they haven't called me back so now I'm just, you know." Crawly shrugs and a single, solitary feather falls to the ground.
"Anything interesting to do?"
"Oh, lots. If you’re into checking the greenery...I mean have you seen this?" Crawly cranes his neck regarding the trees and the shrubberies, brushing a hand over the anthers and stammers of an orchid. "And, c'mere, look!"
He points at the ground, the place that had caught his attention originally and beckons Aziraphale to get closer.
"Look at these little fellows! They're all pushing stuff over that tiny hill to drop it to the other side. Looks like oodles of fun."
"Oh, those are beetles!" Aziraphale says, frankly quite proud of his knowledge. He'd taken the time to memorize every name and every species even when the other angels had deemed it inconsequential. Somehow seeing Crawly's face alight in wonder, makes him think it’s all worth it.
"You know their names?"
"Well, yes," Aziraphale says, if a tad petulant. "I've been here since the very beginning, my dear fellow."
Crawly's mouth gapes a little. "How is this called?" He asks, pointing up.
"That's a butterfly, dear."
"And this one?"
"A centipede."
"And this one?"
Aziraphale smiles. "That's a bumblebee. Be careful, they do sting."
Crawly, who had reached a hand, swiftly pulls it back. "So everything has a name, eh? It's not some random 'flying thingy one' and 'two'."
"Oh, no, no. You see, everything has a purpose. From the smallest bug to the fiercest beast. They all have a place in the order of the Universe and in the plan of the Almighty," Aziraphale recites with a conviction that has no cracks.
Crawly gives a non-commital sound and frowns, apparently deep in thought.
Aziraphale uses the reprieve of the barrage of questions to pop a berry into his mouth.
"Hey, hey, what are you on about?" Crawly asks, eyes wide. "Are you even allowed to? Isn't that dangerous?"
Aziraphale swallows. "Oh, no, not at all. It’s just a berry, honestly.. It's actually quite the experience. Here, let me."
He selects a magnificent berry, ripe and red, and holds it between thumb and forefinger, offering it out to Crawly. The demon narrows his eyes for a second but then leans forward and instead of taking the berry in his hand, opens his mouth, expectantly.
Something warm and tight coils in Aziraphale's belly, who stares a little dumbfounded at Crawly, at the promise of something that scraps at the back of his mind but he can't quite name. Not yet at least. He places the berry in Crawly's mouth, inadvertently brushing the demon's lips with his fingers, and Aziraphale swallows, his mouth dry as sand. A pink blush spreads over Crawly's cheeks, mottling down his neck, and Aziraphale wants to reach to chase it with his fingertips, to trace the sharp angle of that jaw where the flush is in riotous bloom. He closes his hand around a handful of white linen, to deter himself. That would be awfully forward.
Crawly finally closes his mouth and the pad of Aziraphale's thumb gets trapped between his lips. Time seems to trickle by at an odd pace, the sounds of the Garden smothered in Aziraphale's ears, lines of the present smudged as he stares at those impossibly inhuman eyes. Aziraphale can feel the damp press of Crawly's tongue flickering along his skin, a ghost-like frisson traveling across his spine, cresting with every inch he leans forward.
He drags his thumb away, leaving a wet trail down the corner of Crawly's mouth.
“What? Got something on my face?” Crawly asks, a bit breathless.
Aziraphale shakes his head. "May I?" He asks, astounded at the hoarse pitch of his voice, and he's quite sure Crawly doesn't need further explanation.
The demon nods and Aziraphale gingerly presses eager lips to Crawly's soft ones. It feels divine. The sensation tingles from his mouth, down his chest, alighting his gut and making him lightheaded. He places his hands flat at the sides of Crawly’s hips, the grass digging into his palms, as the demon collapses on his arse under Aziraphale’s weight, grasping palmfuls of his tunic to lever himself, his primaries bent against the ground.
There are a lot of things to be said about such development, about the outcome, about the fact Aziraphale's letting his guard down, among other things, before the enemy, before the Serpent of Eden of all beings. Aziraphale finds a stack of excuses at his beck and call, and plumbs the depths of the well of guilt inside him finding it astoundingly lacking.
'You're an angel. I don't think you can do the wrong thing .'
And Aziraphale decides this must also be right, something new to try, as the berries and the peaches, dabbling in the experience if just to revel at the possibilities Creation has to offer. Just a taste, nothing more.
So he focuses on the now and savors the sweetness of the raspberries when Crawly opens his mouth and a moan escapes him. It's a sound that stirs Aziraphale's Effort, the cock he hadn’t paid any attention until now swelling and pulsing under his tunic.
“Angel,” Crowley rasps, manages , in the second it takes for Aziraphale to kiss his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, mapping the skin to commit it to memory.
Crawly, beautiful Crawly, angling his head to receive every bit of Aziraphale’s keen attention and blundering touches. And it’s wonderful, something Azirphale hasn't experienced before. He's famished, nipping at Crowley’s lips, sucking one into his mouth, tongue roving over and licking every space he can find. And the moans and groans pouring from Crawly’s mouth… The sun is high up in the sky but Aziraphale is sure the heat wave arrowing through him doesn't have anything to do with the weather. He brings himself to thread avid fingers through Crawly’s fiery mane, exhilarated at the touch, at the possibility to assert its texture, soft threads spilling down his fingers, strands coiling and curling around his hand. Heavy and sweetly scented.
“You’re so beautiful, Crawly,” Aziraphale says matter-of-factly in the lapse of a second, when a sharp breath breaks between his lips. He pushes his tongue inside Crawly's mouth, sliding along his, raspy and wet and ---
Aziraphale pulls back, choking on a breath, a hand on his chest. “Crawly!”
“Oh, fuck, angel. Shit! I’m sorry! I didn’t--”
He looks stricken, still flushed, lips bitten red and swollen. Aziraphale laughs and brushes his knuckles against his cheek. “It’s quite alright, dear fellow. No need to apologize. Neither of us know exactly how this works, isn’t it?”
“Well, yeah. I guess. But--”
“Yes, dear. Perhaps next time you should control your tongue a bit more. Not that I’m complaining, but it’s not exactly standard length, isn’t it?”
“Ah, nope.”
“Well, then. There you go.”
They laugh, munching on the berries while Aziraphale names all the things they can see and Crawly sets as his goal to memorize quite as much. When the moon climbs atop the blue curtain of night, Crawly lays his head on Aziraphale’s lap, and drifts off into slumber.
Amidst the dark shadows, Aziraphale watches Crawly sleep, petting his hair; the soft rising of his chest under the peaceful cadence of his breathing, the fluttering of auburn lashes, slightly parted lips, and feels himself awash in something he can’t explain.
“It won’t take long. Promise.”
“It’s alright dear. Take all the time you need. There’s nowhere to go, after all.”
Crawly has been splashing his feet for at least an hour now in the brook they’d found earlier, a beguiling picture, Aziraphale admits as he relaxes against a tree. And everything is just like it should be so he can’t help but preen, batting his wings in his joy, brushing Crawly in the face who swats at the feathers.
“It tickles like anything, angel. Knock it off.”
"You're being thwarted,” Aziraphale says, doing it again with a smug smile. “It's a bit fun.”
“They let your lot have fun now?,” Crawly says, arching a brow. “Or is it just you? Honestly, I don't think I've seen an angel quite like you before.”
“Uhm,” Aziraphale mutters, unsure. Crawly is probably right. Back in the celestial vault he had always felt so out of tune, so out scope with everything happening around him... It’s something that hangs heavy over his head, now more than ever since the whole malfunction ordeal. An angel that can’t feel love. That seemingly isn’t loved. Absurd. Honestly. He hasn’t even bothered to try again, too afraid to face that gaping void inside.
“Hey, hey, Aziraphale.” Crawly is kneeling in front of him now, framing his face between fine-boned hands. “I was joking, angel. You’re perfectly fine. A perfect angel, you are. All angels should be like you.”
Aziraphale wonders how he knows, wonders if his face is betraying his hurt, betraying his doubts. And it’s foolish, really, but Aziraphale can’t control the tears spilling from his eyes at the heartfelt tone. In a second, Crawly is kissing him, soft and slow, his thumbs brushing away the tears and it's even better than the first time. Aziraphale melts little by little under Crawly’s touch, under the attention of the warmth press of pliant lips and seeking hands that meet no barriers. Crawly is practically straddling him and Aziraphale feels a scorching heat radiating from under his black tunic. He pulls back, uttering a wordless query, and Crawly nods, a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder while the other rolls his robe up, past his thighs. Aziraphale chokes on his eagerness, in something lodged in his throat; his heart thrums, threatening to shatter his ribs as he reaches a hand edging the hem of Crawly’s tunic and skimming up to the center.
He knows this. It’s a different configuration than the one he sports but he has read the pamphlets and has attended the meetings other angels ignored. Aziraphale slides two fingers along the wet slit, teasing, watching Crawly’s breath catch in his throat. His other hand settles at the demon’s hip, thumbing the sharp jut of the bone over the coarse linen. Crawly leans down kissing him again, and Aziraphale pushes two fingers inside him, inside that yielding, welcoming space, pumping idly as Crawly moans in his mouth. The sensation is maddening, and Aziraphale can’t wait to feel that tightness around his cock, where he's sure he belongs.
He curls his fingers, experimental, alternating between pumps and presses until Crawly is a mess of sobs, writhing in his arms, head thrown back baring the long slope to his throat to him.
He finally pulls out his fingers and they come out glistening under the bright rays of the sun, wetness trickling down the heel of his hand. Aziraphale looks stunned, down at his fingers, up back at those eyes, at that face, skin glimmering with sweat.
"You're soaking wet, dear," Aziraphale says, voice almost dark with the gnawing of need in his gut. If he draws this out any longer he's about to combust from sheer desperation so he kisses the spot where Crawly's jaw unhinges and whispers in his ear, "Can I?"
"Sure, angel. Knock yourself out." And bless him - or not - he sounds completely unraveled.
And Lord. Aziraphale needs him. He aches for him. He fumbles with his robe, pulling it up, exposing his hard, pulsing cock and gasps at the wisp of cold air. He positions Crawly above him, manhandling him in the most satisfying way, mind you, just a slip of a thing with red hair and eyes like stars.
"You sure is going to fit?" Asks Crawly, licking his lips and clasping his hand at the base of Aziraphale's cock. "It looks quite big."
"Well, it's supposed to. You're supposed to stretch around me, I think."
"Oh, well," Crawly gasps, rubbing the head along his slit, dragging moans from them both. "If you, ah , if you say so."
And then, he's sinking down, taking Aziraphale's cock inch by tortuous inch, down, down, until he’s fully seated inside him.
"Bloody hell, angel, you feel so fucking big ."
It’s tight. Too much. Aziraphale hears a groan, a sob, a jumble of noises coming from them both as Crawly steadies on his lap adjusting to the stretch. Aziraphale’s hands clasp Crawly's hips hard enough to bruise and he grounds himself in that touch, to not get lost in how wet and hot and bloody tight it feels. He wants to move, to buck up mercilessly but Crawly isn’t ready, rocking his hips slowly and Aziraphale tells himself he can wait. For Crawly, he can.
Soon, Crawly picks up his pace, rocking back and forth, up and down, while Aziraphale meets him thrust for thrust, so out of sync, an inexperienced wave that can't be stopped. Oh , and it's rather delicious; like streams of liquid fire running in torrents along his spine, his limbs, enkindling a spark of just so that radiates from his pelvis to his hips.
Aziraphale is ablaze, every clench and tight drag building a looming momentum of something he can't name. There's only heat and the stifling sounds at the back of Crawly's throat every time Aziraphale pounds up to the root, and oh, that mouth that Aziraphale kisses over and over and over again.
There’s a explosion at the bottom of his spine, a pressure that carries the weight of what he knows must be his impending release and Aziraphale wants to voice it, wants to tell Crawly he's about to come, that he can't last long, not with the demon's cunt wrapped so tightly around him, every slide a nudge to just there, and he's about to--
He falls over the edge in the blink of an eye.
Aziraphale stills, the floodgate of his orgasm cracking open, swamping him whole in a tidal wave, and he pushes Crawly down on his cock, spilling completely inside him. The sun could have gone up and down again over the horizon, when he finally comes down from his high and a pang of guilt assaults him.
"Oh, goodness! I'm sorry, dear, I just-- I couldn't--"
"It's fine, angel. Pay no mind," Crawly pants, examining the mess between his legs with two fingers, dipping them inside him and tasting them. Aziraphale's jaw goes a bit slack. "You taste quite good, you know that?"
Before knowing what he's doing, Aziraphale has Crawly on his back, ink feathers bent at all sides, and without much finesse he buries his face between his legs. Aziraphale swipes his tongue all over his own mess, licking his come off where it had trickled down Crawly's thighs, kissing his skin before dipping his tongue inside him as deep as he can. Crawly cries out, digging crescents in his scalp, trapping his head between his thighs and Aziraphale knows there's no other place he'd rather be. He licks Crawly clean, his come and Crawly's arousal curling on his tongue, heady and thick. He eats him and savours him with the experience of a being devoted to appreciate the flavor of delightful things, and when he finally sucks at a particularly sensitive place, Crawly arches and comes apart with a sob, liquid gushing all over Aziraphale's mouth and chin, dribbling down his neck.
It tastes like Heav--
No . A thousand times better, he decides.
"Angel-- that’s-- that’s--," Crawly says, amidst hitching breaths, something akin awe reeking from his tone. “I didn’t know you could do that.”
Aziraphale collapses beside him, utterly spent. "Yes, well, I didn't know that either, dear. It was quite a surprise, believe me."
Crawly laughs and laces his fingers with Aziraphale's, casual as anything, and Aziraphale decides this too feels just right.
Aziraphale bites his lip as Crawly grooms his feathers with deft fingers. Much as he would like, he can't bring himself to let his current predicament slip away. It'd been a test, an experiment of sorts, if just to give that dastardly ability another try, and Lord in Heaven, he hadn't been prepared for the results.
Seeing Crawly enshrouded in an immaculate layer of the purest kind of love had been mollifying. Aziraphale had questioned his senses, the reach of his essence, but it was useless. Pure and whole, a coruscating mantle of fractals aflame that was powerful enough to outshine the sun; someone loves Crawly deeply and Aziraphale knows it must come from God Herself. Who else ? Only God could break the rules. Only God could love the unlovable, isn't it?
Needless to say, he hadn't dared to look inwards.
"Hey, you okay there angel?" Crawly is currently arranging his secondaries, brow furrowed in concentration. "You've gone awfully quiet."
Aziraphale swallows hard and plasters his best smile. "Oh, yes, yes. Quite."
"You do know you can say whatever the Heaven you want." Crawly moves behind him, cards through his scapulars, pressing a spot that has been terribly sore for ages, and Aziraphale bites back a moan. "It's not like I'm going to chew you out. Not in a way you don't like of course," he says and Aziraphale can hear the smirk in his words.
"You fiend," he manages. And isn't it frankly bizarre how much comfort he finds at Crawly's side? Much more than whatever he felt as a part of the Host… and that is a haunting thought.
"Anyway, angel, you really should take care of these a bit more." Crawly's fingers are threading down his lesser coverts now, and Aziraphale melts in his touch. "You look like one of those baby ducklings, feathers all ruffled and--"
"I do not!"
"You do!"
"You're infuriating sometimes."
Crawly laughs at his outburst, and tugs at some of his tertials. "You know what I do find infuriating?"
"Mmm?"
"The bad rap apples are going to get from now on."
"What?"
"Think about it. Humans are going to pass judgement on the poor sods and it's frankly unfair."
"Well, dear, nothing we can do now, isn't it?"
"'Suppose," Crawly says. "It should've been a pear tree. Pears deserve all the bad rap."
Aziraphale laughs despite himself, because he in fact does like pears, but he feels joyous, insouciant, trapped in a bubble without time nor judgment. He clasps Crawly’s wrist and pulls him to his lap, watching him give a startled gasp. They kiss in a cocoon of downy feathers, Crawly's lips yielding to Aziraphale's bites and swipes of tongue. His arms sling around Aziraphale's neck, pulling him closer, as if an inch apart was an offense..
Which is exactly what Aziraphale feels. He nibbles and sucks along Crawly's jaw, and wishes things would be simpler, or perhaps would be more, would be something else . But it isn't wise to entertain those thoughts, even less when Aziraphale doesn't know if Crawly wishes the same. For all he knows this might as well be another way to pass the time for him, much like watch the beetles had been. The Garden is a bubble of sorts, he thinks, a place where once were two and they’re just honoring its purpose, so Aziraphale swallows down his thoughts.
He reaches a hand under Crawly's tunic without breaking the kiss and gets knocked off-track when he finds nothing there.
"Dear?"
"Er." The demonic blush spreading on his cheeks is quite adorable. "I thought about letting you choose," Crawly says with a faint voice.
"Letting me…"
"Yeah. You know. Put whatever you want there and, er, do what you want." And then he adds, softly, "use me as you like."
Aziraphale's brain flattens in a swoop of words. His cock hardens under his tunic, visibly straining the linen, aching and leaking already; his blood boils and it is as if there's molten lava roiling in his stomach.
"Are you sure?" He asks, staving off the waver in his voice to manifest.
Crawly bunches up his robe up and takes Aziraphale's hand in his, guiding him to the space between his legs. “S fine. Do your worst. Or your best. You get my meaning.”
Aziraphale gulps; it’s terribly intimate, and he can feel his corporation agreeing with him, his pulse skyrocketing in an instant. He isn’t sure he’s still in control of his thoughts, of his will, because he presses his palm as in a daze, bending the flesh beneath his fingers with a flow of divine power and very not divine intentions. Crawly moans, gives a few grunts looking down, until a cock forms between his legs; already hard and leaking.
“So…”
But Aziraphale is greedy and goes down on him in one swift motion, taking Crawly’s cock in his mouth.
“Oh, fuck. Aziraphale!”
He has thought about this more than he wants to admit and he swallows and licks the underside, savoring the ridges and hollowing his cheeks with much less finesse than Crawly when Aziraphale was the recipient. He takes Crawly as deep as he can, feeling the blunt tip nestled in the back of his throat, tight, pulsing...
“Angel, shit, fuck!”
Aziraphale is a bit startled but swallows eager the stripes of come going down his throat, while Crawly rides the aftershocks in his mouth. He can feel the sinews and spans of skin trembling under his fingertips until the demon finally goes slack. Falling on his back.
“Woah.”
Crawly’s breath is labored, and Aziraphale pulls back, licking his lips to savor the aftertaste in his tongue, as a connoisseur.
“A bit sweet I daresay.”
Crawly is looking at him with eyes wide, white chased away by yellow. “Angel. Aziraphale. Please, fuck me .”
“Oh, dear, you needn’t ask twice.”
Aziraphale helps him to settle on his knees and pushes the offending fabric up Crawly's waist.
"Uh…"
"Yeah?" Crawly asks.
Aziraphale tries to push a finger inside Crawly's arse but the demon hisses.
"I think it needs some moisture," Aziraphale says, considering.
"Moisture?"
"Yes, you see, the other form…"
"Angel, I don't need a bloody biology lesson, just-- do something. Please ."
Aziraphale racks his brain, his Effort jutting impatiently against Crawly's thigh. "Ah! I know just the thing."
And with that he buries his head down Crawly's cleft, sinking his tongue into his arsehole. The demon's spine arches, rocking back against Aziraphale's face. He kneads the flesh of Crawly's hips as he goes deeper, spitting and adding more slick and eventually one finger along his tongue.
It seems to go for hours but Aziraphale doesn't want to risk hurting Crawly. Finally he has three fingers knuckle deep in Crawly's arse, biting his own lip to rein in his need while Crawly keens and moans.
"Are you ready?" Aziraphale rasps.
"Been ready for like, shit, for like an hour now, angel-- just-- fuck me."
Aziraphale pulls his fingers away and presses the head of his cock against Crawly's tight ring of muscles. When he finally slides in, the whole world seems to stop spinning.
It's so very, very tight, irresistible in a way Aziraphale hasn't experienced and he has to catch his breath as he pushes further and further inside. Crawly actually cries out once he bottoms out and his elbows give out on him, so Aziraphale wraps an arm around his middle, supporting him, pulling him back, flush to his chest.
Aziraphale knows he's not going to last, that tell tale pressure rising and rising, and he thrusts in with a forceful roll of his hips, going deeper, faster. And he doesn't care anymore about boundaries, about limits because they're still in the Garden and everything is so utterly beautiful, utterly human exactly where it should be, with Crawly gasping and panting his name.
"Don't stop, angel, please," Crawly moans grinding his hips against Aziraphale's. And he does as told, thrusting in and again and again until he hears Crawly grunt his release, clenching around him, dragging him down with him.
Aziraphale muffles a groan in Crawly's neck, pulsing inside him, so tightly kept in place it's torture to think about letting him go. But as all things, this also comes to an end.
They fall in a heap of limbs and feathers, of ethereal and occult spills that are promptly cleaned and forgotten once Aziraphale needs something to eat - again? asks, Crawly - and they climb onto the deserted Western Gate, chasing the Zephyrus and avoiding Eurus.
But as it might, thousands of years would pass before the East Wind fades for them.
After a month Aziraphale sees Crawly leave, an odd pull at his chest, and weaves a hand in the distance.
His orders are already here as well and he sighs a disappointment that doesn't manage to eddy away entirely.
Heaven is waiting and the Garden already smells a bit of decay.
Aziraphale casts a final, heavy glance over the trees, over the foliage, over a slope liberally blanketed with forget-me-nots. Quite a paradox, he thinks.
He knows he's stalling, hiding his head in the sand so to speak; he has already given himself a wide berth and if he's really failing, better to ask for council now rather than later.
Aziraphale takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, opens the gate that links him with his essence, and chokes on a gasp.
It's there. It's finally there. A love so bright that's hardly contained, it could scorch all the fields in the world if he lets it.
Everything is fine and the Earth keeps spinning.
He's whole. He has learned how to see.
He's loved.
Heaven was right all along.