Chapter Text
Depeche Mode - Shake the Disease coughcouch Martin Gore is so Ezra coughcough
Ezra floats above himself lying on his back, numbed half asleep, his mouth half open. The lighting on his face starkly illuminates his half-lidded eyes, framed by smudged eyeshadow and glitter, his pupils tiny dots in grayish blue irises drifting lazily in a sea of red. Detached from any sensation of what is being done to his body, he can only observe what had been recorded and later forwarded to him by someone who definitely hadn't been there.
The sender had been a client canceling a date - one of very few who had done so honorably after May 27th, instead of merely ghosting. “This isn’t very discreet of you, Ezra?” she had commented under the five minutes and seven seconds long clip. He soars into and out of the dulled, unreal experience of watching it for the first time.
A flash of green and terrified eyes catapults Ezra into acute terror. His scream will not escape his mouth, his body refuses to obey him. Again, he can’t move. Again? Is this a dream? It must be - it couldn’t possibly… But it is! It always is! As he remembers this fact, the dream ends as they often do - abruptly. The panic of seeing the green eyes slowly softens as he looks into calmer, more yellow ones with black slits, studying Ezra… Because when he awakens this Wednesday morning, there is a cat on his chest. Had he not just emerged from a nightmare featuring far less pleasant eyes, he might have flinched, but the presence of this sweet beast is nothing but soothing. He makes a point of remaining as still as possible, wishing not to frighten it.
The cat, a slender orange tabby, looks to have lived a long and well-nurtured life, yet has the marks of encounters with what might be unwilling meals or other cats. Finding no reason not to reciprocate its gaze, Ezra does, letting the deep purr resonating in his heart calm him from his dream. The cat appears curious about his next move, slowly blinking its smiles as if Ezra - still drenched in sweat - doesn’t bear the scent of an animal in mortal danger.
This is the first free-roaming cat Ezra has encountered since his days in Kvæfjord. Within ha-Gan, he has only come across the spoiled, purebred specimens lounging on sofas, beds or in their elaborate kitty castles in the villas of high-ranking Ophanim. These cats had always watched with rapt eyes as Ezra had tended to their owners - and to the extent he cared, their staring hadn’t been comfortable. This cluster of recollections prompts a noticeable quickening to his breathing, and he resolves that if he is fortunate enough to have an unexpected, new friend purring away the residual darkness of his nightmare, he shan’t allow his mind to wander back to darker times.
“Sheyne ketsle,” he whispers, extending an index finger towards its face. “Kæm e du, da, pusi?”
In response, the cat affectionately nudges its nose against his fingertip before rubbing its whiskers and cheek against the palm of his hand.
Now both chosen and having had his finger anointed by the cold, wet kiss of its pink nose, Ezra revels in elated gratitude. He has been selected to be its new devotee - a good choice indeed, as he is entirely enamored. Scratching along its scalp with long nails and thus eliciting much more intense purring, he asks; “What are you doing here, fraynd? Pest control?”
As if confirming, the cat rolls onto its back, stretching its front paws towards him in an obvious plea for a belly rub.
With a heart nearly bursting at the seams, Ezra eagerly obliges. “You remind me of someone else I know,” he softly coos. “I’m sure the two of you will get on famously. Oh, yes, you absolutely will!”
This brings Ezra’s mind to Crowley, who had assembled that seventy years old, awful evacuation tent last night. Rather adeptly, certainly, given its condition - but he hadn’t remembered anything providing refrigeration for their food, and the air mattress he had rolled out and inflated had squeaked with every movement. After quickly dozing off himself, Crowley had tossed and turned excessively, continually disturbing Ezra.
Aside from the squeaking, there had been a pervasive dampness. Ezra's perspiration had mixed with the humidity beneath the duvet - which it was too warm to remain under and too cold to fully discard - and he had thought the situation couldn’t deteriorate further. As if to prove him wrong, it had started raining at around four at night, which led to dripping. Not on him, no - that would have sparked immediate action - but somewhere near him, onto the tarp floor. For too long, Ezra had been trapped in that liminal space of simultaneously being too lethargic to act and the tension from adrenergic anticipation of the next droplet dripping, dripping, dripping.
When finally spurred to seek refuge in the car, he was reminded that the singular, damp duvet currently covering his beloved was the only one they had. Crowley had brought nothing beyond the woefully inadequate shelter, while Ezra only owned one duvet. Could a towel suffice? Searching through his suitcase in the car, he had found two large ones, and improvised one as a blanket and the other rolled up to a hard head rest - they clearly needed to discuss acquiring a second pillow, he had thought.
At nearly one meter and eighty centimeters tall, Ezra had quickly started lamenting the fact that Cossie’s backseat wasn’t made with his comfort in mind. With a sore neck after days of sleeping on his side with Crowley, lying on his back would be preferable. Ezra had opened the door to let his feet stretch... And by then, Hashem Yodea, the downpour had ceased.
He hadn’t dared hope to be lucky enough to fall asleep - but now, three hours in the shape of a nightmare later, he is petting a cat and trying not to be too sullen about Crowley’s substandard offer of accommodations. Ezra knows he ought to be grateful, knows he ought to be more easygoing and less demanding… But really, no refrigerator? And - Ezra recalls with a grimace - no toilet facilities either. It’s as if they’ve barely evolved beyond swinging from tree to tree! What’s next, discovering fire?
“I’ll sort all that tomorrow,” Crowley had said nonchalantly, drinking the last of the water they had brought. “Until then, we’ll just keep pissing behind bushes. Can sh*t behind them too if needed, can’t we?”
After having laughed ever so heartily, Ezra had discovered, much to his dismay, that Crowley had not been joking. Later, Crowley had rolled himself yet another joint - he had been smoking constantly since assembling the tent - and announced his intent to find the bed. He had done so without addressing the concerns Ezra knew his expression had plainly conveyed.
Ezra finds himself in a rapidly deteriorating mood as he ponders the previous evening and night. Crowley prioritizing ganja had left them without a shower or a suitable place to shave or prepare for the day, let alone relieve oneself in peace. Stifling the urge to make the sort of frustrated noises the aforementioned, tree-swinging early hominids might make, Ezra strives to retain his sapiens sapiens and succeeds with the help of the cat’s continued purring… until a growing, new unease spreads, searching for dark thoughts to explain itself, each new breath into his lungs stoking the embers of his trepidation. He struggles to comprehend what is happening until clarity strikes, and after having carefully repositioned the cat onto his lap, he sits up and leans over the seats to search for the AntiBenzo in his toilet bag.
He barely has time to administer the dose before his Vine trumpets its morning alarm, startling the cat. It darts out of the car and flees, its departure ending this dreadful morning’s sole comfort. Nearly driven to hurl the blaring device into the boot of the car in frustration, Ezra reminds himself that this is withdrawal, isn’t real, isn’t worthy of his ire. He measures his breaths, waiting for his medication to take effect while silently listening to Crowley stirring within the tent. There’s rustling, a string of profanities, the sound of his own name called out, even more cursing, and the zip of the tent is opened.
Crowley emerges, disheveled and naked, scanning the area until his eyes land on Ezra. “Bugger me, there you are, thought you might have… I dunno,” he begins with apparent relief, his tone betraying some amount of weariness for someone with the privilege of having slept at least eight hours. “Couldn’t sleep in the tent, or…?”
“It was dripping.” Ezra curbs his urge to launch into a tirade, leaving it at the implication.
“Oh, I didn’t notice,” Crowley responds sheepishly. Is he serious?
With little patience for what might be an attempt at humor, Ezra exhales sharply while trying to stretch the stiffness of the backseat from his neck. “And you stirred. A lot.”
Crowley's expression reveals his surprise, suggesting discomfort at being exposed. “Oh. Right. Sorry.” He scratches his head before disappearing from view. “Gonna go have a piss!” he calls out, his steps indicating his departure towards the river.
Ezra activates the ceiling light and examines his reflection in the fold-down mirror above the passenger seat. He usually shaves every morning before braving the outside world, and the blond coarseness currently invading the lower half of his face has necessitated for him to bring a razor for use in a university bathroom - hopefully before being spotted by too many on campus. Is this how the decay begins? Will he devolve into a cave… man? He shudders at the thought. It must only be a matter of time before he disregards all advisable caution and invites the Got veyst vos of the river water directly into his bloodstream through nicks from shaving. He has already, very much unwillingly, used the water for drinking and tooth brushing due to the absence of any bottled alternatives. At least his breath is fresh, even if his gums could be succumbing to the first stages of a water-borne infection at this very moment.
“What do you suppose your mother thinks about us living in the garden?” Ezra pointedly asks, piercing the oppressive silence within the car.
“Eh. Who cares.” Crowley's response is dismissively flat, barely qualifying as an answer.
“Who, indeed,” Ezra responds in kind, before ignoring Crowley’s obvious attempt at evading the topic. “Does your mother even know we’re here?”
With a dismissive shrug, Crowley seems to imply a proper reply is unnecessary, or even a chore. What could possibly have soured his mood so, given that he had enjoyed a full night's rest under the only duvet - excessively stoned, at that?
“Does she know, Crowley?”
“Prolly not, Ezra!”
Ezra would beg pardons if he had any. “But… if she’s unaware of where you are, won’t she worry after a while?” He wonders if Sarah might have spoken with their mother earlier, easing the concern he had gleaned after his and Crowley’s first night together - but as far as Ezra knows, Sarah has no idea they have relocated to the garden. “She was in quite a state when… when she called you, before… everything.”
To this, Crowley only sighs, his stare fixed stiffly forward. Oh, how splendid! So, at any given time, Mother could dispatch drones and whatever else the Ophanim HQ has at its disposal, her black vans and gorillas eventually arriving in the garden to discover the books and all the other damning secrets stashed in the car?
“Crowley…?”
Crowley meets his eyes, a look of shame flitting across his face as he shrugs once more.
“I see.” Remarkably and surprisingly unworried, Ezra lets his irritation intensify until he’s too weary to sustain it, and his world turns a shade grayer. With his elbow on the door's armrest, supporting his chin with his hand, he absentmindedly counts the repetitive patterns of pipes, panels and wires along the tunnel wall.
A new silence falls heavier and much more dense, as Crowley evidently insists on being a petulant child. Before entering the vehicle, Ezra had tactfully expressed his discomfort about the prior night’s accommodations - it was a gentle critique, devoid of any spite. After all, Crowley might simply abandon the cohabitation project if Ezra was too difficult early on; he had described how much he disliked sleeping in Ezra’s flat, had he not?
Accustomed as he is now to Crowley's company, merely the thought of sleeping at home and all alone - even on his own, noiseless mattress - leaves Ezra feeling small and desperately, pathetically needy. This refuels a rising anger directed both at himself for lacking the courage to fully admit his own unhappiness, and at Crowley for thoughtlessly imposing such dismal living conditions. Crowley must be aware of Ezra's dependent nature, and he can afford a modern tent - and Ezra can’t afford to lose another night of sleep. Were that to happen, he begrudgingly admits to himself, he might become somewhat of a c*nt.
His temper morphs into the sort of exhausted ire that throbs around one’s eye sockets until tears are on their way. Blinking to banish them, he again directs his focus toward the wall, trying and failing to steer clear of lamentations regarding the farsholtene tent and all it represents. He idly picks at the skin around his thumbnail, ruefully noting the unpleasant scratch of his unshaven chin against the palm of his other hand.
But then, as if summoned, Crowley’s hand is on Ezra’s. It rests there gently, tentatively, as if seeking assent to be close.
Warmth suffuses Ezra when, by instinct, he turns his hand around to clasps Crowley’s. The cabin light seems to brighten, as if to chase away the shadows in Ezra’s heart, now set aflutter with relief. What better time for a positive addendum to his earlier critique? He knows he can, occasionally, come across as harsh, even when he has no intention to be. “There was a cat sleeping on me when I woke up,” he says.
“What? A… cat?” Crowley withdraws his hand and initiates a very transparent pretense that some catastrophic ugrency is to be averted via a button labeled ‘AC’. "I suppose that's my fault as well?" he asks, his voice quivering with palpable hurt.
“No, I–”
“Look, Ezra, I’ve never actually been camping before!” Crowley’s confession is almost desperate as he slumps against the seat back. “I’m sorry you had a rough night, but mine wasn't particularly–“
“I didn’t mind the cat, Crowley!” Ezra interjects, halting the needless self-reproach. "Quite the contrary, I was rather charmed by it. It reminded me of you, actually."
Crowley starts, then stops worrying his lip, gripping the steering wheel he so likes to pretend he is in control of. “It did?” he asks, his question as gentle, tentative and seeking as his hand was half a minute ago.
“Absolutely! You are sort of cat-like in your affections, are you not?” With a deliberate softening of his tone, Ezra speaks as tenderly as he had to the cat, happily noting the atmosphere between them warming. “It practically begged me to caress its belly, and its fur was only a few shades lighter than your hair.”
“But… I don’t beg that much, do I?” Smirking, Crowley turns to look at Ezra with weary, yet decidedly more sparkling eyes.
Matching Crowley's smirk, Ezra opts for silence, instead expressing his affection through touch as he reunites their hands.
“Cat-like affections… that does sound like a good thing,” Crowley continues, his mouth widening into a beaming smile - the first of the morning - before he purses his lips, adding with mock gravity; “...Assuming one is - in general - well-liked by cats, of course.”
“Oh, cats - in general - like me very much,” Ezra replies, his pride at being the anointed and chosen one gaining a second wind as he kisses Crowley’s hand.
“Meow,” meows Crowley.
“Meow-meow,” meows Ezra.
After Wednesday’s final lecture, they’re waiting for the car at the bus stop. Exhausted, anxious and teetering on the brink of a migraine at the thought of their upcoming night in the garden, Ezra wishes to avoid the subject of the ghastly tent entirely, though he acknowledges that discussing it again is inevitable.
It is a meager solace that the persistent furrow on Crowley’s brow indicates he is as miserable as Ezra. His responses to Ezra's conversational efforts throughout the day had been brief; polite, but minimal - and Ezra, too weary for the sporadic small-talk he himself had attempted to initiate, had been thankful for this.
During the second lecture, he found himself inadvertently nodding off against Crowley’s shoulder - only for a few minutes, but it had been a pivotal moment, an unexpected revelation transforming mundanity into poetry. Until the first time Ezra had accidentally fallen asleep in Crowley’s arms a few weeks earlier, sleep had been a precious resource, never once happened upon by chance - always fiercely fought for and all too often snatched away by life’s unpredictabilities. Since then, it appears Ezra had gained the ability to rest without having to force himself to… but it had escaped his attention until his awakening due to a cough somewhere in the auditorium.
Ezra had been a difficult child, in no small part due to his constant battle for sleep. This was a truth his mother had found necessary to impart to her then four year old child, after his calm and polite critique of her draconian bedtime rules. Because, why was he not allowed to retire before seven? Who had decreed that twelve hours of rest was excessive? And, why would he require a babysitter during her nighttime outings, only because his grandparents drank from the brown bottles? Ezra was always well-behaved, and didn’t require minding! She had deemed his ‘little spectacle’ another pointless argument, and Ezra had earnestly suggested he might be less difficult if she improved her parenting skills.
Now, Ezra wonders if there is no oppressive barrier thwarting his rest, as it would seem Crowley is not an impediment, but rather an ally in his quest for sleep.
“I apologize for this morning,” Ezra says, and earnestly means it. "I neglected the manners I typically adhere to."
Emitting a quiet laugh - the reason unclear - Crowley offers no verbal reply. Instead, he sighs and pulls Ezra into a close embrace, burying his face in Ezra’s curls and inhaling deeply.
Upon their return to the garden, their spirits unexpectedly lift when they find the cat awaiting them on a stone down by the river. It dashes through the tall grass towards the econcrete pad, towards Ezra. Brushing against his shin and circling infinities around his legs, it prrrmeows impatient questions, likely with regards to his whereabouts for the past hours.
“Hey there, little Schlitzohr!” Crowley says, bending down to receive an introductory boop to his finger.
The cat starts wriggling happily between Crowley's legs before flopping onto its back, inviting rubs to its belly.
“Look!” Crowley points behind its hind legs. "It seems we have a little man here!"
Ezra chuckles at the outdated notion that the presence of a scrotum lacking testicl*s defines gender - let alone the application of the word 'man' - and stoops down to join Crowley in befriending the cat. Regrettably, their combined attention soon overwhelms the creature, prompting it to scamper off, darting in zig-zags until suddenly making a playful leap onto a nearby tree trunk.
Crowley laughs, observing the cat's clumsy antics. “Pretty bouncy for being that old, wouldn’t you say?"
“You’re right. Perhaps it has been… altered!” Ezra suggests, lending a touch of mystery to his tone with a theatrical gasp.
“Bounce-boosted mutant murder-mittens,” Crowley quips with a grin, clearly proud of his… whatever that was.
Ezra chuckles alongside Crowley, momentarily forgetting his own weariness as the cat springs from the tree to a nearby rock, seating itself and eyeing them expectantly.
"I believe it wants us to follow it. I mean, him.” Despite being so fatigued he would prefer not moving around a lot, Ezra reasons that doing so certainly beats lingering by the gate, near the tent - or, more realistically, the car - he sincerely hopes he won’t have to sleep in tonight.
“Yeah,” Crowley responds, somewhat distractedly as he begins to unbutton his shirt. “Let’s go after him, then?”
Piece by piece, Ezra disrobes with meticulous care, carefully folding each item before placing it in the boot of the car - and Crowley, not at all unpredictably, merely tosses his own clothes into the open rear door. Once both of them are naked, they follow the cat hand in hand, bringing with them only a tote with their Vines, some ganja and bottled water.
Every time they catch up, the cat dashes ahead, through meadows of blooming flowers and past bushes heavy with berries. It, he, the cat guides them along the inner curve of the circle, far enough that the tent is out of sight. Mission accomplished - perhaps the eyesore can be out of mind as well?
They’ve never ventured this far from the entrance, and have reached an area lush with trees. Ezra counts about a dozen, all modest in size compared to those in the center of First Circle.
“It’s an orchard!” says Crowley as they get closer, following the cat into the little grove of deliberately spaced trees. “Looks like every tree is a different species, too.”
Nodding but saying nothing, Ezra quietly mourns how a single night of poor sleep has drained him of all his usual zeal - he’s certain one such night would have been manageable if not for the trying two weeks before Crowley swooped in and… everything. Still depleted from all that, and without stims, his usual perk is dimmed. He musters a smile, a small tribute Crowley rightly deserves.
“Perhaps my father planted them?” Crowley muses, walking deeper into the grove.
The cat scales one of the two trees in the heart of it, staring at them from a branch heavy with instantly recognizable fruit.
“In fact,” Crowley begins. “...I’m certain he must have. These trees can’t be much older than… well, me, can they?”
The two center trees are the only sort there are more than one of, their apples bright green hinting at red and glistening in the sunlight. Entirely involuntarily, Ezra lets out a snort to indicate he is about to say something exceedingly clever.
“Hm?” comes from Crowley.
Ezra clears his throat before reinventing the artform of bible references; "I suppose consuming any of these apples would invoke divine wrath? From your mother, perhaps? We might even find ourselves banished from the garden!” He inwardly commends himself for such sharp wit and savors some very well-deserved intellectual pride - because he is as brilliant as he is amusing, is he not? One might even say he 'came through drippin’, echoing the vernacular of Crowley's favored hip-hop artists.
Crowley's face remains unresponsive just a moment too long before he offers a half-hearted chuckle. “Oh! Yeah. Bravo, heh.”
Was that all? Ezra had hoped for a more enthusiastic response, and tries to quell the twinge of disappointment at such a tepid reception to his humor. Yet, he decides it will have to do, as he’s simply too drained to fish for more engagement.
“But we can't eat them,” Crowley says, the trills of his subsequent laughter warm. “Because they’re… bloody Eden apples - oh, for f*ck’s sake. Just like you, it seems Father loved him some biblical allegories, didn’t he? …And they’re not ripe for picking until mid-October."
“Oh, your father was religious?” Ezra asks, hoping the question is appropriate.
"Are you?" Crowley counters, his expression now unreadable.
Ezra hesitates, then replies with a touch of irony; “Der shul iz long since farlazn, I’m afraid.” …Unless he is - was - in dire straits and needed to locate the more religious faculty and-slash-or high-ranking Ophanim members on a Friday night, he elects not to add. They always paid well on Shabbats, as if trying to compensate for their lustful violations of Halacha.
“Good. Same,” Crowley says, his inscrutable face still hidden behind the veil of a strained, put-upon smile.
Ezra understands, he really does - but he wonders how is he supposed to treat the subject of Crowley’s father. “Uhm,” he starts, searching his mind for safer, hopefully less grief-inducing matters. “Can you tell they’re the Eden-type apples only by looking at them?”
“Yeah. There’s an Eden apple tree in my garden at home,” Crowley responds, his voice slightly more tense as he continues; “He didn’t plant it, but perhaps that was where he got the scion or cuttings, or bloody DNA or whatever he needed to grow these.”
“I see,” Ezra says, tactfully avoiding further questions, reminded that he has no idea when Crowley’s father passed. Had it been recently? No, Crowley had mentioned that communication with his mother had been scarce over the last three years, strained by the allegations concerning his father’s death.
“So many fruit trees in here, though!” Crowley says, the hollow cheer in his voice apparent. “It’s amazing, really, plums and pears and cherries are usually ripe in July, but here they are! Second crop of the year, perhaps, on trees altered to not need chill hours?” he asks, a barrage of questions no doubt to distract from the previous topic, posed as if Ezra might hold some insight.
Ezra shrugs lightly - should he entirely avoid or further engage in conversation about Crowley’s father? He is keenly aware that people more frequently obscure rather than clarify their needs, a realization that made him exceptionally skilled in his profession. Yet, during his years of having read people for filth, he had done so with detached coldness. An uninvested mind frets not, which had allowed him to perceive everything a client may have believed they buried well.
As soon as Ezra’s heart had heated his once frigid soul boiling for Crowley, the stakes became higher - and now, Ezra is uncertain of the best course of action. What would serve Crowley’s needs? Were it himself, Ezra would prefer not to be prodded when in such a state. Then again, he seldom divulges anything unless significantly pressed, even if he should.
Hoping it’s not unfeeling, he admits some intrigue as he appreciates the fact that Crowley might be less of an open book than Ezra had initially thought him. Perhaps Crowley is more akin to a finely crafted, hand-bound tome, one with a captivating cover somehow still failing to sufficiently hint at the extensive footnotes and intricate, fleeting mazes concealed within?
“So…” Ezra begins, mellowed by ganja and markedly more at ease, sitting in the grass next to Crowley while massaging the cat’s back. Enjoying a succulent, sweet pear and reveling in the sense of normalcy from Crowley's excited stare, he almost forgets he started a sentence before he goes on; “...What you said earlier was that, until October, we may freely eat the fruit of every tree in the garden - except those apples?”
Crowley shakes his head, offering a good-humored groan as he bites into a pear. The juice trickling down his fingers sheds a sudden light on the appeal of watching one’s beloved eat. “Yeah, the metaphors really do metaphor hard in this place, don’t they?”
“Art imitates life and life imitates art, isn’t that what they say?” Ezra is overtly letting his eyes track a droplet as it falls onto Crowley’s lap.
“Yep. And it seems a lot in here might be as much art as it is life.” Crowley reclines into the green, clearly oblivious to the hint in Ezra’s eyes. “I mean, I know for a fact most of these trees shouldn’t have ripe fruit in September. Father was a right wizard.”
Instead of more hinting, Ezra remains quiet to allow Crowley the room to talk about his father, should he wish to. The weighty pause indicates Crowley is indeed mulling over something, promising a spill of words, that something is bubbling closer and closer towards the–
“I think I want to be a conservational bio-engineer, like him,” Crowley says with deep and reverent gravitas, as if he had been thinking about it for ages - which all available evidence suggests he couldn’t possibly have. “I think I’d be good at it.”
“Oh?” Absorbing the news, Ezra quickly finds he is genuinely happy to hear this. “Yes, you definitely would, my dearest! You seem to have a natural - ha! - aptitude for that sort of thing.”
The smile that breaks across Crowley’s face is bright and unencumbered, momentarily dispelling the shadows of his earlier burdens. "But…"
But?
“…And, it’s not that I don’t like lounging about at uni with you, drawing p*rn and getting hand jobs while some twat is speaking, you know it’s literally all of my dreams coming true at the same time,” Crowley says, unnecessarily excusing his newfound ambitions. “But if I’m gonna give it a proper go, I’ll have to sign up for some modules.”
“Of course!” Ezra is surprised at his own mature and supportive reaction to the possibility of Crowley no longer being at his side during lectures. It had been a tantalizing, craved luxury, one Ezra hadn’t enjoyed for more than three short days. Yet, he recognizes the importance of supporting Crowley's aspirations, no matter how new or sudden they may–
Oh. Hælvete. Crowley would have to attend lectures in the biology department. The void below Ezra beckons a bolt of bone-chilling lightning through his mind, past the fog of cannabis and his vicarious joy. He freezes rigid and frail, instinctively knowing the thunder coming soon will shatter him.
“So! I figured I’d start with just basic biology, you know, the 101-kind, and it turns out there’s this rockstar-type biology professor at GanUni…”
f*ck, f*ck, f*ck. Is there nowhere in this world the filthy tendrils of Ezra’s tragedy won’t reach him?
“…I bet he knew him, he’s about the same age Father would have been, and both were rockstar biologists, kinda. Wouldn’t that be cool, if they knew each other?”
Absolutely, definitely not. On the contrary, nothing could be less ‘cool’.
“Anyways, on Shout, students say his lectures are super fun, and he’s… hey, what’s wrong?”
Ezra isn’t unaware of the transparency of his unease; his hands betray him as they tremble, as he picks around his fingernails. His pretense at composure is quickly slipping until it is irrevocably lost. All he manages is a feeble “um”, his eyes flitting across his own hands, now cold and too shaky to comply with his quest for blood.
Crowley’s expression shifts from confusion to shocked comprehension. “Oh f*ck! No… Really? Him?”
Ezra says nothing, because he doesn’t have to.
“Oh, bloody hell, I’m… sh*t.” Crowley immediately moves closer, his arm coming around Ezra in a protective half-embrace, his face tense with empathetic distress. “He did that to you… and recorded it?”
With a hard swallow, Ezra’s pulse thunders in his ears, overpowering. “I don’t know.”
Crowley looks bewildered. “What do you mean?”
“It… it happened at his house. And I’m certain he was the one who drugged me. The drink he gave me is the last thing I remember before I woke up, besides… a few glimpses.” Silence would serve Ezra best at this moment. Why can't he stop talking? “Beyond that, I cannot say I know what else he might have done. But... there were others.”
“What? He wasn’t the only one who…”
Ezra's reply is barely more than a whisper. “No,” he says, letting his eyes imply how dreadfully far from it.
“You mean… many? Like, a whole lot of them? Who!?” Crowley’s voice is raised in a sudden panic. Once it subsides, it might forever alter the way he views Ezra.
Ezra understands this, yet he’s inexplicably compelled to share more. “There were no visible faces in the clip - except my own - and it was only five minutes long,” he says, regretting each syllable. “And I was there the whole night.”
“Oh… Ezra, that’s… I mean, I don’t know what to say, what does one even say, I’m… it’s… I’m…” Crowley loses his thread into silence. Why wouldn’t he? Indeed, how does one respond to such harrowing things?
As he watches Crowley struggle for words before opting for a full embrace instead, Ezra wishes he had simplified the narrative, letting Crowley believe there was only one perpetrator. Such a version might have spared Crowley the distress currently twisting his features. The scene now likely rendering in his mind is the kind that seeps toxic pity into every word and act of affection, inevitably eroding it.
Ezra knows that no sensible person desires a partner whom they consider a victim, except those with grim and appalling desires. Besides, ‘victim’ isn’t even a fully apt label, as Ezra is likely counted among the victimizers as well. If Crowley were informed of this fact, he probably would not believe it, and Ezra would have become a pitied patient despite his protests. Better not to share - yet, his skin is itching with the need for disclosure, his throat constricting from guilt, his mind haunted by eyes deeply terrified of him. It is painful to keep these secrets, a daily torment to suppress the truth.
Quiet, Crowley is likely far from having found his thread again, his lingering arms accompanied by hands absently rubbing Ezra’s back. It’s as if Crowley is lost fathoms away, not at all equipped to navigate the murky depths of such a grotesque revelation.
Suffocated by the silence and fearing more lapses of his self-control, Ezra carefully, yet briskly rises and brushes gravel and leaves from the imprints left by them on his thighs. He shouldn’t continue sharing, and staying guarantees that he would.
“Are you… leaving?” Crowley asks as he extends a hand. “Shouldn’t we… I mean, I’d… We should talk, right? About what happened to you?”
“No. I need to be alone,” Ezra replies, more sharply than intended, leaving the outstretched hand suspended towards him. “Know that you’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.”
If Crowley responded before Ezra turned to leave, he didn’t register it. He picks up pace through the grass, now an animal pressed from freeze to flight while trying to outrun the void swallowing the ground right behind each of his steps.
He is jogging with tears cascading down his cheeks when he finally sees the tent and the car around the curve. Why did he have to bring the rotten stench of this into the fresh, beautiful thing he has with Crowley? It hasn’t even been a week since Friday, and once, twice, thrice more, Ezra is a festering wound, all but stripped of his usual ability to pretend otherwise. Crowley does not deserve this, especially considering he is going through something regarding his father and the role he had in engineering the garden - which Ezra appears to lack the empathy to intuit how to help Crowley through. Indeed, Crowley deserves someone who can uplift him, and not entangle him in a perpetual drama where every interaction is fraught with potential disaster.
Ezra flings open the car door and collapses into the backseat, slamming the door shut behind him. The towels from this morning are still there, and he cloaks one over himself as he gathers his limbs in a knot. He tries to breathe through the overwhelming fear of ruining everything with his running mouth, of permanently discarding the mask to reveal the ugliness beneath.
He knows he needs this solitude, but doesn’t want it, wants Crowley to follow, wants to finally unburden his heart - and through his sobs, he strains and hopes to hear approaching footsteps on the econcrete. In not too many minutes he finally detects them, and hears the door open. There’s a tug at the towel as Crowley slips under it, his eyes seeking Ezra’s.
“There seems to be an egg in my backseat,” Crowley says, softly. It’s not a question, indicating it requires no reply.
Ezra offers a wan smile, painfully aware of how disheveled he must look; snotty and dry-lipped, dark rings under his bloodshot eyes. Years of confronting his crying reflection in various bathroom mirrors have made him all too familiar with this piteous sight.
Without another word and as if it was the most natural thing to do, Crowley unties the tight knot of Ezra’s legs, lowering them to form a lap for himself to crawl onto. He hugs Ezra - sideways and awkwardly - around his waist while burrowing his face as well as he can into Ezra's scant belly.
Although he initially regrets demanding even more emotional labor, having Crowley near eases Ezra's grief significantly. Sweetest, most dearest and beautiful Crowley, such a force of nature; as tempestuous as it is brightly nurturing, the sun of him is sustaining life itself.
With trembling, cold and sweaty hands, Ezra starts caressing Crowley’s neck and shoulders, threading fingers through his hair. Their egg is a tranquil pocket universe, insulated from what looms outside, waiting to tear everything apart. Grateful, Ezra muses that his tears are no longer merely a sting in his eyes, but tokens of his appreciation for the profound fortune of having found and fallen for Crowley, of having the courage to receive his love.
Sentimentality aside - soon, it becomes apparent that circulation has not reached past Ezra’s knees for some time, and he signals his need to stretch.
Opening the car door and allowing them both to extend fully, Crowley shifts so that they lie face to face, their noses brushing. He closes his eyes and tightens his hold on Ezra, likely equally to soothe as for himself not to tilt out of the narrow seat.
Ezra's anxiety is well on its way to subsiding - or at the very least, becoming far more manageable. Crowley's skin against his own is a miraculous balm for his worries, and the prospect of speaking his truth is becoming less daunting by the minute. He weighs it back and forth, each time deciding a less convinced no…
But it is Crowley who breaks the silence first. “That tent out there,” he starts, his breath a warm caress against Ezra’s face. “...is manky as all hell.”
Despite everything, this elicits a genuine smile from Ezra. “You don’t say! I hadn’t noticed.”
Crowley fails at quenching a giggle. “Funny! Anyways, I didn’t want to say anything before they could estimate how long it would take to print it at the furniture shop,” he says, his fingertips lightly massaging jaw muscles Ezra didn’t know were tense. “...But I just received a ping about the nano glamping deal I ordered this morning while you were drooling on my shoulder. It'll be ready for pick-up at eight, so… we don’t have to sleep in your flat tonight.”
Surprise forces Ezra’s eyes wide open. “What? You bought another tent?” Should he not be angry he wasn’t informed sooner, no matter what Crowley had thought best? Oh, pipe down, he reprimands himself sternly.
“Yeah. I mean, unless you want to sleep in your flat, of course, but I don’t think either of us want another night in that musty, old-“
Ezra shuts him up with a kiss, dry and chaste, communicating his deep relief. “I love you,” he says as they part, tallying the flecks of yellow in Crowley's hazel eyes, barely visible in the half-dark under the towel.
“I love you too,” Crowley says, his voice thick with emotion, as if he is steeling himself for what he must sense is coming - indeed, what he had asked for. “Obviously.”
“Obviously.” As Ezra draws a deep breath, he readies himself to divulge an embarrassing, vulnerable and necessary fact before opening the floodgates; “And that’s why - rather selfishly, perhaps - I want… no, I need you to tell me immediately if this negatively affects how you perceive me. ”
“It won’t, but alright.” Crowley’s expression is affectionate, resolute and calm. “I’m not afraid of the ghosts of your past.”
Ezra feels a pang of frustration with how these words dispel so much of his anguish, now that he’s finally on the verge of spilling it. He knows he must speak - his darkness is irreversibly molding itself into something that can no longer be held back. It’s as good as it is painful - it’s justice, at last. But oh, to find the first word!
“sh*t, mayn Engel - your vibe is like a… beehive in a sack, thousands of bees desperate to be let out.”
“Oh, they are desperate,” Ezra admits, his bees buzzing at his vocal chords, ready to escape from the tip of his tongue. “Just… please don’t despise me, or abandon me, or–”
“I promise,” Crowley says, his eyes gesturing towards the ceiling of their makeshift cocoon, adopting a playful mishmash of American dialects; “And you can trust that, as I do declare this here egg to be a sanctuary of truth.”
Ezra can’t help letting this coax another smile to his lips, contrary to his mood, contrary to everything but his love for Crowley. “Alright,” he says, closing his eyes once more and daring to risk erring on the side of trust, hoping doing so won’t cause irreversible damage. “So, the evening of May 27th, I received an invitation I couldn’t decline...”
