Work Text:
"What will people think when they learn the true story? They might say this is a tale of two tragic lovers or of two people who met at the wrong time, perhaps both. You know what we used to say on those blessed mornings charmed by the enchantment of spring, 'often tragic destinies had wondrous beginnings,' and splendid was both our start and our end, don't you think? You do, I can feel it in the glow of this beating heart.
I want to believe that right now you're looking at yourself in the mirror, giving your best smile. Perhaps there are even tears held at the corners of your eyes, or maybe you're silently reading this letter, too exalted to utter a single word, unable to run in my direction even though you desire it with every cell and fiber of your being. You know that the sensitivity, the affection, and the glory of those days have not faded because, even if you wish to deny it, you love me; and I swear you will continue to do so for the rest of your life. When you look in the mirror, you'll see me in it, and when you touch, you'll feel the caress of my fingers. So stop deceiving yourself and take responsibility. Your constant challenge upon me bore fruit; you've somehow left me shattered by the promiscuous charm that characterizes you so much, by the splendid haughtiness of your gaze and measured gestures. I'm burning, agonizing in the prelude of your farewell, for the touch I always expected but never received.
I find myself in need of things I'm ashamed to admit. I'm begging for your love, but if that's not the case, how else would you return? In what way must I admit that I will die seeing you walk down that white aisle adorned with the glory of our lineage? Because to me, you are MY ANGEL, and the extra effort I will make while you walk, arm in arm with a man who is not me, allowing someone else to take the life that should have been mine.
Darling, I would die and live for you a thousand times in this life, but I will remain silent because that's what you want, because admitting to the world that you've fallen too low by falling in love with someone like me corrodes you. Tell me, how cursed are we that only in separation will you find your own salvation? For my part, I'll have to pay the price for this impossible affection that will end us all. Therefore, you must walk and not look back because I won't apologize for the consequences. Keep these words well in your heart and in the memory where hatred and intrigue do not reach, and above all, preserve in your chest the essence of this rose.
With a kiss on the soul, eternally bidding farewell, Aziraphale.
The tinkling of his shoes and the spring-like flight of the Italian lace make him look like a sculpture. An almost impossible beauty is detached with each step as he leaves the reception, until someone breaks the silence and unleashes a pure white rain of Dutch roses. He walks with his gaze on the emerald carpet beneath his feet, but the gentle unfolding of a red rose in the sepulchral snow of the others paralyzes him, tears his guts apart in a contained desire for possession. He knows, it's like his emblem; then he can feel that the strength in his legs abandons him, he can only hold onto the arm of this faceless stranger to keep from falling. He doesn't want to have to lift his gaze suddenly and find himself under the scrutiny of his immoderate love. He knows that that rose can only be from one person, understands by the dew of the petals on it that it is immersed in the tears of a whole night of grief and anger, but he doesn't dare to utter a single word. He only hears in the sharpness of the congratulations a penetrating: 'Just remember the roses,' with the implicit message of REMEMBER ME IN THEM."