“Richard II,” Oh, he’s intrigued now. A distinctive stroke of pride straightens his spine a little in moments like these–he had believed in Will, the promising young upstart from Stratford who had ideas and a knack for wordcraft, and here he was composing more work with a most promising premise. Yes, he absolutely knew it. William was as brilliant as he was insightful, as curious as he was warm, as beautiful as he was kind. Aziraphale was positive he had gravitated to him so instantly because he was brilliant, and he was good; exactly the sort of person he imagined any angel or good human being couldn’t help but love. If more angels had met him, they might like humans a little more for it.
“He’s a fascinating subject for a history play.” He begins reading through the pages, but he pauses, to offer his own thoughts, to ask a question of his beloved playwright. “Not a war hero, but not quite so wicked to be a war fiend, either. He was… well, really, just a bit too human. Where ever did you get the idea?” He rather likes the way Will talks about history. He doesn’t claim to understand it in the lofty way men who know nothing and often write lies as facts do–rather he seems to understand how people make choices, and write a story about that. Aziraphale adjusts a silver button, threatening to come loose on his doublet as he bends over the speeches, beforel ooking back up at Will.
Will’s smile blooms like the rise of the sun in the cold early morning at Aziraphale’s expression, his hushed tone of voice. The appreciation evident in his words. He was never praised very much as a boy, or even as an even younger and even less successful playwright, and it probably shows in his wide-eyed eager hunger for kind words. He’d worried that it might come across to Aziraphale as pathetic, too eager, too young, but it hasn’t driven Aziraphale away yet, in fact has seemingly made him rise to the challenge, to let the young man flower under his praise, his guidance. It’s rather astonishing, to Will, who sometimes worries that he’s rather selfish; he doesn’t always know how to process the fact that Aziraphale, whenever they meet, is so willing to try and give. To be kind. He’s so unlike anyone that Will knows, it makes him wonder at everything he does, down to his warm, warm smile.
“ I have always, ” Will begins, his eyes subconsciously flicking to the small triangle of skin revealed by the button coming loose on Aziraphale’s doublet before being dragged back up to his face by sheer force of will, “ been drawn most to writing about those who try. Even if they fail --- no, especially if they fail --- it is such marvellously rewarding work to lead the audience to feel as they feel, every step of the way as they battle against fate, rail against their destinies... even if they do not succeed at the end. It would make the world a little bit better if everyone in the audience carried that compassion with them out back into their lives. ” He knows his answer is not yet complete, though, and looks back to the flames, his heart growing heavy with what it now remembers. “ And I suppose that I must also credit... Kit’s Edward II. If you were able to watch it before... ” He drags one hand over his face, suddenly wishing he had never brought it up. “ Oh, the language, the descriptions. The king is different, as is the dramatis personae, but I owe so much of this to Kit. Enough that if he were here, he would probably rib me about all my borrowed phrases. ”
kaledo-art
prguitarman
romaincrisis
jbbartram-illu
ellievsbear
blakekathryn
janainaart
