Unspoken (слэш)

They didn’t talk about it. They both knew, of course, but they didn’t talk about it. It was unspoken, a mutual, silent agreement. Crowley could count on one hand the number of times they’d referenced it even obliquely, and each occurrence had carved a permanent scar in his tattered heart.
It was true, though. No less real for being undeclared. No less powerful for being locked away. It bubbled up, occasionally, when Crowley’s white knuckled grip slipped.
Currently, he was slipping quite a lot. The difference was that this time… this time, he thought Aziraphale was slipping too.
 
Written for the prompt "wrist kisses"