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“This was the place?” Nathaniel asked him, voice distant and thick with ennui. Nate had never been much for reverence though–a trait they had once shared. “From what you’ve said, I’m surprised the Champion let them rebuild it.”
It looked almost the same, but for the fragile roof of stained glass Sebastian had funded himself. It lit the cathedral in shades of blue, and seemed to suck all of the heat from the room. He stood closer to Nate at the chill that came over him.
“My anger was fresh then, and I indulged it,” he admitted with a sigh. Nate seemed to sense his mood and pressed their shoulders together. “Hawke knew the importance of the Chantry as a symbol though.”
“They did fine, didn’t they? I hope you’ll compensate them well—for their trouble with that infestation last year.”
Sebastian already had, and Nate had been there to rout the rest of the darkspawn and attempt to recruit those of the workers who had been blighted. However, the chronology of events had stopped mattering to Nate long ago, he could tell. Maker only knew why he’d become so cold in his regard, even to the time they had shared.
“I’ve been here before,” he commented. They were visiting the restored Kirkwall Chantry; Sebastian overseeing, Nathaniel accompanying–under the thin guise of searching for signs of a certain missing warden. The truth they danced around was that Nathaniel’s cool demeanor had a single limit, and that limit was the pious Prince of Starkhaven.
“That’s not what you say,” Nate told him, to his utter bafflement. Nate seemed baffled as well, and oddly desperate. Hopeful.
“Pardon?” he asked. He was still disoriented by the feeling, he supposed, or else he might understand what the dearest companion of his youth meant by it. He knew logically there was no way he had been here before. It looked nothing like the old one. The warmth had gone out of it when Elthina’s life was snuffed out. Was this grief? This deep and stretching longing that filled his heart with an ache older than the Chant itself?
“The warmth has all gone out of this place, you say,” Nate insisted, taking on his cadence at first as though quoting him, “and then I tell you we can leave if you want. That there’s nothing of use here.”
Sebastian felt like he was wading through a dream as he sifted through memory, sifted through every moment of their youth, looking for a sign that Nate had ever had some ability of mind-reading. He came up with nothing, and determined that it was a simple product of their closeness, their bond; he relished the thought that it endured despite their long years apart.
“You’re right,” he said gratefully. “A quick–”
“Prayer,” Nate cut him off, “before we go. You say that too, but I argue. I forget myself every time.”
“You do,” Sebastian agreed slowly, laboriously deciphering the meaning to the words behind their strange arrangement. “The Maker’s eyes are on us here. His blessing will follow us when we leave, and we should give thanks. To Him–”
“And to His bride for Her sacrifice, but I continue to lob doubt at your wall of faith. Even the first time, when it was only the weight of a warden’s fate which burdened me,” he said. “I never tell you that I can hear my own Calling, that I only agreed to come here to show myself that it isn’t you calling out to me from the Deep. That you’re safe in the Free Marches.”
“This is a strange confession, Nate, but I’ve broken my vow to retake my home. I can no longer help you be absolved.”
“You always say something like that as well,” he said. He let out a laugh devoid of humor, a fractured and panicked thing making its escape in a moment of weakness.
Sebastian’s heart was racing.
“I want to go, Nate,” he whispered urgently. “I’m feeling estranged from myself, so will you do me this kindness?”
“You’ve never asked twice before,” Nate said, but seemed to acquiesce as he took the lead up the stairs to the prayer boxes. “Never asked me to do it for you.”
“I have never been selfless, as I’m sure you remember.” Sebastian followed gingerly behind him, feeling ghosts of memories that couldn’t be his, guiding him like a tether. The strings of the past which followed Nathaniel stopped where they had been, and the thread of his present branched off ahead of them, lonely in its daring.
“Of course I remember.” The snap of his mood was drowned in the hush of his tone, but Sebastian felt it. “I remember everything.”
“I can’t fathom what you mean.”
“Let’s just say your prayer,” he said. “I’ve tried everything else.”
“Are you angry with me?” he wondered. Lightheaded and weary, more confused than ever. Had he asked that before? Had he been ignored the same way?
He saw Nate’s gloved hand open the door to an unoccupied booth and try to slip in, like looking through broken glass. There were too many of him, and his hand caught empty air when he reached for the wrong Nate and sent himself stumbling forward.
The real Nate caught him, but the impact sent him crumpling into the booth beneath him. “Steady, my prince.”
He took a moment to collect himself, still slumped against Nathaniel, and the thought slipped out through his filter in the jumbled mess. “This brings back memories.”
“Did you stop my most rare act of worship to reminisce? I’m not complaining.”
He chuckled against Nate’s upper arm. “You can’t wear gloves at prayer. You must bear to him the hands that sin, should you wish to be forgiven.”
“So you followed me in to take my gloves?” he questioned. “You realize the typical implication?”
He wasn’t going to justify that with an answer.
“Just take off your gloves!” he demanded, sitting up to slide them off of Nathaniel’s hands himself. The door clicked shut behind him, and he found himself straddling Nate’s lap in the dim light. The frigid marble surface of the bench made his knees ache.
It was cramped, enough that he could feel Nate’s pulse matching his own wherever he pressed against him. In his struggle, his elbow hit the wall to his right in such a way that pain sang through his bones to his shoulder. He yelped.
Shushing him, Nate put a gentle hand over his mouth to stifle his cry. Sebastian held his elbow to his chest pitifully and watched as he removed his own gloves, their snugness forcing him to release Sebastian’s face and roll them off with effort. He was laughing under his breath.
“Where am I meant to put them?” he asked.
“What did you think the trays by the hat hooks were for?”
“Nuts or something,” he suggested. “A little snack.”
“There are no snacks at prayer. It's a time you devote to the Maker alone.”
“And everyone wonders why Kirkwall almost fell to the Qun. The Wardens have snacks in our chantries,” he tossed the gloves onto the little disc. “Is there more I should bare to the Maker, or does this please you?”
Something about the question struck a chord within him. He felt himself go hot and cold all over, with flesh prickling beneath the loose shirt and vest he wore.
“It isn’t me you’re meant to please!” Sebastian whispered harshly, mostly to shake himself of the tension building in the tiny space.
“Perhaps I need guidance,” he said with a shrug. “Since you’ve injured your princely arm, shall I remove yours so you can lead us in prayer?”
Sebastian thought of denying him, shoving off of him and escaping to his own box, but he didn’t. He just watched, entranced, as Nate tried to remove his left glove with his teeth. His mouth was too dry. His canines were too sharp. One tore loose a thread from the supple leather tip, causing the seam to bloom apart. At the same time, Nathaniel tried to wet his lips, so that Sebastian’s bare finger caught the flick of his tongue before he pulled back, mouth open in timid surprise when he realized the damage.
He went red from his cheeks to his neck, obvious on his fair skin even in the low light.
“Apologies. I can stitch it back,” he assured.
No, they had never done this before; at least, not here or now—or at least, he thought they hadn’t. Too many new scenes flooded his head to keep track. The flashes from before had painted vivid images of memories beyond counting in his mind; memories of the same fourteen years, lived over and over—together and apart—Nathaniel in a martyr’s isolation just knowing, for centuries.
He remembered enough. He ached.
An old rage bubbled forth. His elbow dug into Nate’s collar when he adjusted himself to look in his eyes. Nate swore at the sharp pressure and Sebastian feigned ignorance.
“You’re always trying to fix everything on your own,” Sebastian said, mouth moving through the shock on muscle memory alone. “And Watch your tongue in the Maker’s house.”
“It might get away from me.” Nate pulled him so close that their lips were nearly touching, his eyes darting around his face, cataloging, claiming each feature they found. “I think I’ll need your help.”
Resolutions could wait.
Sebastian kissed him fiercely, more practiced than when they were young and fumbling, sure, but when Nate pulled back, he was gasping in the same fashion—or maybe different, but he had known this look, this feeling.
“Have we done this before?” he asked, breathless. “In any of the times we…?”
“Did you remember?” Nate stopped struggling to rid him of the vest. “Have you remembered everything?”
“I can’t tell,” he said.
“That’s alright,” he responded, voice watery with emotion. “We can go over it all, together.”
“Maker willing, this is the last time,” Sebastian consoled him, “now that I know too.”
His hand covered Nate’s to urge it on in its unfastening.
“Let me take my time,” he implored.
“I think you’ve taken plenty of time already.”