The betrayal hits August in a wave. It crashes through him, hot and sick and all-consuming, and he knows it shows on his face because he can't hide it. He has never been good at hiding the things that actually hurt, and this hurts worse than the corruption, worse than the rift, worse than fourteen years of slowly dying, because he had trusted this man. He had let Vale into his home. Had let Vale put his hands on him. Had let himself feel safe for the first time in years, and it had been a lie.
"Knox—" Vale says in a rush, crossing the room, one hand up toward the Templar in the doorway and the other gripping August's arm because he knows August is about to run. "Don't hurt him."
The blonde Templar – who must be Knox – moves his hand off his mace immediately, responding to Vale's command with the automatic compliance of a long built trust, but August barely processes it. He's staring at Vale, at the hand on his arm, at theface of a man who had held him in a warehouse and promised him safety and then led his comrade straight to his door.
August wrenches free.
He turns to run, and Vale catches him by the sleeve and pulls him back. Hands grip his biceps through his sweater, and even through the cloth August can feel that warmth, that radiant, healing glow, and it makes him sick. The same warmth that had felt like salvation ten minutes ago feels like a brand now. A collar. A leash dressed up as kindness.
"August, wait—"
"I trusted you." The words tear out of him before he can stop them, and he doesn't realize until they're in the air just how true they are. Despite every instinct. Despite every warning. Despite the voice in his head that had been screaming since the subway that this was a trap, that no Templar would ever choose him over the Order, that the only person August could rely on was himself. He had trusted Vale. Had shown him his apartment, his research, his body's ruin. Had followed him into the warehouse and closed a rift and fallen into his arms. Had put what little life he had left in this man's hands and believed, foolishly, desperately, with the same stubborn optimism that had carried him through the years, that those hands would hold it gently.
Knox glances at the open door, at the hallway beyond, and seems to realize this is all going down where anyone could possibly be witness. He makes a tactical decision and steps inside and closes the door behind him, which leaves August trapped in his own apartment with two Templars and the only exit sealed.
August tries to break Vale's grip. He knows he can't, since Vale is physically stronger by an order of magnitude, and even gentle, his hold is immovable. But the instinct to fight overrides the logic, and he pulls against those hands until the futility of it makes something hot and desperate build behind his eyes.
He could cast. Vale's healing has cleared enough corruption that the shadows pooling in the apartment's corners are calling to him, familiar, eager, ready. He could summon a burst of death magic right now, at this range, and stun Vale long enough to get through the door. He'd pay for it in veins and years and pain, but he'd be free. It wouldn't work against two Templars in a sustained fight, but he doesn't need to win. He just needs to run.
The moment comes.
And goes.
The shadows stay where they are.
He doesn't want to hurt Vale. Even now. Even believing the worst. Some traitorous, suicidal part of him would rather be dragged to the Order in chains than raise his hand against this man, and that realization terrifies him more than anything else that's happened in the last three days.
"He's my partner, August." Vale's voice is low, urgent, stripped of its usual composure. He's normally so controlled, so aloof, so carefully unreadable, that seeing him raw and frayed and visibly afraid of losing something is the thing that makes August stop pulling. "He can track me. I can track him. It's part of the bond. He didn't know you were here. He was looking for me."
August swallows against the nausea rising in his throat. He looks at Knox, who is standing by the door with his hands clasped in front of him, making no aggressive move, wearing an expression that's less hostile and more resigned. The particular resignation of a man who has walked in on his partner doing something spectacularly ill-advised and is not remotely surprised.
Trusting Vale had cost August everything he had. Trusting two Templars might cost him everything he has left.
But the alternative is running. Again. Alone. Again. Back into the dark with his corruption and his maps and his dying body and no one to hold the line while he closes rifts. Back to beingthe only person who cares enough to try, and back to dying for it, alone in a subway tunnel or a cemetery or wherever the end finally catches him.
He pulls his attention back to Vale, who is watching him with that unbearable intensity, the same focus he'd had on the couch, as though August is the only thing in the room that matters. It's too much and not enough and August can feel the panic receding despite himself, draining from his body the way it always does when Vale's warmth seeps through.
He goes still in Vale's grip. Stops fighting. It doesn't quite feel like giving up. It feels like something worse: choosing, consciously, to stay. Deciding that this man, this impossible, infuriating, steady man, is worth the risk.
Vale seems to sense that he's not going to bolt any longer and releases him slowly. The warmth withdraws, and the low ache reasserts itself immediately.
August reaches for him.
He catches Vale's wrist. Wraps his fingers around it, feeling the pulse beneath the skin, steady and strong and alive, and the contact sends warmth flooding up his arm and into his chest. The ache quiets. The burn dims. The world steadies.
Vale goes very still.
This is the first time August has initiated contact. The first time he's reached for Vale rather than being caught. August can feel the weight of it in the silence between them, the shift in gravity, the admission of trust he's making with his hand that he isn't willing to make with his mouth.
He doesn't look at Vale. He can't.
"So," Knox says from the door, with the tone of a man who has just watched something very private and is handling it with admirable grace. "I see you found your necromancer."
August opens his mouth to object, because he's not Vale's necromancer, he's no one's necromancer, but Vale answers first.
"Look, it's complicated, okay?" Vale turns toward Knox, and as he does, he shifts his wrist in August's grip. Rotates it smoothly, deliberately, until it's not his wrist August is holding but his hand, all five fingers threaded between August's, interlocked, warm.
August's heart stops. Restarts. Trips over itself.
