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“You want to steal from the Chantry,” Tarquin says, staring dubiously at Ashur across the table. He pushes away the serial he’d been reading. “You want us to steal–” he checks his notes– “Tithes. From the Chantry.”
“It’s blood money.” Ashur practically spits the words out. “Profits from the sales of people into slavery. To call it a tithe is blasphemy.”
Tarquin regrets that they are not alone and he can’t see Ashur’s face. Or maybe he just regrets that he isn’t alone, because Ashur’s righteous anger about the Chantry always gets his blood up. He’s not proud, but he’s also not trying to find it less of a turn-on. A man needs some kind of way to fall asleep at night, alone in his shitty humid apartment, when his only company is his own hands and all his unrequited lust for his friend-slash-partner-in-revolutionary-crime.
“All right. You want to steal from the Chantry, you’re the boss,” Tarquin shrugs, ignoring the flush he knows is spreading up his neck at the thought. “Do we have a plan?”
He can’t see Ashur’s face, but he knows the look in those eyes and knows exactly what he’s going to say. It’s the same thing he always says when he’s got some wild scheme brewing that he’s convinced will work out– and, if Tarquin is honest, it usually does.
“I do,” he says.
+
“These fucking robes are itchy,” Tarquin complains, picking at the Chantry garb that Ashur handed him an hour ago. “Why are they itchy? I thought you lot had decent tailors.”
“These are initiates’ robes,” Ashur says, as though this should explain the scratchiness of the material. Ashur has added a veil to his, just in case they run into anyone who might recognize his face.
“All right?”
“They’re for newer clerics who have not yet risen in rank,” Ashur tells him.
“You can just say either ‘poor’ or ‘Soporati,’ you know,” Tarquin says. He scratches at his wrist where the hem of a sleeve is bothering him. “It won’t hurt my feelings.”
“Quin,” Ashur sighs.
“Okay, keep your hat on,” Tarquin laughs. “Here we are.”
The Imperial Institutum looms before them. It’s the Chantry’s fucking bank, where they keep relics of significance, meaning: coin, and a lot of other fancy shit that’s worth so much coin that they can’t let the common folk see it too often. The place has a long formal name, but he doesn’t care to know it.
“Only guards and caretakers should be here at this hour,” Ashur reminds him, as they approach the building. “The donations will still be undergoing the official count and record process and won’t be sealed away. This is the easiest time to divert a portion of them without anyone noticing.”
Tarquin nods, and ignores the little tingle of warmth in his gut that springs up at the irritated way Ashur says donations. “Right. And if we run into anyone? You bring your Divine permission slip?”
Ashur produces a letter from the pocket of his robes. The seal of the Imperial Divine– his fucking seal– glints golden in the magelights hovering above them. “Of course.”
Tarquin frowns at him. “That won’t come back on you, will it?”
Ashur shrugs. “Letters are intercepted from time to time. Tomorrow, someone will report that this one never arrived at its intended destination.”
“Let’s do this, then,” Tarquin says.
+
As soon as they step inside, of course, the plan immediately falls apart.
The entire space– the space that is supposed to be empty– is packed full of Chantry riff-raff. It looks like a party’s in progress: there’s wine, and people serving the wine, and Brothers and Sisters and Mothers and Fathers and Maker-knows-who-else milling about, drinking, laughing, and generally posing a serious obstacle to their snatch-and-grab plans.
“What,” Tarquin says, as Ashur puts a hand on his arm, “the fuck.”
“I don’t know,” Ashur answers. “But we need to get through here. The entrance to the halls that lead to the accounting rooms is across the way. Try to– blend in.”
“Blend in,” Tarquin hisses. “Me. Here.”
Ashur’s fingers on his arm tighten briefly, though whether it’s supposed to be a reassurance or a warning, he’s not sure.
“Why didn’t you know about this?” Tarquin murmurs. “Don’t you have to go to these things?”
“No,” says Ashur. Tarquin thinks that one little word is about as snobby as he’s ever heard Ashur be, and it must have shown on his face. His fingers brush Tarquin’s forearm as he lets go, leaving warmth and more stupid tingles in their wake. “I mean no offense, I simply can’t attend every Chantry function.”
“Guess that would cut into the vigilantism,” Tarquin mutters.
Ashur ignores this. “This seems to be a mostly administrative gathering,” he observes. “I see a few Fathers and Mothers, but no Grand Clerics. Let’s go.”
With that, he wades serenely into the crowd like he’s– well, like he’s the Imperial fucking Divine. Even in shoddy cleric’s robes, he can’t help the way he moves. Tarquin heaves a sigh and plunges in after him.
The buzz of conversation and chatter rises up to the marble ceilings and bounces back louder than it went up, making it hard to concentrate on moving through the crowd. They sidle unobtrusively past groups of mingling clerics in various stages of drunkenness. Tarquin does his best to avoid eye contact with any of them, just in case they’re sober enough to remember him later. He picks up fragments of conversation, enough to piece together that apparently this little after-hours shindig is an unauthorized retirement party for some ancient guy who’s been in service here for seventy fucking years. Well, good on him, then. Tarquin can’t even imagine living in these terrible robes for a day, let alone seven decades.
They make it almost all the way across the space before a man stops them to talk. From the trim on his robes and their slightly nicer construction, Tarquin’s guessing he’s a Father.
“Good evening,” he says. “It is always good to see initiates joining these gatherings. I am Father Tertius, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced?”
“I’m, uh, Brother…Quintus,” he says. Ashur grunts a little, and Tarquin wants to swear at him. He knows it’s too damn close to his own damn name, but if Ashur wants these little plans to go better, he can come up with the cover story next time.
Father Tertius doesn’t notice any of this, though. He just nods politely and looks expectantly at Ashur.
But Ashur doesn’t say a word. Instead, he grips Tarquin’s elbow tightly and waits, though for what, Tarquin can’t– oh. Of course. Of course, he’s here with the expert of experts on the Chantry, but the man can’t fucking talk. Anybody who’d been to a single service where Ashur had spoken would know that voice. Tarquin certainly can’t get it out of his head.
“Uh, apologies, Father,” Tarquin stammers. He wrinkles his brain searching for another name. At the rate he’s going, he’s like to call him Ashtus, or something. “Brother…uh, Lucius, here, has taken a– vow of silence. To…honor…the Maker.”
Father Tertius stares at him. Beside him, Ashur has gone still as a stone– probably saying a quick prayer to his Maker. Tarquin, who is an atheist all the way in his bones, simply holds his breath and waits for Father Tertius to call for the guards.
“Ah,” the Father says, after an uncomfortable moment has passed. “Of course. I should have realized after seeing the veil. So few these days choose to walk the path of the ascetic in honor of the Maker’s beneficence.” With a tilt of his head, he says, “Keep well, Brother Lucius. May you walk in the Maker’s light.”
Ashur– or Brother Lucius, now– gives a low, respectful bow in return, like the good Chantry boy that he is. After he steps on Tarquin’s foot, Brother Quintus does the same.
+
Once they get beyond the party and navigate the darkened hallways beyond, stealing part of the coin that represents this year’s tithe is actually absurdly easy. There’s an enchantment on the stuff, of course, but Ashur takes care of that with a practiced wave of his magical hands.
They take enough to fund a fair few refugees’ new lives away from slavery, but not so much that it’ll be immediately missed, then wrap the coins carefully in old serials to keep them from jingling before stuffing it into the satchels they have hidden under their robes.
“Apologies for ruining your serials,” Ashur says. “This was a good idea, though.”
“It’s fine, these aren’t any good anyway,” Tarquin tells him. “One of ‘em is about a heist and the way the heroes got away was the stupidest thing I’d ever read. And I’ve read a lot of these things.”
“Well, I appreciate it all the same,” says Ashur, as they finish adjusting their robes and slip back out into the dim corridor, carefully closing the door behind them. “I think– wait. Do you hear someone?”
Tarquin freezes instinctively, listening. Around the corner, the sound of armored boots clink against the stone floors, slowly but surely coming closer. He motions for Ashur to stay still and creeps up to the corner to peer quickly around.
“It’s a patrol,” Tarquin hisses, stepping back over to Ashur “Two guards. They’re making rounds, there’s no way they’re not checking back here where all the coin is.”
“Hmm. We can’t get out any other way. We need a distraction,” Ashur whispers, looking around the empty hallway.
Tarquin follows his gaze, though he’s certain that there isn’t anything here that can help– unless. The ridiculous serials wrapped around the stolen coins they’re carrying give him an idea. He remembers throwing this one aside in disgust after the improbable fucking ending, where the two heroes got away after robbing some evil magister’s mansion by pretending to be two party guests making out drunk and sloppy by the window that was their only exit. Real life doesn’t fucking work that way.
But– he looks at Ashur. Thinks about all the plans Ashur makes that go awry, just like this one, and work out anyway. Maybe if something that stupid is going to work for anyone, it’s going to work for Ashur. Maybe life can imitate art. Or, more likely, Tarquin just wants to kiss him, most of the time, and this is his shot. Might as well try it.
“I think we’re gonna have to be the distraction,” Tarquin mutters. “I’ve got an idea. You might not like it.”
“I trust you,” Ashur says evenly.
“That’s good, ‘cause I’m gonna kiss you,” Tarquin says.
“Okay,” Ashur nods, but before Tarquin can take another breath, Ashur has ripped half his stupid veil off his face and pulled Tarquin close. Surprised, he almost gets a mouthful of filmy fabric as Ashur all but smashes their lips together like he’s been waiting for this moment all his life.
He hasn’t, of course he hasn’t…but one thing about Ashur, the man respects a little drama. Tarquin has to hand it to him, he’s definitely playing it up. He’s got one hand in Tarquin’s hair and the other on his ass, and there’s enough tongue in this kiss now to take it from a little light sinning to full blown blasphemy, and that’s before Tarquin backs him up against the wall. If this is his one chance at kissing this idiot, he’s gonna make it good– although, if he didn’t know any better, from the noises Ashur’s making and the desperate way his hands are moving over Tarquin’s body, he’d think that Ashur was thinking the same damn thing. Maker’s fucking breath, is he going to remember this later. He’ll either sleep very soundly tonight or he’ll never sleep again.
These scratchy, flimsy robes are nothing like armor, so he can feel every movement of Ashur’s body against his. He can feel the outline of the stupid rolled-up coins hidden underneath Ashur’s robes, pressed hard against his hipbone, and a little lower and slightly to the right, a somewhat less hard but much more interesting pressure against his groin. It’s enough to distract him from the reason they started doing this in the first place. He knows there was a reason, and it wasn’t Ashur’s breathy “Please,” as he pulls one of Tarquin’s hands towards the sash of his robes, it wasn’t the unholy whine in the back of Ashur’s throat when Tarquin scrapes his teeth across his bottom lip and–
“Hey!” yells a voice. “You there! What are you– oh!”
Right. The fucking guards. The heist. The serial. The escape plan. Fuck.
On instinct, Tarquin puts his arms on either side of Ashur’s head, just to be sure they won’t see his face, and Ashur tucks his head away against Tarquin’s neck. Tarquin turns his head, just enough, in the direction of the voice, and finds two guards standing in front of them, one looking a little horrified, the other looking like he just got a ticket to a free fucking show.
“The fuck do you want?” Tarquin demands. He isn’t a great actor, can’t pick out a fake name to save his life, but fortunately, he’s not acting: he is actually pissed at the interruption. Probably Chantry brothers don’t swear like that, but maybe the ones who try and fuck another guy in a back hallway in the middle of a party do.
The taller guard shifts back and forth, looking absolutely everywhere but at the sight in of the two of them. “This area is restricted, Brother, uh– hm. What are you– ah– doing back here?”
“Minding our own fucking business, which is more than I can say for you,” Tarquin snaps.
The guy tenses up, but the other guard elbows him before he can speak. “Look, it’s pretty obvious what they’re doing back here, Lartius,” he says.
“Yeah, I fucking bet it is,” Tarquin grumbles. Beside him, Ashur snorts a little into his neck.
“They’re still not supposed to be here, Felius,” says the guy who is apparently called Lartius. Felius, who clearly cares about as much about this job as Tarquin cares about the Templars, just rolls his eyes.
“Could you just fuck off and let us get on with it?” Tarquin demands. “I know this can’t be the first fucking time you’ve caught someone back here like this, have you seen the state of the people out there? I’m surprised somebody hasn’t pinned their smallclothes to a fucking Chantry board by now.” Against his neck, Ashur huffs again, and at first Tarquin thinks he’s offended him, but then Ashur’s shoulders shake a little and– yeah, Maker’s balls, they’re being lightly interrogated and the man is fucking laughing.
“Listen,” Tarquin goes on, mostly addressing Felius, since he seems to give less of a shit. “You and I both know that if you drag us out of here, best case for you, you’ll have to do fucking paperwork about it. Worst case, they’re gonna want to know why you let us get this far in the first fucking place.”
“The man has a point,” Felius says. “I know you can’t afford to lose this job. I sure as fuck can’t.”
Lartius grapples with his principles and his pocketbook for a lot longer than Tarquin would have in his shoes. Finally, his shoulders slump.
“Right. Uh, sorry,” Lartius sighs. “We’ll just– we’ll be off, then, um. But next time, you should really find…another place to…meet.”
“I could help you find one,” Felius offers, and Tarquin cannot believe this, but he actually licks his fucking lips after he says it. Ashur makes a quiet little grunt of displeasure. Tarquin is inclined to agree.
“Felius!” gasps Lartius. “We’re on duty!”
“Yeah, and the answer’s no, in any case,” Tarquin says. Nobody’s kissing Ashur up against a wall but him, if he has anything to say about it.
“Hey, worth a shot,” Felius shrugs. “No offense intended, you just look good in those robes. I always thought the priest thing was hot.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” Tarquin grumbles. Beside him, Ashur clears his throat, and Tarquin rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know, go in the Maker’s grace, or whatever. But fuck off!”
After the guards finally depart, Ashur pulls his face away from Tarquin’s neck, and Tarquin takes a reluctant half-step backwards so that they’re no longer pressed up against each other.
He wonders what he looks like from Ashur’s point of view, because Ashur looks…well, flushed, and a little out of breath, with his stupid full lips drawn together in an almost-pout and his bright eyes fixed on Tarquin’s face. Basically, he looks like he’s just had someone’s tongue down his throat in a dimly lit hallway and he’s ready to get back to it any minute now, escape attempt be damned, and isn’t that interesting. It occurs to him that maybe Ashur needs a way to fall asleep, too, but he can’t follow that thought too far, or he’ll come on the spot.
“Can’t believe that worked. You should really do something about the lax security around here,” Tarquin jokes, to distract himself from the desire to push Ashur back up against the wall.
“I would,” Ashur shrugs, raising an eyebrow, “but since their ill-timed appearance gave me an excuse to finally kiss you…”
Tarquin does not remember how language works for a minute. “Finally?” Tarquin asks.
“Finally,” Ashur repeats, and smiles at him. Maker help him, he fucking smiles back.
Ashur reaches out and wraps his hand up in the front of Tarquin’s stupid scratchy robes, tugging him forward, and Tarquin lets himself be pulled, presses their mouths and bodies together again. This is not at all how he saw this evening ending, but he’s hardly going to turn down a night with Ashur after thinking about that very thing every night for the past…many nights.
Still– there are better places for a plan to…come together, as it were.
“Look,” he says, pulling back before they really get going again. “I want you to know, I don’t have any problem fucking you in a Chantry hallway–”
“Good to know,” Ashur rumbles, amused. “I don’t have a problem with that, either. But?”
“But I don’t know about you but I’d like to enjoy myself, and I can’t do that when I know we have a lot of stolen money on us, so let’s get the fuck out of here, yeah?”
“All right,” Ashur says, and kisses him again, but briefly this time. He reaches up to pin his veil back into place as Tarquin adjusts his robes. Tarquin sees a flash of amusement in Ashur’s eyes, just before the veil goes back up. “That guard was right about one thing. You do look good in Chantry robes.”
Tarquin bursts out laughing. "No I fucking don't,” he says, and presses a kiss to the outline of Ashur’s mouth under that damn veil. He winks. “Wanna take me home and take 'em off me?"
“I do,” he says, and Tarquin grins.