eng.,"the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand."

This is my (late, why am I always late) PruAus Secret Santa fic for the wonderful microcystisistheworst on tumblr, who requested Austria as a Catholic priest. The title was originally just a working title, but I ended up shrugging and just rolling with it.

I must point out that, while I can write essays about historical Catholicism (particularly in England), I don't know much about modern Catholicism, such as what practices they've retained. I tried not to include what I do not know, and any mistakes within are my own. I have also chosen to pretend that this Catholic church isn't an asshole Catholic church, and therefore there's no violent stigma against homosexuals, because thankfully not all Catholic churches are awful. Also any wonky characterisation is just me trying to remember how to write non-country Hetalia fics.

-x-

appropinquavit enim regnum cælorum

The first time Gilbert walked into the church was the day before Old Fritz died. He wasn't Catholic, had never been raised a Catholic (had, in fact, been raised in a branch of Christianity opposed to Catholicism, but wasn't all that religious for it), but in that moment he hadn't even thought to wonder whether or not he was in the right place. A church was a church was a church, and praying (begging) in a warm, dry building was far preferable to praying out in the rain. Dimly he thought he should be helping with preparations for the funeral, the one they all said was inevitable, but he couldn't—there was no—

He swore under his breath, and someone gave him a sharp look. Gilbert ignored it. He also ignored the fact that the man who had given him the look was dressed in a priest's black attire, just like he ignored the pretty colour of the man's eyes and the slender shape of his hands as he walked among those who had gathered to pray.

Gilbert ignored a lot of things in that first month. When Old Fritz died, he hated God all the more for it.

-x-

Rituals and elaborate ceremonies had never appealed much to Gilbert. They didn't appeal to him as he stood by Fritz's grave, the sun shining brightly overhead, and they didn't appeal to him later on, when his only concern was seeing how long it would take him to get to the bottom of his beer bottle. The Catholic Church itself had always had a special, disdainful place in his heart, their elaborate ceremonies and rituals coming across as overly frivolous and stinking of the hegemony of Rome and the Pope. Old Fritz hadn't been laid to rest in the consecrated earth of a Catholic cemetery, had instead been interred elsewhere, preferring to be whole rather than reduced to ashes. Yet it was the steps of a Catholic Church he wandered onto two months following Old Fritz's death, having begged Antonio to watch young Ludwig, something his old friend had done with worry clear in his eyes.

He remembered the building well, though of course he had not seen it for months. It was large, as most churches were, the old spire at the top twisting into the sky, as if it were trying to reach Heaven itself, and Gilbert's eyes rested on the gold-plated cross that topped the building, contempt welling in his chest even as the beckoning aura of the church itself reached him. It was not the only church in the town, but it was certainly the largest—and, many said, the oldest building in the town. It certainly looked it, with its dark stone walls and the vaguely pointed arches that marked it as some kind of Gothic building, though even Gilbert could tell that parts of the building pre-dated the architecture of its spire. There were Romanesque influences for sure, and he could swear that parts of the brickwork were entirely different colours. Even with its almost hodgepodge mixture of architectural styles, however, the church dominated the skyline of the town, and in the darkness of the morning, when the winter months chased the sun from the sky in the early mornings, the building looked like it should have been more menacing than it was.

He waited for a long time at the closed front doors, the old wood taunting him, the iron fittings feeling like a cage even though he knew they were nothing. Standing outside, he was at the mercy of the cold, and he wondered why in the hell he had called Antonio so early—and why Antonio had agreed with worry in his voice, groggy with sleep though it had been. He also wondered why he had bothered coming here, when the only consistent emotion he could summon for the church's God was anger.

"Are you just going to stand there all day, or do you want in?" A lightly accented voice said, laden with irritation, and Gilbert yelped in a decidedly unawesome fashion even as he whirled around to face the source. He saw naught but a man, and that man—for that was all he was, not some heavenly interjection or messenger or whatever was supposed to appear at the old doors of a church—did nothing but direct a flat look his way before stepping by. Gilbert, his mouth halfway open, only stared at him, even as his face coloured with a combination of irritation and embarrassment, peeved with the tone the man had used to address him and by the fact that the lighting of dawn made it hard to see the man's face.

"Sor-ry, Priss," he snipped back, his eyes narrowing on the man's back. The man turned back, his lips pursed, but he merely turned back to the door of the church, opening it and striding in as if he owned the place. Gilbert shoved his hands into his pockets and walked after him, projecting an aura of confidence he did not feel, not realising just how cold it had been outside until he had stepped in and out of the wind.

Not that the old stone church was much better.

"Can I help you?" The man from the door asked, not bothering to take his own coat off, and Gilbert had to snort at the coat itself: a long thing of wool, dark grey and perfectly suiting the dreary atmosphere of the centuries-old building they now stood in.

"It's freezing in here," Gilbert grumbled, "and I don't need anything."

"You just make it a habit to stand forlornly outside a closed building for no reason, then," said the man, but the flat words were accompanied by a short sigh, and Gilbert decided he wasn't altogether fond of this man.

"The liquor store was closed," Gilbert snapped, the sarcasm thick in his voice, his own accent thickening. He bared his teeth in a fruitless gesture at the man's back, annoyed that the stranger wouldn't even turn around to acknowledge him. He watched with narrowed eyes as the man walked away instead, losing him in the darkness of the church only to reel back and blink when, moments later, light flooded the building. He could see everything now, from the rich red carpets to the pews carved with great skill and care. Above him the ceiling stretched up, much like the spire, and though the building was nothing like the pictures of London's Old St. Paul's or Westminster the illusion of height was still impressive. Above all, however, he was struck by just how warm and welcoming the church looked, even with the old styles, every decoration carefully placed to bring about a sense of warmth. Acceptance. But just as he could see the care in the church, he could also see the needless wealth, the opulence. And he hated it. He turned to look accusingly at the man, but he stopped, words frozen in his throat. His eyes, narrowed to protect them as they adjusted to the new lighting, rested on the figure of the man, and when he opened his mouth to say something the man cut him off with a curt, "The heater will kick in soon."

"Heater?" Gilbert said dumbly instead, and the man turned to face him with eyes that would have been able to cut through diamond.

"Yes. Contrary to popular belief, the church doesn't cling to the medieval way of heating. Don't be a fool."

Gilbert scowled at him, not liking the faint note of condescension in the man's tone. So he shot back a quick, "You just cling to every other medieval notion," and was rewarded with another sharp look as the man's mouth curled into an expression of disdain.

"And yet here you still stand," came the reply, and this time the man's voice was less sharp, more controlled. He surveyed Gilbert carefully for the first time since they'd entered the church, and Gilbert bristled at the look.

"Yeah," he shot back defiantly, grinding his teeth, unsure why this man—this stranger—was crawling under his skin so. "You going to kick me out, Priss?"

The man turned away from him then, removing his jacket, and Gilbert nearly choked when the vestments of a priest was revealed to him, the only thought going through his mind being a groaned of fucking course.

"All are welcome in the House of God," the priest said then, his voice back to being flat and even, his face closed off and his demeanour graceful and sure, as if he were poised on the edge of the world, facing down all those who dwelt within. "Even you."

And despite himself, despite the worries and the responsibilities that now threatened to crush him (despite Ludwig, his brother that he loved dearly, more dearly than anything, dearly enough to push aside everything and anything—Ludwig, who now depended on him, the centre of Gilbert's entire world), Gilbert relaxed.

-x-

"I don't believe in any of this you know, Father," Gilbert said later that day, when the churchgoers had left and he had stopped trying to hide himself in the shadows, doing his best to distance himself from the faithful, to unconsciously proclaim that he was not one of them. "I don't believe in your church."

The priest sent him a withering look, his hand—and those lovely, slender fingers—resting on one of the desks in the north transept. "You seemed to when you were hear last," he said, and Gilbert froze.

"What are you talking about," he bluffed, but his face was red and the priest looked unimpressed.

"You were here last month. You were hard to miss."

Gilbert scowled darkly at him before crossing his arms over his chest, refusing to answer, his mind flashing back to that day when he had thought, in a moment of weakness, that maybe a miracle might've saved Old Fritz. The priest looked at him for a few moments more and then turned to straighten the display.

"Death in the family," Gilbert blurted after a few moments of uncomfortable silence. "Before he died, I thought that—well, it didn't work, now did it? Doesn't really matter what I thought. Things changed."

The priest was silent for a few more moments before he sighed, turning to face Gilbert with a knowing light in his eyes that Gilbert didn't like. He bristled, and the priest slowly raised one hand as if to placate him. Gilbert bristled more.

"I wonder why you are here now, then," the priest said, but there was no question at the end. It was merely a statement, and Gilbert felt momentarily pleased that he wouldn't have to answer any inane questions.

"Beats me, priss," was all he said. "Beats me."

-x-

The priest's name, he later learned, was Roderich Edelstein (or Reverend Roderich Edelstein, he supposed), and Gilbert wasn't sure he'd ever been so vexed by one man. Roderich was not the picture of priesthood that Gilbert had always painted in his head: an old, balding friar with a paunchy stomach and an eternal reserve of gentle, fatherly patience. Nor was he the alternative: the Bible-thumper with hateful eyes and a sharp, accusing voice. Roderich could be sharp, yes; he was patient, yes; but he was also diligent and dignified, his posture never faltering, his hands—those lovely hands Gilbert had noted even in the midst of grief—always there to guide.

He was also, as Gilbert had discovered, no pushover. When Gilbert pushed, challenging his belief, Roderich pushed back, and it was then that his eyes came to life, blazing with the fire of his faith in a way that would make Gilbert grin and challenge him even more in an effort to ruin that calm, dignified appearance. Even months down the road it never got old.

(It was also always amusing to see Roderich yell at the occasional tourists that came in, touching everything, their voices like foghorns and their phones always out to snap selfie after selfie. It was especially amusing to watch Roderich's face flush an angry red when they forgot to turn their flashes off.)

Today, however, Gilbert felt nervous. In the months that had followed Old Fritz's death, the official guardianship of Ludwig had been passed to him, and Antonio had recently put his foot down about Gilbert's disappearances.

"Mi amigo, you are near and dear to my heart, and I would do anything for you, but Ludwig is your brother. Your responsibility. Lo siento, you must watch him yourself."

"This is a big church," Ludwig said from beside him, his blue eyes surveying the building in front of him. There was a child's wonder in them, and it made Gilbert relax a little, confidence blossoming in his chest. Ludwig's customary severity was there as well, but at least it was more than the dull looks the boy had been sending him since Old Fritz's death. Ludwig was old enough to understand what death was, what it meant, but with that came the questions, the worries, the ones that Gilbert could, in good conscience, answer.

"Brüder, where do we go when we die? Antonio said that there is a wonderful place, a place filled with angels and a man named Dios. Who is He? Is Fritz there with Him?"

Gilbert could've cuffed his old friend for filling Ludwig's head with these questions, this nonsense, but the stab of guilt had been too intense. He should have been the one reassuring Ludwig, and instead he had been scampering off whenever possible, either to work or to come here, to this old building, to this faith that he hated, hoping to draw his own comfort from it while loathing himself for doing so.

They had made sure to come after the early Sunday service, and Gilbert made sure to keep Ludwig close even as he shot clandestine glares at some of the richer decorations, the threads of gold and the plated ornaments that were scattered around the nave. He grunted, but floundered a bit when Ludwig directed a curious look at him, and was saved from having to answer a potential "what is it, brüder?" by Roderich's approach.

"Gilbert," the man said simply, as always. Gilbert stared at him for a moment or two before he sneezed, and Roderich managed a sigh before turning his attention to Ludwig, whose hand was clutched firmly in Gilbert's. "Who is this?" he asked, and though his voice was not gentle or coddling he regarded Ludwig with the severity of address that children often wished to see in the eyes of adults. Prussia beat down a small stab of warmth in his chest.

"Ludwig," came the careful reply, and Roderich nodded. Gilbert shuffled uncomfortably.

"Luddy has some questions for you, Priss. Thought you'd be better to answer them than my awesome self," Gilbert grumbled, and Roderich's only verbal response was a brief indeed before he carefully extended a hand to Ludwig, one the boy looked at thoughtfully for a moment before taking it. When Roderich looked up, there was a soft note in his eyes that made Gilbert blink with shock.

"Let us see if I can answer your questions for you then, liebling," Roderich murmured, and Gilbert could only watch them converse, listening but not hearing, wondering what in the world he could do to see that softness again.

-x-

The improvement in Ludwig was gradual, but undeniable. He was still serious, but he always had been, and the listlessness left his eyes. He spoke highly of the prissy priest and often asked Gilbert to take him to the church when there was time, something that Gilbert was increasingly reluctant to do.

"What can it hurt?" Francis had said when Gilbert had grumbled about it one night, the three of them clustered around Gilbert's kitchen table while Ludwig slept upstairs. "The boy is comforted, you feel less terrible about your horrible parenting skills, and everyone is happier for it, non?"

"Aye, mi amigo. Church cannot hurt him," Antonio added.

Gilbert scowled into his beer mug. "You would say that, religious bastard," he muttered, shooting them both dark looks. Francis merely raised an elegant eyebrow, tugging at a strand of his long blonde hair. Antonio surveyed him with a seriousness that belayed the grin on his face. "I still don't like it. Never have. I shouldn't have brought him—Roderich will probably fill his head with stupid stories and—well, other unawesome things."

"Roderich?" Francis queried while Antonio shrugged.

"Fucking priest," was all Gilbert said. Francis's other eyebrow joined his first one, and Antonio hid a smile in his drink.

"It is not such a big deal," Antonio said after a moment. "You said when you went there you felt more comfortable, sí? The same goes for Ludwig. Just because you no longer find it comforting doesn't mean he does not."

"God didn't help—" Prussia cut himself off and downed more of his drink. When he looked up his friends were looking at him with twin expressions of pity. "If you say anything, I'll kick you out," he threatened. "I hate that place. It's filled with… with garbage masqueraded as holy and decorated in fucking gold. It's disgusting. My awesome self likes it not."

"Yet you keep going back. And it is not so bad, you know. The icons let people connect to Dios how they will," Antonio murmured, the first part of his statement unintentionally mirroring Roderich's words from months ago, and when Francis hummed his agreement Gilbert only scowled more.

He didn't say a word for the rest of the night.

-x-

"It really is disgusting, you know," Gilbert commented later one Sunday, his hands shoved in his pockets as he aimlessly followed Roderich up the length of the nave. Ludwig was off somewhere nearby, walking among the pews. The lightness in Ludwig's steps these days was worth dragging him here to this building, Gilbert found. Mostly.

Roderich said nothing to him at first, the silence between them stretching so long that Gilbert began to wonder if the priest had even heard him, but then Roderich sighed. Gilbert barely repressed a snort at the long-suffering note in the other man's voice.

"What is?" Roderich finally asked, and Gilbert flicked his eyes disdainfully to the building around them, pausing for a moment to look at the glittering golden cross that adorned the altar. He grimaced.

"The fucking opulence of this place," he said then, and Roderich's eyes narrowed. Gilbert soldiered on. "I mean, look at it. Gold leafing everywhere, everything's a great fucking ceremony—it's all needlessly complicated. Why not just ask God what you want directly? Why all this pomp and circumstance? You may think I'm ignorant of things, but I know for a fact that Martin Luther didn't tack a piece of paper to a wall to have everything still the same."

The silence between them was even more poignant this time, and Roderich's face was a frozen mask even as he turned away from Gilbert, his eyes sliding to where the altar lay with perfect symmetry in the apse.

"England nearly destroyed itself splitting its church," Roderich replied eventually, lips thinned in a familiar expression. "No institution is ever without fault."

"That's stupid," Gilbert snapped. "The church has had more breaks that a shattered vase. You think I'm some fool, but I know more than you think I do. England is doing fine. They have no need for the Pope in Rome."

Roderich's voice was terse when he spoke next. "England's church is more Catholic than Protestant, and only fools would think otherwise. You think Cromwell and his Puritans wouldn't weep upon seeing St. Paul's now? You think the famed Westminster is without its opulence, without its ceremony? They are Catholics in all but name."

"Then why bother? You're left with a corrupt institution either way, praying to a God that may or may not even exist. You lead a heard of sheep in worship to an invisible being, Roderich. Why is it you think your God listens when you speak to Him? When you speak these outdated rituals?"

"The people need tradition, Gilbert," Roderich said then, and in his eyes was a fierce light that made Gilbert's mouth go dry. "As their priest, it is my job, my duty, to give it to them, no matter what you may think. If it brings comfort to them as it brings comfort to me, then it is not your business to come into their sanctuary—into my sanctuary—and tell them they are wrong. If you are going to come here and insult the faith of the people who gather in these walls, to insult their beliefs, then I will have to ask you to leave."

Gilbert felt a flush of humiliation and anger creep up his neck. Roderich's genuine anger hurt far more than he'd thought it word, making his stomach twist uncomfortably, and for a moment all he wanted to do was apologise, anything to alleviate the twist, but instead he pride made him snap, "Then maybe I will. Maybe my awesome self will leave, and I'll never darken the door of your precious sanctuary ever again."

Roderich blinked, and his mouth thinned. When he spoke, Gilbert felt as if the large front doors were slamming in front of him, a loud noise that reverberated inside his skull, inside his imagination.

"Then do so."

-x-

He could feel Francis' irritation all the way from the doorway, but could do little more than moan feebly as his brain tried to escape the confines of his skull. There was a sigh, irritated and probably accompanied by the rolling of a pair of blue eyes (a sigh that nonetheless reminded him of the priest, and that alone made Gilbert want to find another bottle and start drinking until he couldn't form thoughts), and then Gilbert felt a cup of water pressed firmly into his hand.

"Drink this. All of it. Even I have my limits, Gilbert, and a week of this is it. If I see one drop left in this cup I will tell Arthur that you're the one who replaced all his fine ales with American beer."

"That was you, you French bastard, and get out of my—" Gilbert cut himself off with a wince, then promptly downed the water. Francis took it from him, and Gilbert could feel his friend's disapproval like a physical wave slamming into him. He tossed a hand up over his eyes both to block out the light and to shield himself from whatever Francis was about to say to him.

What he heard next, however, made him fall off the couch in shame and shock.

"Brüder?" Ludwig said carefully, and Gilbert could hear his brother's footsteps on the wooden floor as he picked himself up off of it. "Are you all right?" And instantly the guilt slammed into him, the guilt and the terror and the I'm a terrible parent I can't be a parent I don't deserve Ludwig what have I done.

Gilbert waited until Francis closed the door before he groaned and rubbed his eyes, trying to open them. He made a mental note to kill Francis for his friend's emotional blackmailing, and occupied with thoughts of revenge against the Frenchman—maybe he'd convince Arthur to start cooking again—and wallowing in his own guilt and inadequacies he wasn't prepared for the way Ludwig suddenly rushed him, clinging to Gilbert like his life depended on it, his little body shaking with sobs.

"Hey, hey, I'm all right, see? My awesome self is perfectly all right, no need to worry," Gilbert said, a hint of panic entering his voice as he carefully wound his arms around the boy, his brother, his responsibility.

"Are you upset because you yelled at Reverend Edelstein?" Ludwig whispered against Gilbert's shirt, and he froze with an awkward laugh.

"No. Not at all, I—"

"I think he was upset that he got cross with you," Ludwig continued like he hadn't heard. "He was sad when you brought us out."

Gilbert was silent at that, guilt clawing at his stomach. He held Ludwig tighter.

"Can we go back to the church?" Ludwig whispered then, voice so full of sadness and hope that Gilbert could only clutch him back and nod.

-x-

When Gilbert walked into the church the next week, after the churchgoers had all mostly filed out, it was with feigned confidence. He wanted to assure Ludwig that it would be all right, that Roderich couldn't very well ban them from a public place of worship, seeing as it went against all his outdated teachings, but he didn't have the words. Instead he merely watched as Ludwig slowly let go of his hand, walking slowly up to the priest, who watched him coming with a note of trepidation. When Ludwig carefully wrapped his arms around the priest's waist, he pretended not to notice the softness in Roderich's eyes and the surge of that now-familiar warmth in his own chest.

"Gilbert's sorry," Ludwig whispered, so quiet that Gilbert barely caught it. He balked, indignant and ready to deny it, but when he met Roderich's eyes the protests died in his throat and he swallowed thickly instead. More than anything, he thought, he wanted this man's forgiveness. He wanted—well, he wanted a great many things in that moment.

"Yeah," he said hoarsely, "I am."

Roderich waited, silent, and then, in a quiet voice, tempered with the same softness that had been in his eyes, he said, "So am I."

-x-

"I think I'm in love with a priest," Gilbert blurted sometime after that. A year since Old Fritz's death, he thought blearily. Nine months since he had started bringing Ludwig to the church.

Francis choked on his wine, and Antonio blinked.

"Ah, pardon me, Gilbert, but I'm not sure I heard you right," Francis spluttered, and Gilbert almost grinned at the comical look of shock on his friend's face. Antonio had recovered more quickly, a curious light in his green eyes. Gilbert suddenly wanted to pretend he hadn't said anything.

So he did.

"Ludwig got an A on his test today," he tried, but Francis merely shook his head, giving him a piercing look.

"Non, Gilbert," he said as Antonio chuckled. "That little tactic will not work. Please, I live with Arthur, and he has all the social graces of a large brick." The Frenchman snorted at the thought. "Between you and him, I am immune to all your, shall we say, horrible diversion tactics. Except, perhaps, the more intimate ones, but for the sake of my sanity please don't. Arthur's the jealous type."

Gilbert almost snorted his beer out his nose, his face turning bright red. "He's a priest," he muttered, not sure why Francis' statement had made him blurt that. "Vows of celibacy or some shit, y'know?"

Francis looked stricken. "As your friend, my dear Gilbert, I must then advise you to not pursue this path. It is not worth it."

Antonio said nothing, merely gazing at him with an enigmatic smile pulling at his lips, and when Gilbert lifted his mug to his mouth he thought about what Francis had said. Then he thought about the months in the church, this church he hated, but the man within that kept dragging him back somehow. He thought about the gross wealth of the building, wealth that would have been greater in years past but that was still fairly obvious. He thought about Ludwig, smiling and happy, asking careful question after careful question and receiving patient answers from the man who was in charge of it all. Thought about that man himself, about the prettiness of his hands and the colour of his eyes and the way they could be cold one moment and fierce the next.

He thought about his own life, how this unawesome church and the man who dwelled within her had, inadvertently, shaped his life for the past year.

"Yeah," he said as he lowered his glass, "I think it would be."

-x-

This time, when they went, Gilbert asked Ludwig if he could have a word with Roderich alone. Ludwig had looked at him for a moment, and Gilbert had reddened slightly under his brother's searching gaze, but when Ludwig had nodded Gilbert had relaxed, then chided himself for showing weakness again, especially at such a crucial point.

"Yo, Priss," he greeted when they strolled in, and Roderich gave him an irritated look that was more reflexive than meaningful these days. "My awesome self needs to talk to you," Gilbert continued, before he could lose his nerve. "It's—it's important. And I need to do it now."

Roderich hummed in thought, but he nodded, waving one hand carefully towards the apse. They left Ludwig at one of the transepts and approached the large altar at the end, and Roderich turned to him, his face guarded. Gilbert swallowed.

"I—look, you'd better listen to me when I say this, all right? I mean it. No interrupting or anything like that, because this is really important and I need—"

"Gilbert," Roderich said, and Gilbert broke off and scowled, but then realised he had been rambling. He scowled again.

"The thing is, I think I like you. A lot. And more importantly, Ludwig adores you. Don't know why, you're kind of a priss and you're uptight and you're taller than me which is completely un-awesome and—"

"Yes, Gilbert, thank you."

"Shut up, priest. You're terrible at not interrupting," Gilbert said, frustrated. He ran a hand through his hair. "What I want to say is I like you. I want to do… whatever the hell couples are supposed to do, with you. Fight over stupid shit. Drink beer or coffee or some shit in the evenings. Or tea if you're a pansy like Arthur, though Arthur can knock down a beer or two." He flushed at Roderich's look. "Right. Point is, you make me feel—warm. At home. You even make me hate this place less, and I want—I want to see you, y'know, outside of here. And stuff."

"And stuff," Roderich echoed, but he looked troubled and Gilbert's heart sank. It must have reflected on his face, for suddenly Roderich reached out, touching his wrist lightly.

"You know I have taken vows of celibacy. I cannot break them, nor would I want to," Roderich said, voice even, but Gilbert saw the way his eyes were hooded, knew what was going through the other man's mind as he spoke the words. Gilbert shook his head.

"Look, I don't give a shit about that, all right? I don't need your—your body, or anything like that. I want you. Whatever it is you can give. And I know that maybe the church doesn't like this stuff, men liking men and women liking women, but I—well, I don't believe in this, not really, and I like you. Can't be wrong if your God made me like this or whatever you believe, right? So long as we don't kill anyone."

Roderich's grip tightened a bit, and suddenly his eyes grew soft again, and with that Gilbert felt the familiar rush of warmth. He curled his hand around Roderich's, breathing in the church air, wondering if this was what it felt like to believe, to believe in miracles and bathe in the holy light, to believe in a God who loved them all. But he didn't need the Christian God, not really. All he needed was standing right here, in front of him, and he felt light-headed, waiting for Roderich's answer. The man gave it when he stepped forward, resting a hand lightly against the side of Gilbert's face, and Gilbert exhaled the breath he didn't know he'd been holding in.

"All right, you great fool," Roderich said, but his voice wasn't as sharp, wasn't as flat, wasn't anything Gilbert had ever dreamed he'd hear before. "All right."

And above them, through the large rose window, the light spilled down on them, bathing them in their own kind of Heaven.