Work Text:
The relic of the old Kilmannán monastery is somewhere around two-thousand years old. It is nestled inside a metal box studded with gems and lined with velvet. The box's age has been determined by the oldest parts of it, identified in piecemeal. Here is a repair from the 16th century, but here is a bit of additional ornamentation from the 15th—but here, this part is original, therefore the box was made circa the 1100s. The relic is—
"A rock," says David, frowning at the museum exhibit.
Diarmuid corrects him. "It's the rock that killed St. Matthias." He taps at the information placard on the wall.
Is it? David stares at it doubtfully. It's a large rock. Looks like it should be collecting moss in a garden. But it's here in this little museum with a little plaque that declares it not only a relic but a well-loved part of local history.
But above all else it is a rock. Just a rock, David thinks, but he keeps his mouth shut. All these years he's been walking his earth, he knows when to keep his mouth shut. For now, he enjoys following Diarmuid's lead as they wander through a medley of artifacts and folk art and old photographs enlarged to poster-size.
Near the entrance there's a wall-sized family tree with dozens of branches and hundreds of names sourced from church records. Diarmuid's ancestors are all labeled there. He can trace his family line back to at least the 15th century, though apparently things get iffy beforehand and the family tree in this museum doesn't even go back that far, but Diarmuid has told David that everyone in his family considers it just plain fact that their roots in Kilmannán predate the Anglo-Norman invasion. David took a photo of him grinning wildly and pointing to their section of the tree.
It's a good photo. Diarmuid's never taken a bad photo, in David's opinion.
"Oh, there's the gift shop! They sell jam!" Diarmuid exclaims. He takes David's hand and drags him over, the exhibit quickly forgotten in the face of homemade blackcurrant and elderberry jams. They can get jam at home, but it's not Irish jam produced by local monks, which makes it infinitely better, at least according to Diarmuid.
Still, something bothers him about the rock. David pauses to look back at it, frowning. He thinks something very stupid, which is, I've seen that before. He chides himself. Of course he has. It's a fucking rock. He sees them on construction sites all the time, hauls them out of the dirt to clear the way for cement and wood. And yet—this particular rock—it just looks familiar.
Diarmuid asks, "David? Are you alright?"
"Got déjà vu, I guess," he replies, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Really? Anything I need to know about?" Diarmuid's voice is teasing. He gives David a soft jab in the side with his elbow. "Was there another Irish boyfriend who finagled you into coming here?"
David laughs. Jesus, finagled—Diarmuid isn't even thirty and yet he talks like someone getting ready to retire to the countryside. David fucking loves him. He says, "Nah, just one of them things, I guess. You know I never even looked at another Irishman before you, baby," and bends down to give Diarmid a quick kiss.
"Just for that, I'll let you choose one of the jams we're taking home. My treat."
"Big spender."
Diarmuid pats his stomach fondly. "I have to keep you well-fed!"
He holds the basket as Diarmuid fills it with jams and jellies and preserves and whatever other souvenirs catch his eye and David thinks, happily, that they have three more days here in Ireland together and then they will return home to their apartment together and that his life now is entertwined with Diarmuid's, together, always together.