"And you're still as sure of yourself as ever." There was no judgment when he spoke; indeed, his tone almost sounded pleased, nostalgia lending a softness to his voice.
Adam felt the warmth of James' hand through the cloth of coat and shirt, realizing even as he did that was impossible. Still, the pass of his hand was impossible to ignore: faint pressure, a familiar touch, a liberty he had no right to take. Still, Adam did not move away. His eyes fell to his friend's - friends? At once it felt like the right word, and not - hands as he considered his answer. It was not a question to be taken lightly; of that much he was certain.
What he felt in that snow-blasted country, surrounded by trees of impossible height and width, ancient beyond measure, was a kind of comfort that went soul-deep. Something in this place called to him, as did something in his friend; it went far deeper than flesh, was older than their stormy and complicated past together. He felt a kinship with him, though not of the fraternal sort, a tumultuous kind of draw shot through with something dark. It was not fear, but simple knowledge: the certainty of doom.
"It does," he said, an inexplicable sadness bleeding into his voice. "I think I've been here before. With you." The last somehow sounded like a question, though Adam was not certain that was how he intended it.