Title: Catharsis
Author: dealiberty
Pairing: Gawain/Galahad (more later)
Rating: R
Dedication: For eudaimon. Originally, I think, in return for graphics. Now, it's just for always being here, for being so good to me even in the short time we've known each other and, most of all, just for being you.
A/N: This fic is complete. A chapter will be posted twice a week, on Fridays and Tuesdays. Thanks to both eudaimon and trinityc for beta-ing, and the endless support you've given me.

"Tell me, Galahad, who makes these?"

"Tristan."

Galahad is asleep in his arms, and Gawain is tracing the scars on his back and watching him, curled protectively around him. Contrary to his loving, soothing touch, Gawain's angry. He's angry at Tristan. He's angry at himself. And he's not sure if he's angry that Tristan dared to hurt Galahad – or that Tristan's marks litter his Galahad's back, as if claiming him, mocking Gawain with their presence.

He is not yours alone.

Someone else has seen and marked what belongs to you.

You could not protect him.

Gawain wants to erase those thoughts, wants to be able to erase the marks on Galahad's back, wants to erase time. But he can't. And he lies awake, tracing the very images that have condemned him to sleeplessness.

He is not sure which accusation, which claim, which damnation hurts the most.

He has not asked Galahad about it. Not further than he already has. He remembers Galahad's huge, frightened eyes, staring up at him filled with dread, but so pure – so honest. He cannot lie to Gawain – he would not. Even though it hurts him. Gawain doesn't want to hurt him any more. He never wants to hurt Galahad.

But he knows that there is more than what Galahad is letting on.

The younger knight shifts in his arms, and Gawain unconsciously pulls him tighter, automatically settling Galahad back against him.

And Gawain can't help but wonder if Galahad is this at ease – this natural – when he's with Tristan.

Gawain mentally shakes himself. He doesn't know the circumstances in which Galahad goes to Tristan. He doesn't know the nature of their relationship, if it can be called that. He doesn't know if Galahad is coerced into it or goes willingly.

Damn it. He doesn't know anything.

Gawain sighs and prepares himself for a restless night, Galahad's soft breathing not calming or comforting him as it usually does.

Instead, he continues to trace the scars. He is touching something untouchable. Tristan's marks. Tristan's art. Tristan. He knows he should not feel like he knows the scout better. He knows that those marks were not meant for his eyes. And he knows that he should not be this fascinated.

But he is mesmerised by their disconcerting beauty. And he is unsettled that he actually finds them beautiful.

Galahad shifts again, sending the moonlight rippling over liquid metal scars that seem to have gathered a life of their own. And Gawain cannot help but let his fingers follow, trailing, feather light, over the tiny uneven ridges, like Tristan's hawk gliding effortlessly, high above the rocky terrain.

Galahad shivers, leaning into the touch. He's almost awake now, Gawain knows from the change in his breathing: it's become shallower and slightly faster. It's a minute shift, but Gawain knows. He's always known Galahad like no other. He used to think he knew all there was to know about him.

But he hadn't known about Tristan.

Does Tristan know Galahad the way he does? Can Tristan tell the minute Galahad drifts from his flight in dreams back into their waking world? Can Tristan anticipate the second when Galahad's knees will buckle, when his eyes will roll, when his back will arch?

Does Tristan love Galahad the way he does?

Galahad pulls himself closer to him, nuzzling his neck and Gawain shifts a touch to accommodate him. He drops a kiss instinctively into Galahad's hair and smoothes it away from where it's plastered to his forehead, revealing a pair of sleepy green eyes, filled with contentment – contentment that changes into worry in the space of a single blink.

Galahad knows that he has not slept. Galahad knows everything there is to know about him. And this time, there are no exceptions.

He closes his eyes, not being able to meet the concern he can see in those depths.

"Gawain?" Troubled.

He does not answer, still hiding his eyes. He can feel Galahad pulling away a little. And then a hand is hesitantly cupping his cheek.

"Gawain." Pleading now, almost panicked. "Please look at me."

He can hear the traces of tears in Galahad's voice and his eyes snap open, almost of their own accord. He's never been able to deny Galahad anything. And he cannot stand the thought of making Galahad cry.

Galahad moves and rests his forehead against his own, making sure he has no way to escape, nowhere to hide. Not that he could have hidden anyway.

"Gawain, you were up all night." A statement, not a question, but Gawain feels the need to nod anyway. "Why?"

Gawain freezes. He doesn't know what to say, how to answer. It's the question that he's been dreading. Because he cannot lie to Galahad either.

But he does not want to tell the truth.

Instead, he kisses Galahad.

Galahad puts up a struggle at first but, if nothing else, Gawain knows exactly where and how to touch to have Galahad limp as a rag doll in his arms, panting and moaning his name like a prayer.

His name. Not Tristan's. His.

Galahad is thrashing now, begging Gawain to finish him off, to do with him what needs to be done, but Gawain's not ready yet. He wants Galahad to remember – remember that he's his.

Galahad's so far gone he can hardly form words, but he's nodding, pleading, begging in some language Gawain thinks only he can understand.

But maybe Tristan understands it too.

He can't get the thoughts of Tristan out of his mind.

He wants to know whether Galahad's this willing, this pliant, this responsive when it's Tristan in Gawain's place. He wants to know, even though he doesn't even know if Galahad's done this with another.

He drops a kiss onto Galahad's damaged skin. It doesn't really look damaged to him. Not anymore, not after a night of studying it, tracing it. Marked certainly, but he has to admit that Tristan's quite an artist. Sweat flows through the valley of scars, making Galahad's back look like some sort of river delta viewed from some great, impossible height, flowing and flooding with life.

Galahad pushes back against him, twisting and squirming and moaning and pleading – and all thoughts of valleys and deltas leave Gawain's head altogether as he reaches down to grab Galahad's cock and just concentrates on fucking him.

But one thing does not leave his mind. It seems like it cannot leave his mind. One individual, one image, one face.

He cannot rid himself of the thoughts of Tristan and Galahad – together – even as he brings them both to completion.

A/N: A note to say that this chapter has been cut. An NC-17 version can be found on my writing journal (the link is on my profile page). Alternately, you can email me for it.

Thanks for reading.

Dea