Title: Catharsis
Author: dealiberty
Pairing: Gawain/Galahad/Tristan
Rating: R
Dedication: For eudaimon, 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 the endless support you've given me. Only one more chapter plus an Epilogue to go until the end of our wonderful journey...

"And he gave himself to you."

"I can share. I can learn to share."

"Galahad…"

"Can learn too. If he wakes…"

"When he wakes."

He cradles Gawain close, chin resting on the top of Gawain's head; Gawain's curled to him, moulding, fitting against him. Gawain's breathing softly, idly playing with locks of Tristan's hair, his shirt. Lost in thought. Both of them. Lost in memories.

"Tristan?" It's a sigh, and Tristan feels his name more than he hears it.

"Hmm?"

"I'm worried. I…I want…I can't…but I want…"

"What, Gawain? What do you want?"

"You."

Tristan's breath catches and his hand stills. "Gawain…Gawain, I…"

"I know. I just…please. It's not escape. It's not…not anything except you. I want…I want you. I want this control out of my hands. I want you taking it. No one but you. Not a distraction, Tristan. Never a distraction." Gawain pleads. Tristan wouldn't have minded if he was a distraction, not really, but that fact that Gawain was thinking for him, thinking about his feelings, makes him want to do anything and everything for him. "Please."

Instead of answering - he does not have the words - Tristan tips Gawain's chin and kisses his lips, shifting so Gawain's pinned under him. Not like last time. This time, it's gentle, coaxing, soft - but just as hungry.

Gawain arches to his touch, hands moving up to rid Tristan of his shirt. Tristan shifts, making it easier for him, and runs his tongue along Gawain's lips, seeking entrance. Granted. And he swallows Gawain's moan.

Gawain tastes like sandalwood and musk and earth on a wet morning - which was ridiculous since he hadn't actually tasted any of those things and even if he had, they shouldn't be this good - Gawain tastes like something so distinctly him that Tristan's at a loss as to how to describe it. It's dizzying, intoxicating and he can't seem to get enough.

He releases Gawain's lips and kisses a trail to Gawain's ear, then down his neck, nipping and biting lightly.

Gawain's moaning, wreathing, squirming, arching up to meet him, breathing hard, panting. Eyes dark with arousal, staring at him - staring right into his soul - threatening to pull him in. He'd gladly lose himself in them; lose himself in Gawain's eyes.

He touches Gawain, making Gawain gasp, letting out a long guttural moan.

"Oh Gods, Tristan…"

"Hush." Gawain's coming undone, breathing coming shorter, eyes slipping shut, head thrown back.

One stroke.

Gawain. Young, bright-eyed, optimistic, head cocked sideways, looking at him curiously. Not complaining. Not crying. Just inquisitive. Shadows in his eyes, betraying his homesickness. But so bright. A light. A shining light for them all. Stable. Steadfast. Unwavering. That's Gawain.

Two strokes.

Galahad. Youngest, smallest, angriest, eyes - impossibly green - wet with tears, body trembling, afraid, so scared, so proud. Never give up, never give in, never second best. Determined, unwavering, loyal, like a puppy…obedient (to his owner), alert, eager to please, petulant, quick to anger. Fire. Flame burning, from small embers to roaring fire. That's Galahad.

Three strokes.

Gawain. Galahad. Together. Arms lightly resting on one another's, eyes bright, filled with love, adoration, ease around the other. Gawain leading Galahad in an exquisite almost dance of sword and shield, guiding him: his stance, his arms, his legs. Galahad, born to be lead by him, trusting, believing, following. In synch. Perfect. His world. He'd build his world around them. Risk his world for them.

He loses count, lost in the beauty that are his memories.

Perfection. His world. His past, present and future.

One more.

Together.

And Gawain arches, mouth open in a silent cry. His name. Galahad's. Something in between the two.

And Tristan follows; images evoked by the experience and the sight of Gawain, memory of Galahad and Gawain's gentle almost brush against him enough to send him tumbling- following Gawain, always following - over the edge.

Gawain collapses, sated, tired. Mind catching up with a body long ready for rest.

"Tristan…You…" His eyes are already drooping, and Tristan sweeps the hair back off his face tenderly.

"Hush, Gawain. Go to sleep."

"But, Tristan…"

"Sleep." He slips off the bed, heading for the cloth Gawain dropped earlier - still wet - and brings it back to first clean Gawain up, then himself. Finally, he settles curled up next to Gawain comfortably.

Comfortingly. Anything. Everything to help Gawain. To just get through one more night.

Hold together the pieces of the broken man until Galahad can come back and make him whole again.

He lies there, still for a few moments, long enough to be sure that Gawain's fallen asleep, before sitting up, settling Gawain back onto the bed and pulling covers over him. Then, he pads softly out of the room.

Galahad's room is still dark, the only light coming from the lamp on the bedside, next to the basin of water. Dagonet's there, sitting silently, occasionally wiping the sweat from the young knight's brow. Still fevered. Still drifting.

"No change?" He asks the silent knight.

"No change." Dagonet stands, letting the cloth slide back into the water. "Bors brought fresh water."

Take care of him. Let us know of any change. Keep him with us. Don't give up hope.

He nods in reply, to things both said and unsaid, taking up vigil by Galahad's bed.

Time passes. Minutes, hours - he does not know. Galahad begins to whimper again, from time to time, he can hear Gawain's name. He's about to rise, to get Gawain because Gawain's the only person who knows how to calm Galahad better than others should delirium take him - until he hears his own name.

Stunned, he falls back into the chair.

Shaking, confused, unsure, Tristan raises a hand and lets it slide through Galahad's curls. When Galahad leans to the touch, Tristan breaks.

"Come on, pup, fight it. Come back. I don't know how to deal with this…" He sighs. He's not a man of words, but this is different. This wasn't how things were normally. "Life would be too boring, unbearably so, if you aren't here, kid, moving and shuffling and moaning and groaning. This stillness, this feverish sleep, doesn't suit you. It doesn't suit you at all." He dips the cloth into water, shifting so he's sitting on Galahad's bed. "I know you love him. I know. I've known since that first time but being with you…you're part of Gawain and he's part of you. You're both…you both mean something. Even after I knew… I never let you go. I let you be, you and him, apart from those moments…those moments I reminded you that you belonged to him. And those moments I knew you needed to do something for him or yourself. And those moments…when I grew tired of being alone. I never meant to hurt you, either of you. Not really. Never really. I just…I was just scared of being alone. You'll laugh at me, I know, when you're awake. You'd laugh. But then…I'm not sure I would mind if you'd just come back." He doesn't know why, but he feels as if there's this need to tell Galahad - to tell Galahad everything.

Even though he's not sure if the pup can here him at all.

Galahad's breathing grows a little calmer, settling back into a feverish sleep. Relief. He feels relieved. No hysteria. No delirium. Not this time. But then Galahad settles. And he is still. Not restless, not constantly shifting and shuffling. Not energetic. Just still.

"Fight it, you stubborn whelp. I'm here, pouring my heart to you, and still you sleep? Fight it. Don't give up. Open your eyes. Gawain's hurting. Gawain needs you, pup. He's falling apart and I don't know how much longer I can hold him together. Come back, Galahad. Come home and piece him together again. Come back…before I fall apart."

He sighs, taking a pale hand in his, turning it over, studying it, caressing it lightly. Still too hot. Still dangerously high. Infection in the wound. In the wound left by an arrow meant for him. He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, calming himself. Thinking about losing Galahad. Too much. Too painful. "I love killing - you are right in that accusation - I love the smell, the taste of battle, the beauty that we've been taught to execute so fiercely - beauty in perfection of a kill; but you go against that, always fighting against that." His breath hitched a little, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "You are my grasp - you know that? - my handhold, my anchor, keeping me from turning into a monster. You and your childish, naïve, idealistic dreams keep me sane - keep me human. You made me realise, and you keep reminding me, what love is - you and Gawain - and what beauty truly is. Beauty in life, Galahad, not in death. So come back. Come back into life and walk not the path of death." He breaks off, unable to voice anymore, sobs threatening.

Someone shuffles towards him and he looks up to see Gawain, eyes soft, sympathetic, afraid.

"Tristan…"

"How long were you there?" He doesn't mind. He just wants to know. He has no secrets from Gawain, not in regards to Galahad - not anymore.

"Since you took his hand." And Gawain tugs at his hand lightly, pulling them both to the floor beside Galahad's bed, curling together and taking comfort in each other's pain, each other's fears, each other's memories - taking comfort in each other.

He's drowning in darkness. And he can't find Gawain. Floating somewhere between one place and another, sometimes so close to the surface he can hear their voices, sometimes so far away he can hear nothing but his own thoughts, his own memories.

"I'm sorry, Gawain. There's nothing we can do."

He hears Gawain's sobs. And he wants to go towards it, tell Gawain it's okay, stop Gawain from hurting. But he's too weak, the pain too much, the pull too strong.

He can't quite believe what he's seeing. After Gawain had defended him - after everything - he's kissing Tristan.

His breathing quickens as it hits him - hard. His greatest fear of losing Gawain - to death, to hatred, to Tristan - has finally come true.

And he is alone.

His memories conflict with what he's hearing until he can't quite figure out which is remembered, which is heard. He's so confused, torn between wanting to go back to Gawain and his own feelings of solitude - he's not sure if he's still wanted.

The memories flow, and the voices keep filtering through. It feels like he's under water, and he can only hear and remember small snatches of conversation and feeling.

"You promised me you wouldn't die. You promised you wouldn't die if I didn't leave. I haven't left, Galahad - I haven't left. You aren't allowed to die. Because I'm still here. I'm here, love. Right here."

That's heard. He doesn't remember that. And it makes him realise that Gawain needs him. Gawain still wants him, still loves him; Gawain's still there. Still by his side.

Gawain's talking to Tristan. Gawain's whispering soft words that Galahad cannot make out. Gawain is touching Tristan with soft touches, light caresses and mellow eyes.

Tristan. Not him.

He falters. He remembers that clearer than day. Was it his imagination? Does Gawain not need him after all? Gawain has Tristan. Gawain has Tristan and Tristan's always been better than him. He couldn't do anything that Tristan can't. And Tristan does it better. So, is he's not really needed. He's imagining - that pain in Gawain's voice, the pleading he can hear - wanting something to be true. So, Gawain doesn't really need him after all. He'd be alone if he went back. Still alone.

"Please. He's too perfect, too pure. So young, so full of life. Don't take him. Not yet. Please. Please. I can't lose him. Not now. Not yet. I can't do this…can't survive if he's not here. Please. Don't be so cruel. Please."

But that was Gawain. It was Gawain praying. Praying for him. Because he needed him still.

Galahad wants to curl up and scream. His memories conflict with what he hears and he doesn't know which to believe. He's not even sure he's hearing these things, he's not sure he remembers anything - he's just not sure.

"You don't know the sorry state I found Galahad in. Just sitting there, doing nothing, Lancelot and Arthur panicking - if I was Arthur, I'd thank his God everyday that I came back when I did. Otherwise you'd still be there, Gawain, tied to a cross, dying. And Galahad would still be broken."

But he's useless. Compared to Tristan, he's nothing. And Gawain knows that Tristan loves him. And Gawain wants Tristan. Not him. Tristan.

The contradiction of each memory, each thought, each thing he hears echoes in the darkness around him, bouncing backwards and forwards until all he can hear are his own thoughts and memories mixing, combing until it's a roar of confusion.

He hugs his knees to his chest, trying to block out the echoes. He doesn't want to know anymore, he doesn't want to hurt. He just wants to be. And he's not sure he wants to go back - because he's not sure he wants to be alone - but there's also this driving need for Gawain's arms around him.

"You made me realise, and you remind me, what love is - you and Gawain - and what beauty truly is. Beauty in life, Galahad, not in death. So come back. Come back into life and walk not the path of death."

Tristan. That's Tristan's voice. He's sure. How many times had he heard it taunting him, teasing him, challenging him? How many times had that voice been the cause to pain, to hurt, to some form of reaction or another? Always mocking. Never like this.

And he realises something; it hits him like some sacred knowledge from the makers of the Earth: although he thinks he hates Tristan, he doesn't; he hates Tristan looking down on him, doubting him.

Tristan's opinion mattered. Tristan mattered.

Tristan matters.

In the space of a second, his world comes into focus, twists itself sideways, upside down, flips over. And ends up crashing perfectly into place.

Tristan's always mattered.

Although Tristan had bullied, mocked and challenged everything he was, it always got a reaction, it always made him think, stop, consider.

And look after himself - to look after Gawain.

He's always wanted to prove to Tristan that he loves Gawain, he's always wanted to prove to Tristan that he's worth something. That he wasn't a worthless whelp of a boy, wanting nothing more than comfort. He'd wanted Tristan to understand that he was something - not the nothing he'd always been accused of.

Always trying to prove something, always seeking some form of acceptance.

Because Tristan matters.

Galahad realises he wants Tristan around. And he wants Gawain.

And he wants them now.

His eyes flutter open, heavy with exhaustion, still sticky with fever and sweat. And still tired. So very, very tired. But there's one - no, two - things he wants.

"Gawain? Tristan?"

"Gawain? Tristan?"

The voice is so weak, so small, so young, but it's as if the voice is heaven sent. Relief washes over the both of them as they scramble up to find Galahad looking at them, eyes clear. No delirium. No fevered nightmare. Just those forest green eyes, staring up at them.

"Oh Galahad," Gawain whispers, collapsing onto the bed, cradling Galahad carefully to him, holding him tightly, tenderly. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you so much." To the gods. To whatever gods had listened to his prayers and given Galahad back to him.

Back to them.

Gawain's kissing him softly, his hair, his face, his neck - anything Gawain can reach, not letting him go, as if afraid; scared to let go in case he loses him again.

Galahad's eyes sweep up, locking with Tristan's, there's a gratified light there, and the same relief Galahad had seen in Gawain's eyes.

And Galahad closes his eyes, lets his head loll to his favourite place: between Gawain's neck and shoulder, and reaches for Tristan's hand. It's shaking slightly, and cool to touch, but comforting and liberating in ways Galahad hasn't known before. He lets out a long breath, revelling in the safety and reassurance that's being offered, bathing in the love and relief radiating from the two knights around him.

"Welcome back, pup. Welcome home."

A/N: The contents in this chapter have been slightly modified to fit with the website rules. For full version, see my profile and follow the link to my writing LJ.