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 the Epilogue, which will be possibly posted tomorrow, to go. Here's to the redemptive!ot3!smut since the Epilogue is rather bittersweet.
Gawain's curled protectively around Galahad, chin resting on his curls, hands rubbing his back gently, soothingly. Galahad's dozing lightly, fever broken, breathing evened out, back with them. And he hasn't let go of Tristan's hand. Tristan's curled up on Galahad's other side, hand tucked securely in Galahad's arms, held tightly to Galahad's chest, facing Gawain. Every time Gawain brushes Galahad's back, his hand brushes over Tristan's chest. Comforting them both. Calming them all.
Galahad shifts a little, brow crinkling in annoyance, then pulls himself closer to Gawain and tugs Tristan's arm closer. Gawain smiles fondly down at him, resettling Galahad between them, and Tristan allows himself an indulging smile. Gawain looks up, biting his lip, catching Tristan's gaze and grinning, and Tristan playfully rolls his eyes.
"So demanding," he mouths. And Gawain smothers his amusement.
"Yes," he agrees, silently. But his eyes say the words that his mouth never forms. i But I don't mind pampering him. /i
And that brilliant light that had first caught Tristan's attention is back in Gawain's eyes, and shining brighter than ever.
Galahad shifts again and, this time, Gawain pulls back slightly. At first, Tristan's confused, but then Galahad's eyes flutter open, and he understands. Gawain knows. Gawain always knows.
"How are you feeling?" Gawain's voice is soft, caring, concerned.
"Better than I've felt in a long time," the younger knight answers, smiling such a radiant smile that Tristan's breath involuntarily catches.
"Good." He and Gawain reply at the same time, relief ringing clear in both voices.
Galahad stiffens, at first not knowing who's behind him. When the realisation comes, he sighs and relaxes, going limp again in their arms, but doesn't turn to face Tristan. Instead, his cheeks and ears beginning to colour. Embarrassed, obviously, and not quite knowing how to deal with this new situation. But he doesn't let go of Tristan's hand.
"Did I…? I almost…?" Galahad struggles to form the words, not knowing how to put what he wants to say into words.
But they both know.
"Yes." It's softer than a whisper, and both Gawain and Tristan shift closer to Galahad, holding him even more tightly between them, glad for his presence, relief and worry evident in both their stances. "Yes."
"Oh," Galahad says, squeezing his eyes shut. "Oh…I'm…I…I'm sorry…"
"Galahad…" Gawain sighs, exasperated, holding back tears. "Don't."
"But I am. I'm sorry."
"Why are you apologising?" Tristan asks, bluntly, tone reminiscent to the one he used to use to taunt Galahad. "What are you apologising for? Saving my life?"
"No…I…No!" Indignant. This was more the Galahad they knew. "No!"
"Then don't apologise for nothing, you stupid puppy."
Galahad bristles at the pet name, hackles rising, but the way Tristan rests then his head gently against Galahad's back, breathing ragged, makes him stop and think. It's not spat out in a taunt. Not this time. It's a gibe that's masking relief, endearment, guilt.
"It doesn't matter," Gawain says, hand running from Galahad's hair to Tristan's. "It doesn't matter because you came back. You're both here. You're both alive." Gawain's voice shakes as he fights back tears. The caress falters slightly as Gawain's control slips for a moment. Too much worry, too much fear, too much relief to keep it together. "If either of you ever, i ever /i do that to me again, I'll kill you both."
And then he's tugging them both closer, pulling them more tightly together in a crushing embrace. And they both let him, go to him willingly, helping one another to put the shards of Gawain back together again.
Voices in the hallway coming closer, familiar voices, coming towards him. Galahad bounces impatiently on the bed, waiting for the door to open – to open and reveal the two people he's been waiting for, worrying about, pining for.
It's been weeks since his near death experience and he's recovered fast – but not fast enough.
The doctors still called it a miracle and wondered day after day how he had survived when they had all thought him a lost cause. Gawain and Tristan called it a gift. And never questioned the reasons why (stubbornness, Tristan had said but Gawain had smacked him lightly, laughing).
He had wanted to go with them, on this mission, insisting that he was feeling much better, that he was fit enough to, but Gawain and Tristan ganged up on him, and he was forced to stay at the garrison and wait for their return.
It had been three weeks.
And Galahad's like a bouncing ball of energy.
The door creaks open, painfully slowly, and Gawain and Tristan appear, dishevelled and dirty.
And Galahad nearly mows them down.
"What took you so long?" Then he's attached to Gawain's arm like a leach.
"Some of us had things to do, pup."
Galahad glares at Tristan, leaning up for an impatient kiss from Gawain. Even though they've come to some sort of unvoiced agreement, Tristan still gets under Galahad's skin, even if he feels something indefinable for the infuriating man.
"I didn't ask you," he snaps once his mouth is free to do so, and he opens it again to carry on his tirade, but Gawain seals it with his own lips.
"Don't," he whispers against Galahad's lips. "Don't argue."
Tristan scoffs but looks apologetic (as much as he can) when Gawain turns to look pleadingly at him.
"I got some water. Clean up." Galahad chirrups, a proud lilt to his voice, tugging Gawain towards the basin. Tristan sighs, turning to go to his own room in search of clean water; even though they where something to one another, there was always a small competition for Gawain – or Gawain's attention.
"Tristan?" Galahad's voice stops him, and he turns to find Galahad standing there, insecurity clear in his eyes – standing next to another basin. And a clean set of Tristan's clothes.
"Thanks, kid." He swirls back around, oddly touched by the gesture.
"Gawain would sulk if you weren't here," Galahad throws out, cheeks glowing, but Tristan can here the quiver of relief in the voice, and a hint of something else.
He's about to slip into a new shirt when a hand on his stops him and then Gawain's there, smiling mischievously.
Galahad's sitting on the bed, resolutely not looking their way, ears pink, swinging his legs like an impatient child. Gawain looks at him and raises an eyebrow in silent question – and a hint of a challenge. Tristan smirks and puts down his clothes. For later. They'd only get ruined if he put them on now.
And he slips harmlessly out of Galahad's line of vision as Gawain calls his name.
Galahad turns to focus on Gawain, cheeks reddening when his sight finally settles.
"Come here." And Galahad seems helpless but to follow.
Gawain kisses him, slowly, languidly, deeply, swallowing Galahad's moans as he pulls him closer, until the only thing separating them is Galahad's clothing. Gawain runs his tongue over Galahad's stroking, teasing, coaxing and leading in an intricate dance that can never be fully explained.
Galahad's hands are spread over Gawain's back, eyes shut, completely lost to the sensations.
And Gawain's hands slip between them, lifting the tunic off, followed by the shirt and to begin working on his trousers with practised ease. Galahad's head has lolled back and Gawain's biting lightly on his neck, soothing the pain away with his tongue, leaving a trail of bruises.
The trousers drop and Gawain backs him up. Into another pair of arms.
Galahad's eyes fly open, twisting in Gawain's grasp to come face to face with Tristan.
Tristan's eyes are almost black with arousal, and he's breathing hard. And naked. Tristan's hair hangs down over his face, framing dark and striking features, sharp eyes, high cheekbones, slightly parted lips. Neck and shoulders slightly tanned; torso, built, muscled, lean frame hiding unknown strength; legs, long and shapely; thighs, buttocks – all perfect. Still glistening with droplets of water, and beginning to form a sheen of sweat.
Perfect.
And suddenly, Galahad feels inadequate. And he forces himself to look away.
Gawain spins him around, slowly, back to face him and tips his face up, looking into his eyes. And Galahad turns away, hiding his face in Gawain's neck.
"Galahad." Whispered in his ear, hands caressing his back lightly. "Galahad, look at me."
Galahad refuses, and Gawain can feel a slight wetness on his shoulders. "Galahad," he sighs, looking pleadingly at Tristan who's looking at Galahad hungrily, seemingly devouring the younger knight with his eyes alone. Galahad had always been ashamed of his own body, so shy, so insecure about his own beauty. So unsure. But he was perfect. To Gawain, he's always been perfect.
Gawain kisses his hair, letting his hands drift down Galahad's side, making him shiver. "Beautiful," he breathes. "Perfect. Don't be afraid, Galahad. Don't be ashamed. You are faultless. To me, you are perfect."
Galahad burrows deeper, still scared, still not sure.
Because Tristan is just too beautiful. Tristan was perfection in his eyes.
Tristan's hand slips onto his hip, and his body follows, fitting against Galahad from behind.
"So beautiful," Tristan whispers softly. "So fucking beautiful. Who knew the pup had such a nice body? Who knew the whelp grew up this striking?" His hands slip further down, caressing Galahad's hips, down his thighs, leg slipping between Galahad's, parting them slightly. "So fucking perfect." Slowly, Tristan bends and licks a trail from the base of Galahad's spine to his neck, making him shudder, throwing his head back and letting out a soft moan.
Gawain catches Galahad's lips as soon as he can, swallowing the rest of the moan and coaxing another from the young knight.
Tristan's kissed his way back down again, tracing the scars he's left, bathing and soothing each individual mark as if in apology.
When Tristan nips Galahad's hip, the young knight's knees give, and Gawain catches him, already anticipating the move.
"Bed," he murmurs, more to Tristan than to Galahad, who's already boneless. "Now."
A flurry of touches until they can't be sure whose hands are whose, who's moan leaves their lips – they don't know and they don't care. The world narrows to them – just the three of them – and that's all – that's enough.
Galahad is the first to tumble, arching, head thrown back, eyes rolling, crying out. And it doesn't take long for Gawain and Tristan to follow.
Galahad's curled up again, fitting perfectly on Gawain's right side, head nestled in his favourite place on Gawain's right shoulder. Gawain's hand is absently caressing him, easing his return from his release. Gawain's other arm is locked around Tristan, securely holding him, mirroring Galahad on the other side.
Tristan's awake, eyes soft. He lifts his hand, running it softly through Galahad's curls and lets it rest of Galahad's cheek, breath catching when Galahad nuzzles him, leaning into the touch.
And Gawain smiles.
"He's rather cute when he's asleep, isn't he?" Tristan whispers, letting his lips curl up. "Pity it's not the case when he's awake." Fondly. Not mockingly, but lovingly.
"Shu'dup." Galahad slurs, eyes fluttering open, gaze still hazy and unfocused – and still nuzzling Tristan's hand like a kitten.
"Let's get one thing straight," Tristan whispers, eyes suspiciously bright. "This doesn't mean I like you, fluff-ball."
Galahad bristles, but there's a playful smile on his lips. "That's good because I don't like you either, bird-boy."
Gawain rolls his eyes, smile tugging at his lips.
"At least you're agreed on something."
Hesitantly, as if fearful of rejection, Galahad's hand sneaks across Gawain's body, reaching for Tristan – and Tristan doesn't pull away.
And the three worlds that have slowly been splintering shatter completely – and reform into something infinitely more beautiful: one world. For all three of them.
A/N: This chapter has been hugely editted to fit with the rating requirements. If you'd like to see the original NC-17 version, either email me, or check out my writing livejournal (the link to which can be found in my profile).