AN: Quasi-fanfic virgin here. I had an account on ff before the beautiful offspring that fp is came to be. I usually try my hand at original fiction, so this is my first (posted) exploit into the world of fanfiction.

The whole of this story was written over the course of a harried week about a month ago as part of a B-day gift for my heterosexual life partner Hellsing. It's not my best writing, but I guess it turned out well enough. –cringes at glaring errors- I apologize....too tired/busy/lazy to fix them all.

Anywho, Enjoy the wonderful, sinful goodness that is GG.

((Eternal thanks and love to hellsing, without whom I'd still be blundering around in the deep dark world of het..))

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Chap 1 : Moonlit Blunders

Relief had come to Brittan's parched land, if only briefly. Rain fell from billowing, angry clouds in sheets that made anything farther than five feet nearly invisible. Dusty roadways immediately churned to mud, greedily sopping up the precious liquid that had been absent so long. The storm had come up quickly and unexpected in summer's dry heat. Early that morning, a small party of warriors left their nightly camp, already weary of the heat and travel.

Tristan had frowned at the thunderheads, wordlessly pointing them out to Arthur. Hours had passed. The clouds overtook them with the disconcerting speed and power that Nature had the occasional wont to expose. Now rain fell with such fierce, unbridled intensity that it could not possibly sustain itself. The brighter the flame, the shorter it burns; so too it was with rain.

The knights assured each other of this fact as they finally ceased for the night.

"Tell me Arthur!" Lancelot demanded, sliding from his stallion into the sucking mud of the roadway, "Do you pray to your god for favoring weather when you ask for our safety?"

Bors hacked a ragged laugh, "I damn well hope as not. I've no taste to die"

Arthur ignored them both, searching the roadside for a suitable spot to break camp. Gawain seriously doubted he'd find one. The storm had erased any dry spell of ground in its first minutes. But it would cease soon, Gawain assured himself, it had to.

Galahad did not seem as perturbed by the sudden turn of weather as the rest of his comrades. Still seated atop his horse, he laughed deeply and threw back his head, letting the water splash down upon his face. The drops rapidly formed small streams that ran down the young man's temples, dripped along his jaw line, and steadily soaked his collar and chest. The simple white jerkin he wore beneath his armor was soaked in seconds, making the fabric nearly transparent. Gawain cursed the boy beneath his breath, naming him a siren, willing the unwary to fatal distraction.

"Glorious!" Galahad exclaimed, clapping his hands together, somehow making the summer storm a den of temptation, "You're all mad, the lot of you" he yelled with boyish impudence, "If it wasn't raining you'd all be bothered by the heat"

With a small, cheery grin, he slid off his soaked horse and patted its flanks fondly. Gawain had not seen him this...youthful in weeks. Something about the storm had released the man's childish exuberance. It was entrancing in the doomed way flame entrances moths. Nothing could come of it but pain. Knowing this, but not heading it, Gawain's eyes could not be drawn from the soaked man's body.

Dagonet nodded solemnly, rivets of water running off his domed head "I agree. The weather rarely pays heed to mortal complaints"

"Ah to hell with all you" Bors muttered, "The only liquid in which I'd like to bathe is ale. Water does me no good"

"I care to disagree" Lancelot retorted, "I've shared many a campfire with you, old timer. Water would do you worlds of good"

"Pratt" Bors growled, glaring up as he undid a saddle bag. Lancelot split a joking grin and turned to seek out Arthur. The leader stood frowning at the shaking green wood beyond.

Gawain was only peripherally aware of all this. His eyes refused to be moved from the grinning boy who was now set to tending his horse. Moving through the downpour as if it did not touch him, he bent and turned with a dancer's grace. His shirt clung sinfully to his body, showing with clarity how the muscles of his back moved when he hoisted his saddlebags. The boy was a vision, as desired and damning as power unchecked.

"He is quite good with them" a soft voice declared, making Gawain jump. He'd heard no approach.

Looking over his shoulder, he turned to face the man he knew had spoken. Tristan was as soaked as any of the knights, but seemed not to notice, as if the deluge was a removed and foreign event.

"Pardon?" Gawain asked desperately. His mind had been far from thoughts of horses, and the scout's question had barely reached him.

Tristan arched one semi-concealed eyebrow at him through messy hair. "Galahad is good with horses. That was the reason you were looking at him so closely, was it not?"

Gawain choked silently, his stark blue eyes darting to meet the questioning ones of the man next to him. The question was not, in fact, a question. The slight emphasis on certain words translated to his ears as "I know why you observe him so closely, continue with such gawking and so shall the rest of the camp".

Tristan's abilities had long since lost their eerie edge for the blonde knight. Too many nights he had plucked thoughts from Gawain's mind and given them voice. To accept the man's talent was to exist peaceably with him. A simpler man would have labeled the older man a warlock, and lived his life in fear.

Brushing the damp blonde locks from his face, Gawain only nodded, and offered a weak "Aye" as answer.

Tristan jerked his head subtly, knowing with confidence that his message had been received, and strode off to speak with Arthur. Lancelot had not left their commander's side.

"This is as good as any" Tristan informed them, indicating the soaked roadside meadow before them. He glanced up at the troops through stringy hair, "Even the Wayfarer pines haven't kept out the wet"

Arthur nodded and sighed, shoving black locks from his forehead as he looked around the dreary thicket.

"Very well" he murmured, "Bed down men! This is as good as it comes!"

Lancelot grumbled something dark as he retrieved his rapidly dampening blankets from a nearby saddle bag, most likely laying the poor weather at the feet of their leader's god. The ever solemn figure that Dagonet presented made no comment as he settled himself down against a slippery boulder.

"First watch is mine" He declared, clearly expecting no opposition.

Bors looked up from the brush he was searching for dry firewood. Seeing it as the empty task it was, he strode over to the serious man on guard duty.

"And I shall keep you company" He said with a small grin, settling himself down in the muck, "Got any cards there man? Fancy a few games of cutthroat?"

Dagonet looked at the homely soldier beside him. "You cheat"

"You're bloody well right I do!" Bors cackled proudly. Noticing his companion's stoic frown, his own grin faltered and he quickly turned to his own brand of reason for rescue. "It's not a matter of winning fairly" he assured the other man, "It's just a matter of out cheatin' the other guy"

Dagonet gave Bors a dubious look, "I think not"

Gawain shook his head. If Dagonet agreed to play, he'd be penniless come morning. Bors was a bastard. But he was their bastard, and that made all the difference.

Sighing, Gawain looked around the small clearing, realizing slowly that there would be no fire tonight. There was no dry wood for miles and the strong winds would quickly put out any lit flame. A disappointment, but nothing new. This was not the first night they'd bed down in the damp earth with no fire to warm them.

Dagonet and Bors spoke, but in the low tones of those used to guard duty among sleeping friends. Arthur had found an old spruce to lay his back against. The older man looked exhausted. The lines of his brow and eyes shone deep in the rapidly darkening evening. He grows old before us, Gawain thought, casting a concerned frown at their leader. The man bore too much concern for one mortal soul.

Arthur had drawn his cloak and blanket across his shoulders and head, trying in vain to keep out the penetrating rain. Lancelot, as he could be well relied upon to do, knelt down next to the tired leader, offering him with cocky nonchalance the last of the dried meat. Gawain watched for several seconds as the two men talked. Arthur, as he always did, opened his cocoon of blankets to his right hand man and Lancelot easily settled down next to him. To all outward appearances, this was an action designed to conserve warmth. No more.

And yet, Gawain was not so sure. He'd seen soldiers share blankets casually, without the tense air that surrounded the pair in question. No, he decided, glancing at the men a second time, it was not the pair that was surrounded. Lancelot lounged easily against the other man, yet Arthur sat awkwardly, too stiff in the shoulders and back to be called comfortable. Men who were certain their closeness was to share only warmth could lie against one another without concern. But when one's thoughts may stray to things forbidden...that was when anxiety set in. Doubt bred tension.

This did not, however, prevent Arthur's arm from draping across Lancelot's shoulder, letting the smaller man lie flush against him. Some of Arthur's men suspected, Gawain knew - he was, after all, one of them - but the suspicion was born of bored curiosity, not a deep rooted desire to know for certain. Besides, Gawain remembered Bors saying, what's it matter who they bed? As long I'm fightin' with em, and not against 'em, I'm a happier man for it.

He knew that most of his brethren were unconcerned by such...pleasures. Bedroom antics had little importance before an enemy's blade. Yet he was not sure if the most vital of his fellows even knew such pleasures were possible. He turned to watch Galahad slide down a muddy slope. Could the boy truly be so ignorant?

"Good gods I'm ready to sleep" Galahad sighed, appearing at Gawain's elbow soundlessly. "What of you, old man?" He asked, grinning up at the blonde knight.

Gawain looked down into Galahad's face, obviously surprised that they were only inches apart. The rain had soaked Gawain through, making the man's yellow hair stick to his forehead in long, random clumps. Galahad grinned broadly for no reason at all, and felt a sudden urge to push the hair from the older man's face.

A rare mood had taken him, and the injustice and despair he carried so heavily seemed a bit lighter tonight. Sometimes in the small, dead hours of night, the stone walls of his room at the fort closed up on him, and his thoughts went astray. He wondered if he should have been born to his people. He loved them and missed them desperately, yet sometimes...he wondered. How different would his life have been if he'd been born to a different land, free of the debt his people owned the ever encroaching Romans?

For in those dark thoughts that came only when he slept alone, he knew for certain that here he was a man apart. He was not born to the battle field. Upon it he was a terror, as none of the knights could dispute, but he could not call it home. He killed as directed, and did it well.

But a career soldier, as many of Arthur's knights viewed themselves, had to, on some quiet level, enjoy battle. Revel in the competition, knowing that in most cases their only reward would be the prolonged state as a breathing man. Enjoy victory, knowing that their sword through another's breast had contributed to success.

Galahad could take pleasure in none of it. He knew he was skilled at what he did, but such knowledge brought him only disgust. He fought bravely for two reasons only. The first had driven him since he'd been taken from his family: he'd fight to live and someday return. Later, another motive developed slowly, over the course of years. Though he'd never feel at home among the warriors around him, he knew they considered him a brother, a bit green, but family all the same. He could not ignore the ties he'd made among them. The second reason he fought was to protect his comrades. He'd die for any of them.

But he'd go to hell for Gawain.

The sentiment was not one that came to him with any degree of comprehension. All the men were his brothers, but perhaps that made Gawain a twin. There was a kinship, a warmth that Galahad felt in his breast whenever he rode with the older man. On nights like these, when the heavens opened, when they'd lie against each other to stay the rain, the warmth expanded and contracted in ways he'd never felt before. The heavy weight of Gawain's arm across his shoulders, lying there as if to protect him, was something Galahad looked forward to on the rare cold nights when shared warmth was needed for survival.

He did not understand it, but he cherished it.

"Yes" Gawain coughed, clearly uneasy. Galahad wondered with a blush how long he'd been starring, "I could do with sleep"

With that, the two men cast a critical eye across the sopping clearing, as if by some miracle their eyes would light upon some area protected from the rain. Finding none such refuge, Gawain settled down against a boulder that, if one's imagination was put to task, could have been believed to be a bit dryer than the surrounding area.

Without a second thought or concern, Galahad stretched one last time and sat down close beside his friend. He did not note how Gawain stiffened at his touch.

"Right then" he said, yawning despite himself. "Let's get these lovely damp blankets sorted out, shall we?"

Gawain grunted and shifted slightly. A few minutes later, Galahad had wrapped them both in wool blankets that were long past offering any refuge from the onslaught.

Calmly, Galahad settled against the other man, reveling in the heat that poured off him. He noticed neither Gawain's blush nor sudden discomfort. The blonde knight shifted awkwardly and let the young man's head rest against his arm. Galahad sighed contentedly, curled tightly against him, and nearly immediately fell asleep.

It was a long while before such relief took Gawain.

It was early morning when Galahad woke, bleary eyed and confused at his early start. The sun still lay beneath the horizon, dormant and removed. Yawning, he realized he was still curled against Gawain's side, his head hanging comfortably against the other's chest.

It was several quiet minutes before he identified what had woken him. Gawain was dreaming. By the sounds and sudden jerks that the other man gave, it was by no means pleasant. Pressed against him, he could tell the other's blood rushed and a sheen of sweat, not brought by the cool night air, covered his body.

It was not spoken of, but widely known, that the knights were not ignorant of

nightmares. Usually some considerate friend would wake them with a sharp kick to appropriate areas, acting as though it was a jerk brought on by their own slumber. Such anonymous awakenings were done out of consideration for the sleeping man's honor. No soldier wanted their nighttime frights to be known throughout the camp. Fear was weakness and weakness was death.

Galahad knew this, but his deep friendship with the man beside him suggested that he owed him more than a well placed kick. He waited several seconds as Gawain's limbs twitched slightly, and soft terrified moans drifted from his parted mouth. When the dream seemed to only worsen with time, Galahad shifted slightly so that his eyes fell upon Gawain's sweat slicked face. The other man's eyes moved jerkily beneath closed lids, and he grunted softly. Had Galahad been listening with a keen ear, he may have noted syllables within the nonsense that resembled the sound of his own name.

"Gawain" He whispered harshly, now worried for the other man. He reached across him with one arm to shake his shoulder. The action brought them nearly chest to chest. "Gawain! Wake, damn you!"

Apparently, as Galahad would later reflect, Gawain was much more open to suggestion while sleeping. He came awake with a sharp, startled gasp. Wild eyes instantly settled upon Galahad's worried ones.

"You're alive" Gawain marveled, instantly knotting his hands in the younger man's tangled locks and making it impossible for Galahad to pull away. There was a degree of relief and ...something else in his slightly crazed eyes, and Galahad was about to ask the nature of the man's fears when Gawain spoke once more.

"Good gods I love you" it was a low, harsh whisper, spoken with such desperation that it seemed had Gawain not let them out, he would have died of holding them back

At the words Galahad felt something akin to battle madness burst through his body: a cool liquid fear sprung up in his chest and raced through his limbs, leaving him tense and covered in gooseflesh. His pulse sped. Confusion bloomed on his wide, boyish face like an early spring rose. In the next instant, Gawain pulled their lips together.

Galahad could do nothing. His mind had given up on him, abandoning him to the driving terror-tinged confusion that blew through his body. A man's lips upon his own. Gawain's bearded chin against his cheek, his tongue tracing the contours of his lips. Surely he had heard rumors of such...ways, but that was nothing more than drunken barroom gossip, was it not?

Yet he knew it mustn't, if Gawain's passionate kiss was any indication. Galahad went slack, bewilderment paralyzed him. It was several seconds into the one sided kiss before Gawain's movements abruptly stopped.

"Oh gods" he said in horror, finally letting go the death grip he'd had on Galahad's hair and pulling back sharply, "Oh gods" his eyes had resumed the wild terror that had filled them upon waking. The last heavy cloak of sleep fell away, leaving Gawain wakeful and mortified "Galahad, let me explain"

But the younger man was already pushing himself away, realizing that his friend, his brother, had acted believing himself to still be in a dream. True wakefulness had come like ice melt, splashing through the blonde knights' eyes like fire. Gawain had never meant such confessions to see daylight.

Galahad scooted farther away, looking back at Gawain with something like horror in his deep brown eyes. What had the other man intended? What had he done?

"Wait!" Gawain pled desperately, "Please, just let me-" Galahad had never heard such despair in a man's voice before. But he was too lost to reason to feel pity.

Confused and horrified, he stumbled backwards as he tried to stand. Gawain too attempted to gain his feet, but the blankets had tangled his legs efficiently, and he could only struggle to his knees as Galahad backed away.

"Please..." Gawain said desperately, looking up at the younger man with pathetic wide eyes.

For a second, a mere heartbeat, it seemed as though Galahad would obey. He paused and took in the wretched picture presented by the man before him. The old hardened soldier looked a few breaths from tears. But terror, most likely brought on by the other man's need, seized Galahad once more. He could not force himself to stay and hear whatever contrived reason Gawain may try and feed him. He fled the campsite and did not look back.

For beneath the shaking panic in his chest, he could not ignore that the warmth within him had fanned to a broiling heat at Gawain's kiss.

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