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Stargazing
The sky was ablaze with stars: thousands of silver pinpricks against velvet blue. The moon was a thin crescent in comparison, just a faint white sliver: dead and joyless compared to the passionately burning stars. Not that the state of the moon really mattered. It was quite simply the most beautiful night Lancelot could remember."I finally understand," he half-whispered to Tristan. The older knight was lying flat on his back and gazing at the stars as if entranced by what he saw.
"What do you understand?"
Lancelot turned his gaze back down to earth and gazed fondly at the man beside him. Not so long ago, the very idea of being fond of Tristan would have been absurd. Now, Lancelot knew better. "I understand how you…" He touched a gentle finger to Tristan's cheek. "…Can love the night more than the day."
Tristan turned away from the glistening sky. As of always, he appeared reluctant to break the night's silence with speech. "There are some men who say that the sun is just another star."
"And what do you say?" Lancelot asked. His finger drifted across Tristan's cheek and traced the outline of the strange tattoo.
"I say that it is best to treat with caution things that burn too brightly." Tristan brushed Lancelot's hand away from his face and sprang to his feet. "Bright lights are always the first to be extinguished."
Lancelot also scrambled to his feet. "The sun burns brightly," he said.
"And everyday sunlight gives way to night."
"But not to darkness." Lancelot punctuated his last remark with a sweeping gesture towards the star-filled sky.
"That's beside the point."
Tristan walked away.
"What are you doing?" Lancelot called after him.
The words came back, although Tristan had already faded into the deep patches of night that even starlight cannot penetrate. "I am treating you with caution!"
Lancelot stared after his lover for a moment and then laughed loudly. His breath formed a cloud on the icy air: a mirror of the star-clouds above. "Daft idiot," he chuckled, his voice filled with the affection that recently had been reserved only for Tristan. Not that it was easy, though, being in love with someone so entirely changeable: someone whose trust in him waxed and waned with disarming regularity.
If Lancelot was a galaxy of stars, then Tristan was the moon.