Galahad awoke to blurred faces and faded voices that drifted in and out of his consciousness. He tried to sit up, but two strong hands pushed him back down immediately, and he saw the blurred outline of Tristan and Gawain. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he feld a cold breeze pass over his bare chest where he could see blood dripping freely from an open wound.
"What's…I…" he struggled to speak.
"You should feel special, Galahad," Gawain said, his voice pinched. It echoed and it sounded strange. "The Romans have returned just in due time to patch you up." Then his face swirled and shook in Galahad's vision as Galahad arched his back and gave out a great cry of pain and agony, the feeling almost too much to bear.
"Is that…" he began, panting as he spoke, "supposed to be a comfort?"
He was sure that Gawain was saying something in reply, but Galahad could hear nothing but the dull echo of silence as his world blackened once more and he drifted into nothingness.
He came about again to find the surgeon wrapping him with a bandage and the stony, weary faces of Knights who had lost a man. Galahad sat up, finding there were cushions to prop him up. He frowned.
"Is…is Bors all right?" he tentatively asked, afraid for the answer. Lancelot hovered by the entrance of the tent, while Tristan dipped a cloth in water, gathering the sweat off Galahad's brow, and Gawain kept silent vigil beside the cot.
"He's fine," Lancelot finally answered. "A blow to the head knocked him out."
Galahad gave a sigh of relief, something that sent a ripple of pain through him instantly. He sat up further, coughing hoarsely. Gawain pressed a hand to his back as Tristan continued to calmly wipe away any trace of sweat. He breathed heavily, finally settling back against the cushions. No one spoke.
"Is everyone alive?" Galahad asked, afraid because the doomed look on their faces hadn't disappeared yet. He looked to Tristan, who said nothing and his face gave away nothing either. Gawain was looking down, his face saddened. Once again, it was Lancelot who had the response. A simple nod. "Good," Galahad coughed out.
Gawain finally looked up and studied Galahad. "Arthur says we snatched victory from the hands of certain defeat. How does it feel?"
"Oddly feverish," Galahad replied in a strained voice, his body burning. "And possibly infected. Is it infected?"
"The surgeon says it is, but then again, the surgeon is Roman, so you may just have syphilis of some sort," Tristan replied, cleaning the cloth and handing it to Gawain before getting out a fresh cloth and beginning to dress the wound on Galahad's chest. Galahad tried to sneak in a glance, but it was an attempt in vain.
He lay back down and coughed again, a strange epiphany settling into his brain.
"It feels like I'm dying," he said coldly, in a knowing tone. He was not joking, nor was he trying to evoke a reaction, but perhaps it could have been taken as such.
"Have you ever died before?" Gawain snapped at him, dabbing the cloth lightly against Galahad's forehead. Gawain had blood all over his face and hands. When Galahad looked at the others, they also had blood and dirt covering their faces and bodies. And it still had the feeling of a funeral. Galahad felt dread creeping in and settling at the base of his spine.
"No," Galahad quietly replied, feeling all too much like his nine-year-old self again, chastised and in trouble.
"Then you can't know, now can you?" Gawain sharply added, pressing the cloth a little harder to Galahad's forehead. Galahad sighed and laid flat on his back, the burning not subsiding at all, and a heavy weariness settling in on him. "Galahad, don't…"
But he was asleep before Gawain could finish.
In the morning, Galahad awoke to the sun shining in his eyes, the sound of birds chirping and the most beautiful look of relief he had ever seen on a person on Gawain's face. He sat up slowly, his wound still aching, and his body sore. Behind Gawain, he saw Bors and Dagonet, fresh scars and bandages adorning them, and to his right, Tristan sat, feeding his hawk.
He also awoke to the sound of violent yelling, as the flaps of the tent went flying and Arthur walked in, following by a storming Lancelot. Arthur had a splint on his arm, and Galahad instantly realized the bone he had heard snap on the battlefield had been Arthur's arm. It didn't take away from Arthur's commanding presence in the least.
"You're permitted to worry over me, but I cannot do the same for you?" Lancelot was hissing. He pointed vehemently towards Galahad on the cot. "Galahad nearly fell to death last night. Do you deny Gawain the right to worry? The rest of the Knights? Or do you just forbid it of me?"
"I was fine," Arthur replied, not bothering to look Lancelot in the eye.
"But you were injured, and so I worry. You gave mercy to those Woads. Ten of them to the two of us, if they had wanted, they could have killed you because you were already weakened. Pardon me, then, for caring," Lancelot snapped before storming out in the same heat that he entered with. Galahad sat frozen, the only feeling was the throbbing of his wound. His fingers twitched and hovered by it.
For a moment, Arthur stood tall and held his ground.
"I'm deeply glad you're all right, Galahad," he said quietly with deep sincerity and something resembling guilt in his voice before turning and following Lancelot outside. Galahad sat up, trying to get himself oriented and noticed that Tristan was sitting with a bandage draped over his shoulder, and that everyone looked worse for the wear.
And he had nearly died.
He frowned, searching their faces, but no one seemed forthcoming with words.
"Did I nearly die?" he asked quietly, looking for the confirmation. He searched the eyes of his fellow Knights, not receiving anything in return. Gawain ducked his gaze away, avoiding Galahad's intent stare.
"Yes," Tristan answered, his voice clear-cut and simple. "The arrow was infected and it seemed you would not live the night." Galahad nodded painfully slowly, his hand resting protectively over his chest. There were still stray beads of sweat rolling down his face, the heat of summer not helpful in this case.
"Oh," Galahad replied calmly, feeling an idiotic and strange sense of peace at this confirmation. The most important thing was that he was alive, and he felt infinitely better than he did when he woke in a pained haze earlier. He glared at Gawain. "I told you it felt like I was dying," he accused childishly.
"Miserable brat," Gawain weakly sounded, looking up and into Galahad's eyes. Galahad did not break his gaze away, and merely clung to this life that was in front of him. "Don't ever do that again," Gawain muttered, lowering his head again.
It took a week before the surgeon would let him out of the medical tent, and even then Galahad had been advised to be extremely careful. The infection in the wound had been treated, miracles had been performed, and a slow course of healing was inevitable. Arthur had ordered that Galahad not train, nor ride into battle until he was fully healed. He had pouted, once again feeling all too young, but truly, he was glad for such an order.
He would not admit it aloud, but the wound ached fiercely. He often found himself desperate to scratch it open until the blood poured out once more, cleansing him of this damned itch.
Dagonet had threatened to bind his hands together with some of his rope, and the memory of that all-too-coarse rope that had tied him back one night when the Knights had tied him to a chair before setting two of the women from the village upon him was the only thing stopping him from re-opening the wound.
Galahad still wandered about, feeling at a loss. He would await the Knights every day as they returned from the patrolling and in his time of healing, he learned to read the basics of Latin. His boredom began to gnaw at him after a week, however, and he began to feel the itch of being confined.
In his quarters, under his cot, he had a pile of letters. All were addressed to his mother and each and every one of them was never sent. Galahad was writing another such letter when there was a knock at his door.
"Enter," he beckoned, not looking up from his quill. The door opened and swung shut, but no one said a word. Galahad put the quill and letter aside and looked up to find Gawain standing in his doorway. A strange mix of emotions rushed through Galahad, leaving him with a low simmering heat in the base of his stomach. "Gawain."
"The watch went well," Gawain told him immediately, stepping inside the room and sitting beside Galahad on the cot. "We found some field mice, but Tristan let his hawk take them."
"You must be careful," Galahad admonished with a grin. "Field mice can be dangerous."
Gawain did not respond. His gaze was trapped right where the wound on Galahad's chest existed. Galahad felt heavier now, trapped in a strange sea of waking dreams and sleeping fantasies. Every second slowed itself, and the world changed itself over twice in the time it took for Gawain to speak.
"Let's see how close they came to getting you," Gawain said softly, lifting off Galahad's shirt. Galahad had a protest on the tip of his tongue, ready to tell Gawain that he had been in with him as the surgeon treated him, patched him up, checked on him. He would have seen the wound. As Galahad's shirt drifted past his head, setting curls out of place, he was silent with his protests. Gawain gently tossed the shirt to the side of the cot, his hands sliding back down and over the wound. "Close one," he remarked with quiet relief.
Galahad gritted his teeth together, aware that the feeling of Gawain's fingertips on his skin was something he had been dreaming about more often lately, but his breaths came in agony as hot fingers pressed against the wound. "Yes, and funny," he gasped out, his fingers clutching the sheets tightly, "absolutely painless when you touch it," he snapped out bitterly.
Immediately, Gawain moved his hands away from the wound, but did not remove them from Galahad's chest. "It was close," he reiterated.
"Yes," Galahad admitted. "It was." He gave a brave smile and held Gawain's gaze. "You kept your promise," he said with quiet amazement, quite aware that Gawain's hands were still resting flatly against his chest as his heart began to beat faster, his dreams of late coming to the front of his mind to haunt him with images of Gawain sweating, Gawain writhing atop him, Gawain simply taking him.
He shivered slightly and watched, but Gawain seemed fixated on Galahad's chest now.
"Hmm?" he murmured, his gaze frozen on the wound.
"I'm alive," he said. He rested his hands atop Gawain's and moved them down slowly, past his abdomen and lower, until they rested flatly on Galahad's hipbones. In that moment, Galahad chose to change his world. Gawain looked slightly bewildered, but leaned closer even as Galahad leaned forward. "Yes, Gawain. I accept your offer. Have me," he said quietly, but intensely. "Use me as you wish."
Gawain stopped moving, both of them frozen in place. He shook his head, a look of wonder settling in on his features as he gave a small and genuine smile. "I wish to keep you protected," he leaned in, his voice and face serious now. "To keep you safe from harm," he continued, his face in the crook of Galahad's neck.
Galahad let out a sharp cry when Gawain bit down against the skin and tugged slightly before sucking on that same flesh, and kissing it as he pulled away. Galahad felt a wave of dizziness nearly claim him, but he pushed through it, swaying only slightly and meeting Gawain's eyes with a smile of his own.
"Keep you as mine," Gawain growled, pushing him down and straddling him. Galahad leaned back, the blood rushing to his face as he took deep and heavy breaths, remembering with delight that the door was closed. Galahad's fingers flew to push the armour and shirt off of Gawain, but Gawain's hands were there first, unbuckling belts and getting off of Galahad temporarily to strip himself of his heavier cloth. Galahad watched as though this were still a dream as pieces of flesh began to slowly appear from behind the dull glint of armour.
Galahad sat up, brushing the hair out of his eyes and watched as Gawain pushed down his trousers and pants in one smooth motion, turning slightly and catching Galahad's gaze.
"I ask you once more," Gawain started hesitantly. "Are you sure?"
"Gawain," Galahad lay back, spreading his legs slightly. "I am yours."
Gawain took those words to heart and advanced, pressing his chest to Galahad's and slowly lowering himself, his hands resting on Galahad's hips and tugging at his breeches and his pants and pulling them down slowly, the tip of Gawain's nose traversing down the length of Galahad's leg. Gawain's eyes were closed, and Galahad watched as he was completely shed of all his clothing, lying there naked in the light of the moon.
Gawain opened his eyes, his hair dangling over his eyes and obscuring Galahad's study of his face. He reached up and pushed it to the side, pulling Gawain closer to him and tentatively leaning up to press their lips together. What started as something gentle and hesitant quickly escalated into a gnashing of lips and teeth and tongues, Gawain pressing down against Galahad with all his might, his cock hard and thrusting against Galahad's in search of friction.
Galahad gasped out, his fingernails digging into Gawain's biceps and he tilted his head back, letting out a guttural and deep cry as Gawain tracked hard kisses across Galahad's jaw over and down the strained muscles of Galahad's neck. Gawain remained ever careful of the wound and kept his weight off Galahad's chest, his body thrusting up against Galahad, their cocks brushing against each other. Galahad moved his hands frantically up and down Gawain's back – now sticky with perspiration – and let out a long, low cry as one of Gawain's hands moved between their bodies and wrapped around Galahad's cock.
"Shh," Gawain murmured into Galahad's ear as he stroked Galahad's cock, slower than Galahad had ever done over the years. He writhed and arched his back as the slow speed of Gawain's fingers over his erection seemed to turn into torture as the seconds passed. "Shh," he repeated quietly. "We won't rush this."
Galahad felt he might come undone at any second, he might lose control at any moment with Gawain's fingers stroking the length of his cock with slow, exanimate study, with careful touches in places that made sharp cries of pleasure and desire come from the back of Galahad's throat. Gawain's other hand was delicately brushing the curls out of Galahad's eyes while he inflicted such sweet torture on him, brushing his thumb against the underside of Galahad's cock and flicking it again and again over the head, causing Galahad to inhale and exhale with infinitely short gasps of breath.
And faintly, he was aware that he was pleading.
"Gawain," he swallowed the cry that was building in his throat. He begged in a hoarse and needy whimper, "Gawain, please. Please," he begged. "Faster. Please," that last plea was guttural and deep and desperate.
Gawain seemed to take Galahad's pleading to heart, because he increased his strokes, his own hard cock pushing hard against Galahad's hip. He brought Galahad to a peak of desperate cries and tensed up passion before Galahad threw his head back, a strangled cry on his lips, and he came with Gawain's name on his tongue, crying it out in a fervent scream. His body fell back to the cot as he went loose and relaxed. Gawain slowly lowered himself over Galahad, his hand still resting on Galahad's cock as he pressed a whisper of a kiss just above the wound on Galahad's chest.
"That…" Galahad began softly, his palm splayed flatly against Gawain's chest. "Thank you," he murmured. "Thank you, Gawain," he repeated sleepily. The claws of sleep were too close now, and he was ready to ask if Gawain wanted reciprocation for their deeds, but before he could voice any concerns, he surrendered himself to Morpheus' clutch on him, a terrible and empty world of dreams where all he could do was sleep in suspended blankness, wanting more than anything to be awake and feel the comfort of warm hands and a warm body against his.
Galahad awoke to nimble fingers on his chest. He rubbed at his eyes and looked down to find Gawain changing the cloth bandage, wrapping it around his body with gentle hands. He gave a truly stupid grin as he remembered the night before and reached out to brush his thumb against Gawain's cheek.
"You don't have to do that," Galahad commented as Gawain tied the cloth off in a knot. The only reply he received was a slow, lingering kiss atop his lips. Gawain pulled away and pressed his lips to Galahad's forehead before slowly dressing. "Or that, though, I enjoy it."
"Galahad, do you never shut up?" Gawain asked him with a smirk to his face. "Or will it be days of keeping you quiet through other means?"
Galahad sat up, reaching forward and grasping Gawain by his hair and pulling him forward, turning his head to the side and biting down hard at the place where neck met shoulder on Gawain's skin, his fingers brushing over it as Galahad pulled away.
"You may have to help in keeping me quiet. Minding me, perhaps," Galahad conceded, getting up and searching for his clothing. "Though, I hear you're absolutely terrible when it comes to minding things and people. Tristan says you've lost his hawk, and Bors has said that you've let two of his children run into the wilderness under your eye."
"You're beginning to irritate me," Gawain commented mildly, raising one eyebrow.
"Only now?" Galahad replied with light surprise. "I haven't been trying hard enough."
Gawain looked at him, laughter pulling at the edges of his mouth, and finally he gave a great burst of laughter, cuffing Galahad upside the head and sitting down on the cot, doubled over with amusement. Galahad sat beside him, unable to strike the grin from his face, and wondering just how he could not understand this method of comfort so many years past in the forest when he first saw Lancelot and Arthur.
Now, he finally felt comprehension.
And it felt good.
tbc
