"He begged," Bors grunted into his mug. Galahad sat at the head of the table, all the Knights desperate to regale him with their stories of the hunt and how they had killed them all. "Arthur put his heel to his throat and made him plead for mercy," he chuckled to himself. "He made 'im apologize for what he did, and then krrrchk," he made a slitting motion across his throat. "One swoop with Excalibur."

"It was perfect," Gawain commented. "Oh, how they all begged. Tristan, it would have been right up your alley," he called to the other side of the table.

"I fared well enough here," Tristan remarked back. Galahad winced, that seemed unnecessarily cruel. Gawain seemed to take the comment badly as well, rolling his eyes and muttering into his drink as he tipped it back. "So how did that last one escape then? The one that threatened Galahad on the field?"

"We were regrouping with the horses. He'd been tied up, but he got loose and stumbled away," Arthur replied calmly. "Gawain got him in the end. It doesn't matter though. He's dead, we're alive." He turned to Lancelot. "Did Percival's funeral go well?"

"As well as a funeral can go," Lancelot shrugged. "Next time, you are not leaving me behind."

"I had two wounded left here. You would leave your stronghold in the hands of the two least able to fight?" Arthur commented with interest. "Lancelot, remind me never to follow your lead into a battle, not for many years."

"Apologies," Lancelot smirked. "I forgot who I was speaking to. Arthur, lord and liege of all master battle strategies. I assume we're ignoring the time you rode your horse into the wrong end of the woods and wound up attacking a tribe of Nomads from the South?"

"Lancelot…" Arthur began warningly.

"Or, rather, are we forgetting the time that you ordered an attack because there was something rustling," Lancelot grinned sneakily, making a rustling motion with both his hands, "in the bushes, when it turned out to be a wild boar and a pack of piglets."

"I was fourteen. It was my first year commanding," Arthur said dryly, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, of course, Lord of all Battle," Lancelot mock saluted.

"In songs and stories, it will be passed down," Gawain announced, ignoring the terrible glare on Arthur's face, "about the great and noble courage of Arthur Castus and his sweeping victory over the boar."

"No," Bors cut in with a sly grin. "That'd be giving Arthur too much credit. If I recall all right and proper, that boar got a good nip in at Arthur before it waddled away."

"He still has the scar," Lancelot added. The whole of the table went silent as their attention turned to Lancelot, who was doing an excellent job of turning pink. His eyes went wide as he choked on the ale he had just swallowed. "I saw it while Gawain was stitching up another wound."

"Knights, may I remind you who your leader is, and may I also remind you who has the power to send you away on long missions into Saxon-Woad territory?" Arthur boomed with authority. "And then I must remind you that we're not through telling Galahad how he's been avenged."

"And Tristan's ankle," Galahad piped up finally. "The sprain was to be avenged as well."

"I assume nothing went awry in our absence?" Arthur inquired.

Tristan, Lancelot and Galahad exchanged glances. Tristan and Galahad's gaze lingered for a moment, and out of the corner of his eye, Galahad saw Gawain wince and finally, Lancelot broke the silence.

"Only if you include all the trouble Galahad gave us with his demands. It was like nursing a newborn," he chortled, ruffling one hand through Galahad's hair. Galahad rolled his eyes and shoved Lancelot's hand off, taking his mug and standing up. "Whoops, I've offended him," Lancelot continued in a conspiratorial tone.

Galahad placed the mug down on the table, wiping his mouth with his wrist.

"Let's see the wounds," Bors encouraged before chugging down the rest of his drink, letting out a long belch. "Come on, show the both of them. I want to see what we were defending out there in the cold." He took out his knife and stuck it in the wood, nodding at Galahad. "Let's go, boy, else I make someone undress you."

Galahad grumbled slightly, digging his fingers into his tunic and loosing his shirt, prying it upwards and revealing the stitched wound in his chest. After a moment in silent scrutiny, he lowered it and raised the injured leg onto the bench, pushing aside the material and displaying the long scar. He did this all with a sober and weary look on his face.

And they were silent.

"Who did those?" Gawain finally asked. "They look terrible."

"It's my work," Tristan replied proudly.

"You can't stitch to save your life," Gawain remarked. "No, don't argue. You know it's true." They glared at each other for a long moment, enough time for Galahad to stand up straight again and cross his arms uncomfortably. The mood had spiraled into discomfort and the silence was unnerving.

"Well, he asked for you anyhow," Tristan snapped finally, excusing himself from the table with a small nod of his head to Arthur. "You won that round," he added in parting before disappearing out the gates. Galahad took a few steps back, turning and walking away in the opposite direction when no one was watching him. Everything had dissembled into a chaotic mess all too quickly.

He stalked down the alleyway, the night completely dead around him. If he listened carefully, he heard the light footfalls of someone following him, but in his fit of anger, he couldn't bring himself to care. He stopped in the middle of the alleyway, turning to scream at the gates, scream at the Romans who had injured him, scream at Tristan for kissing him in the first place and scream as loudly as he could at Gawain, who just never said anything at all.

He closed his eyes and slumped up against the wall, his back crumpling in defeat. He breathed heavily, seeing every breath and feeling every burst of cold air as he inhaled. The footsteps were growing louder now, but slower. Galahad swallowed a lump in his throat, but didn't turn around. He leaned his forearm against the wall.

"Not now, Tristan," he murmured miserably. "I can't…I can't see you right now without thinking about the attack," he shook his head while leaning his forehead against his arm. "Please," he pleaded hoarsely when the steps came closer.

"I'm not…" two quiet words and then there were warm arms encircling Galahad's waist, just holding him there tightly. Galahad closed his eyes even tighter, wrapping his arms around those on him and holding tightly as he fell back into the embrace, taking shuddering breaths and feeling sharp bursts of pain. And every time still that he closed his eyes, all he could see were the Romans taunting him, all he could feel was the sword in his flesh.

"Gawain," Galahad shook his head, clawing frantically at his hands and turning himself around to look him in the eyes. "Gawain, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, we shouldn't have fought, I'm sorry we did. I'm sorry about Lara and…"

"Don't apologize," Gawain cut him off, pressing two fingers to Galahad's lips.

"They killed Percival," Galahad went on roughly, his chest heaving with his breaths now, his skin itching and every muscle twitching. "They hurt me. They were brutal and they…they didn't care how much pain they inflicted. I'm eighteen, damn it. I'm supposed to be dead by their hands, but I'm still here. They would have killed me and you were the one who noticed that I wasn't by your side."

"I always notice," Gawain replied calmly, gathering Galahad into his arms slowly, gently wrapping his arms around him and pulling him closer. "Galahad, you're not okay," he stated evenly.

"Of course I'm not okay!" Galahad shouted at the top of his lungs. "I know Tristan told you about the nightmares, about how I scream in my sleep. When I sleep, they come back. It never ends. I'm going to relive this hell because of my stupid dreams."

"I thought," Gawain began uneasily, "perhaps, Tristan was helping."

"Some nights," Galahad admitted. "But not most nights. Most nights…it's like it's happening all over again. Seeing Tristan, he reminds me. He was there that night, and I start to remember. He was on the ground, fighting to get the dresser off, the boot of the Roman on his stomach. And I…they…"

"Galahad," Gawain began seriously, one hand firm on the side of his face. "Did they do anything to you that wasn't physical wounds. Did they…penetrate…"

"No," Galahad quickly cut him off, shivering with the thought. "The one…he wanted to, but the leader said it would take too long. No, they just cut me up," he added bitterly. "Bastards. I know you killed them all, but it wasn't enough."

"Galahad," Gawain laughed, interspersed with small coughs. It sounded like relief to Galahad's ears as he pulled him even closer, holding him in the embrace. "You're alive. That's what matters. I'll take you out and we'll kill some Woads, you can take out your rage on them. But the only thing that matters is that you're alive."

Galahad pulled away slightly, but Gawain's hand did not move from his face. It was warm, gentle, and Galahad suddenly recalled that Gawain loved him, had loved him for so long now. And it was Gawain, safe, familiar, always there. He hadn't the slightest idea where Tristan had run to, nor whether Tristan's obsession would last past the week. He didn't even know if Tristan felt anything for him.

"You're alive," Gawain whispered gratefully, pressing their foreheads together. Galahad felt himself press slightly closer to Gawain, closing his eyes and feeling Gawain's hot breath mixing with his, wrapping his arms around Gawain's neck and stepping backwards to the wall, bringing Gawain with him.

Galahad pressed his back to the wall and opened his eyes – stained with the traces of tears – and searched Gawain's face. He looked to the side for a moment, one hand drifting up and resting on Gawain's shoulder. He should have pushed him away, he should have said that he really did think that perhaps he felt something for Tristan.

Instead, he kissed Gawain.

It could have been the worst mistake of his life, but Galahad pushed forward and wrapped one hand through Gawain's hair, closing his eyes and focusing on the taste on Gawain's lips – something vaguely copper-like, the strong hints of ale, the inklings of sweat – and felt his knees buckle slightly. Gawain seemed to sense this and held him up with both hands, pushing him against the wall and pushing his tongue into Galahad's mouth.

It wasn't as warm as Tristan, but it seemed to hold more warmth, which made absolutely no sense, but there it was. Galahad felt his heart pound in his chest and his hands were trembling slightly as he pulled Gawain even closer, meeting tongues and allowing Gawain to dominate, his body surging forward to press against Gawain's own. He let out a small whimper into Gawain's mouth, slowly pulling away and looking up into Gawain's eyes, his mouth slightly open.

"What was that?" Gawain asked gently, surprised, but a smile still lit up his face.

"I think I just kissed you," Galahad replied, his own words sounding shocked. "Quite pleasantly so."

"What about Tristan?" Gawain countered.

Galahad gave him a glare, narrowing his eyes. "I will march away right here and right now at this moment if you can tell me that when you asked Tristan if he loved me, Tristan said yes. I'm willing to put my life on the fact that he didn't."

Gawain paused, looking away. Galahad put a firm hand on Gawain's chin and forced him to look Galahad in the eye. "It's a good thing you're lucky," Gawain murmured grudgingly. "And that you seemingly have nine lives."

"I knew it," Galahad scoffed to himself, shaking his head. "Well?"

"Well, what?" Gawain demanded. "Don't tell me you're determined to pass yourself around like some town slut. Tristan isn't around, so I'm the next best thing? Don't misuse me so," Gawain threatened.

"If I didn't want you," Galahad snapped irritably, "then I would have done nothing. You think I don't understand anything, but I understand all this far better than you ever could. I understand," he went on caustically, "that if you had just said something, there wouldn't have been a mess in the first place."

He struggled to get out of Gawain's grip, but he wasn't let go.

"Excuse me," Galahad finally pulled away completely, taking off at a brisk pace to his room. Gawain was following him, that much he could hear. He stopped at his doorway and whirled to find Gawain two paces behind him. "Stalking? I didn't think you were learning from Tristan's bag of tricks."

"If you're still having the nightmares, let me stay," Gawain tiredly offered. "Since Tristan," he got it out with some trouble, "isn't around. You shouldn't have to suffer because we're all involved in some complicated love mess."

Galahad bit back a question on the tip of his tongue and nodded slowly, letting Gawain into the room and grabbing a pillow for the chair. He didn't readily want to admit it, but it was terribly frightening to wake up alone from one of those dreams. He handed it to Gawain and nodded to the chair.

"Tristan beds there," Galahad murmured quietly. "When he does sleep."

"I'm weary enough to sleep through two nights," Gawain laughed to himself.

"Yes, well, if all is true, then you won't be sleeping much anyway," Galahad warned him, tucking himself under the sheet and lying on his back. "Apparently, in the midst of my nightmares, I scream."

He closed his eyes, not taking one glance to see what Gawain's reaction was. It took him very few minutes to fall asleep, his exhaustion from the day catching up to him quickly. He fell to a sleep plagued with echoing voices, all accusing, all threatening, all taunting him.

"Let's see how it slides in, so easily. You were meant for the knife, boy."

"We bury Percival in two days."

"I'll kill them with my own bare hands, every last one."

"Such pretty skin. We'll just have to change that, now won't we, lads?"

"He thinks he's in love with you!"

"It was only a matter of time before we got to you."

Galahad shot awake, sweating and finding a pair of eyes fixated on him. He tried desperately to breathe, but found that it was hard to find breath in him, his whole body heaving with every inhalation. He felt sick with nausea, but nothing came up. Rather, he sat there, convulsing by his breaths alone.

"You do scream," Gawain commented, curled in the chair. He said it simply, but there was amazement in his voice, as though he hadn't believed the stories in the first place. There was a hint of fear lurking there, as though he was afraid of Galahad because of it. "You really do."

"I told you so," Galahad retorted, sounding like a lost little boy.

He leaned his head forward on his raised knees, looking down. He chanced a look over at Gawain to find him looking. Galahad felt more vulnerable than he had in weeks, lost all over again. Normally with Tristan, he would be taken into warm arms and soothed until the memory of the dream had dissipated, but Galahad was still unsure of his footing here. He sighed and relaxed back into bed, willing himself to not fall asleep again.

"Galahad," Gawain started quietly.

"Hmm?"

"Do you need to be…comforted?" Gawain continued apprehensively, edging the chair closer to the bed. It didn't make as much noise as compared to Tristan. Galahad paused, wondering if Tristan would actually return. He looked out the window to see the moon high in the sky and decided that Tristan would be out wandering the woods, not planning to return at this point. "I can leave if you need to be alone."

"No," Galahad replied quickly and desperately. "No, just…stay. Talk with me."

"I'm not very good at talking," Gawain admitted with a small shrug. "But for you, I'll try my best." He leaned forward, his knees touching the edge of the bed and sat there intently, waiting for something. Then there was a frown. "Wait, you wanted me to talk as well?"

Galahad shook his head. "Never mind," he said softly. He looked away. "You can go back to sleep," he encouraged. "Just…it's probably better. Then I won't say anything stupid," he laughed quietly. "We all know how often I do that."

"You really don't," Gawain contradicted immediately. "It's just the simple joke because you had the loudest, biggest mouth when you were younger. I mean, honestly, I didn't think a boy could run his mouth off as quickly as you did for so long." He snorted. "That was a feat of endurance. At some point, I actually thought Lancelot might take your head off just to shut you up."

"It's stupid," Galahad muttered.

"It's like the jokes about Bors being dense, or Lancelot being Arthur's whipping boy, or…or Tristan's strange nature," Gawain faltered slightly, rebounding quickly with a clearing of his throat. "It means nothing. Don't take it deeply, just pass it away and they'll forget to make the jokes."

"Why can't they just stop?" Galahad whined, rolling his eyes. "It really isn't difficult."

A moment of silence passed between them as Galahad sat fidgeting, his fingers tapping against his knee. He chanced another look at Gawain and shifted uncomfortably, wondering just how three weeks could have changed their friendship so deeply. He nodded to the window and found his voice.

"Do you think Tristan is all right?" he asked quietly.

Gawain turned to look out the window, resting one hand on Galahad's shoulder. "It's Tristan," he answered with confidence. He gave a shake of his head, something that looked like bitterness in his smile now. Galahad understood. He could hold all the ill grudges towards Tristan, but there was still something deep down that made you respect – if not like – Tristan. "He'll outlast us all."

Gawain pressed a kiss to the top of Galahad's head, pushing him down gently with his hands.

"Sleep," he said quietly. "I'll be right here."