Work Text:
How shall I do
To get anew
Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more
Above, above
The reach of fluttering Love,
And make him cower lowly while I soar?
Lines to Fanny, John Keats
The road slowly degraded, turning to earth then mud. It hadn’t been his intention to arrive late; after all, he was only going to see one specific event of the day. But then again, his intentions didn’t often matter when it comes to these things: schedules, jobs, family, people. They’ll always find a way to get out of your grasp, and forgetting to charge his phone last night, making him miss the alarm was just one example of the weeks that kept repeating themselves. Galahad cut the engine, the twang of a guitar falling deaf mid-sentence, and hurried outside.
His soured mood sweetened as he caught sight of the morning crowd, all milling around the stands, whether for food or to decide which items they'll bring back as gifts. Sunlight raining softly, anticipating the promise of a warm noon. Although it had been years since he’d attended the medieval faire, he could still distinguish the newcomers from the veterans, the loyal reenactors from the historians from the casual lovers. He wondered what he looked like to those with the same eye as him; a fresh face lost among the layout, and yet well worn and suited. Self-consciously, he ran a hand to smooth his tunic, and adjust his leather pteruges.
Behind the stable of the jousting arena, beyond the blacksmith's 'tent', a small gathering was forming. Trickling in like ants. He trailed a couple; laughing about the breadcrumbs in their hands, how they wiped it in each other's hair to allegedly tempt those trained hawks. Galahad wanted to sneer, Isolde was better trained than that. Either way, he was on the right path.
“Gal!” A hoarse thunder splitting his ear, “There you are!”
Bors, along with the rest of the group, hollered at him until he was close enough. Arthur squeezed his shoulder as a greeting, sliding out of the tumult and towards the bathrooms. The lingering scent of mead and beer intensified the closer he got to Dagonet, who had not uttered a word. They nodded in acknowledgment of the other.
“We thought you’d got lost on the way.” Lancelot teased, strolling from behind him, fake concern etched in the corners of his mouth.
He smirked right back at the man, resisting pulling the frayed edge of his flamboyant cloak, “You’ll never forgive me for that one time, won’t you?” And patted him on the back instead, as they closed in on the site of the expo.
The noise quieted to a hum, and the coordinator started their fancy speech about the noble, and ancient, art of Falconry. The birds of prey were introduced first, described more like a show-dog in terms of personality, than breed or specimen. Then, a short, blond, burly man, completely in chainmail, stepped out of the back building, with the triumphant bird on his gloved finger.
The crowd cooed in awe.
It itched, the rapid but manageable practiced speech: this was not what -or who- he came to see. Too distracted with his own anticipation, he barely registered the event. Blue eyes, just another pair following the circling shadow above their heads, but not taking any of it in. He’d left his head at home, muffled between pillowcases. Under the sun, the man glittered gold and silver, in and out of view under the wing shaped blur of shadows. But his eyes caught a different one, down by the side, behind the open doors of the makeshift wings of the “backstage”.
It is at this point that Galahad realized he had never seen Tristan in anything other than casual wear, jeans and a flannel mostly, and that if his counterpart was anything to go by, he’d be coming out in full period-typical gear soon. Before his imagination could run on the thought, the head mic was being left to the side, and the vultures of the man retreated. He had not even noticed they’d showcased more than one, but there was a large owl where there was once an eagle. A bump made him turn.
Arthur had elbowed his way through the crowd towards them, handing one of the two overflowing pints of dubious mead to Lancelot, “Did I miss anything?”
“Only half the show.” Answered Gawain quickly, just before stealing a sip of the beer right from his friend’s glass.
Galahad wasn’t sure why they kept the charade, everyone knew in a way. Well, almost everyone, judging by Arthur’s exasperated look, as if he were the eldest brother trying to impart some manners on his younger siblings. Lancelot appeared nonplussed and drank right from the same place Gawain had.
Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but Bors- “Shuush!”
They all focused back on the arena, on the sure, confident steps of their friend. Tristan stood out in the heavily mended long sleeved tunic, the braccae, and those trekking boots, completely incongruent with the rest of the carefully crafted outfit.
But the outfit was not the main attraction, Tristan was a mere accessory to Isolde, there, with her long tail and serious expression. The red-brown patches of the plumage highlighted her wings and strong legs. The words rolled out at an even pace, low and slower than before, showing off the specimen she represented. A Harris’ Hawk. Isolde walked hastily on the ground, quickly locating the rabbit pieces strewn for her, starting her routine. Soon she was flying off to the nearest tree and Galahad was mesmerized, not that he’d never seen Isolde, but now he was noticing different aspects of the bird. Or, more accurately, her similarities to her keeper. Tristan’s eyes had always seemed not altogether human in their intensity, and the proof was finally in front of him: he looked exactly the same as the hawk, zeroing in on prey as it descended from its perch. He grasped the edges of the speech, of the social aspect of the species, how they had not had the opportunity to show two of them in action, cooperating and sharing.
She soared, the sun reaching its peak as if for her only, and then turned to fly over the crowd’s heads. Galahad felt dizzy. There was a collective laugh, an almost smile from Tristan at his own words meant to entertain, the light sway of his braids with his movements and wind. Isolde stood on the ground near the group and walked; did no one notice how synchronized they seemed? There was a pull from the pit of his stomach, a cottoned, dreamlike quality to his throat and the roof of his mouth. He fixed his eyes sunwards again, catching the moment where the majestic animal followed Icarus, defied the very day and night, on her way to the branches. As he returned, the spots in his vision did not quit. There was no grass, no Tristan, no logs and rabbit and crowd. There were only dark purple and blue holes in the landscape, and blinking did nothing to erase them.
Fuck.
“Gal?”
“I’ll be right back.” He mumbled through his teeth.
Galahad stumbled towards the bathrooms, earning him another call of his name. He’d left in such a hurry that morning he hadn’t had breakfast. Or a glass of water. And his tunic was too hot even with the legs exposed. And this perpetually-humid weather was not helping his predicament at all. Sometimes he wished he’d been born somewhere else, somewhere landlocked and dry.
Cool water on the back of his neck, on his overheated crown of curls, on his face. Drinking some too, from his cupped hands under the sink. Galahad was not entirely aware of the time passing, but as he dealt with half of the problem, the door opened.
“Hey-” Bors’ soft, raspy voice startled him. “Need any help?”
Drops of water jumped from his curls onto the counter, almost resembling a dog, as he shook his head. “It’s under control — mostly.”
He hesitated on what to say next, as Bors looked him over once again. At least he knew he wasn’t sunburnt, but he must look like complete and utter-
“Shit! You guys are here. I was getting worried…” Gawain burst from the door, holding it open with his body.
Hastily drying his hands on the tunic, he turned to Bors’ expectant face.
“Everything’s fine, I just need to eat something.”
Gawain laughed at that, neither nervous nor cruel, as Bors relaxed and they left in tow.
“Should I start keeping apples in my pockets for you, too?” he quipped, as they made their way to the stands. The smell of bread and cured meats made his head spin in the best way possible. The dark spots had not left, but they were faint.
“Gringolet is better behaved-” Bors started, patting his shoulder, disguising a way to steady his steps. His knees did feel less solid, he could only imagine how it looked.
Galahad smiled, raising his eyebrow. “Attempting to drown Arthur is good behaviour?”
“Of course it is! We should do it more often. Maybe he’d have some fun with less oxygen in that brain of his.” Lancelot interrupted, seeming to just know instinctively where they were. Like he had a radar or the other half of a magnet. Creepy.
Galahad ordered some stuffed bread they only had to reheat, while Bors eyed the pheasants and other juicy meats on display. Lancelot soon was pecking off Gawain’s cheese spread, looking for Arthur’s unnecessary and quite frankly absurd reserved table. Then again, most of these events could not have been made without his money, or expertise, so if the man wanted a private round table as a joke about his friend’s names, so be it. He single-handedly organized the jousting tournament, how, nobody knew. Since it was easier to find him at home in his “throne” (ie. fancy chair he got off an auction) than anywhere near the mud and sweat of these events.
Galahad tried not to think too harshly of him, after all, he’d been the one to put a good word on him for his new job.
They plopped down on the wooden chairs, half relieved. Bors not so subtly kept an eye on him as he tore chunks off his bread, going so far as to lick his fingers for the bits of olives sticking to it. The colour came back to his cheeks, and he had half a mind to feel embarrassed until he saw that everyone was just as engrossed by their own plates.
The steps behind him could only belong to one man.
“You left early.” Tristan’s voice did not betray any emotion, if he was offended or concerned, only he himself knew.
“Bathroom called.” He tracked how the other man went to sit across from the lovebirds, far enough from Galahad that they could not be considered next to each other, but near enough that conversation could continue unhindered. If the conversation continued at all. The side of his fork hitting the wooden plate joined the list of background noises, the light crunch of the apple tart’s crust drowned out.
“Did you lose Dagonet on the way?”
Tristan held the piece in front of himself for a moment, “He’s with Arthur.”
Galahad decided not to stare at the gruff man as he ate, as much as he’d like to, and instead focused on cleaning his fingers with the napkins. One by one, he wiped off the grease carefully, taking the time to use the toothpicks that came with the bread to get what could have got under his nails. It was less awkward than the alternative.
Once he had nothing else to do he looked around. Bors had his phone out, meaning it could only be Vanora asking how the day was going, while Lancelot and Gawain had disappeared with an air of mischief in the direction of the jousting stables. He could only hope that, miraculously, Dagonet and Arthur were there to contain them.
He sighed, the sour mood returning once again like the surge of panic he’d had at waking. Better drink something and look around the places he hadn’t yet; he would leave once he ran out of energy or Tristan bodily removed him from the premises. At this point he could not be sure which would happen first. This shade of silence and glower was not the usual one, and he’d rather not make the same mistakes again.
If he coughed too hard he swore he could still feel the long since healed bone.
*
With a lemonade in hand, he strolled leisurely around the jewelry section. Intricate and traditional rings shielded from the afternoon sun so as not to blind the customers, along with pins and fibulas, and business cards with numbers and emails for special requests. He inspected them all, although he knew logically that rings would always be inconvenient on his broad fingers. Inconvenient for work, for the gym, for all the nightly scratches to his face… And yet, the claddagh design section called and beckoned his prolonged attention. So much so that the owner estimated his ring size, should he want to try it.
Galahad backed off with a nod and an “I’ll come back later” to hide the slip of his mind. Not that he had anyone to buy that ring for.
The other stands were less refined, but just as interesting. He bought two pins that made him laugh before deciding a better way to spend his money, and smoothly let the blacksmiths turn from accessories to weaponry. Historical reproductions of arrow points, shields, even swords that could barely be breathed near before the owner’s eyes bulged from stress. Temptation was strong as he finished with the knife collectors with their polished daggers and ornamental finishes. They made him wish he had a way to strap them to his thigh, underneath his tunic, or his usual kilts, but he shook it off every time. It would be uncomfortable, he told himself, to have it there, and the thought would drift out until another beautiful yet practical and small knife came his way. There was only so much money he could spend, and a quality garter and a quality knife was over his budget. He shook his head, and tried to get the engraved beauty off the back of his eyes.
( Adventure awaits ye who wields me; if only it were true. )
He did two more rounds along the edges of the jousting arena and the stables, just in case he saw any of his friends but nothing. Stranger upon stranger, and more than one appreciating eye that flustered him as much as it baffled him. Surely his good looks were not that head turning. Surely something more, something wrong lurked in those eyes. After nearly creating a dry moat around the entrance of the jousting area by sheer repetition of his path, he trudged back to the tables.
A sigh left him, taking with it all the calming smell of grass and slight magic of this place. There was nothing left to do.
The table was empty, not even the hint that someone had sat there that day. Arthur liked that it was kept well polished, and someone did just that after the last one left. With nobody around to say goodbye to, he took his dying phone out.
galahad Today at 15:48
Guys i’m leaving.
see you on friday
for game night
redfishbluefishswordfish (lance) Today at 15:50
bye
remember to bring the beer
notgringolet Today at 15:50
bye gal!! let us know when u r home
arthurcp Today at 15:51
hope you enjoyed your saturday
@everyone who brings what this friday is on pinned
we cant let this happen twice (edited)
Galahad put it on silent and slipped it into his pocket. The rest he could check at home.
The parking area was empty save for carcass upon carcass of metal. There weren’t that many cars either, he spotted his easily in the back. The bastard who parked next to him had used more space than needed, but at least it wasn’t like last time, sandwiched between two Jeeps so monstrous you’d think they were compensating for something. If he ever seriously thought of buying one of those he’d told Gawain to shoot him between the eyes like they did with lame horses.
He just stood there, with keys in hand, willing to move. Standing in the deserted end of the fantasy world, thinking of all the things he ought to do before returning to work on Monday. Thinking of the trip to the grocers that could (not) wait until tomorrow, or that the gym membership was going to debit soon and he really should think about downgrading-
A familiar silence overpowered his thoughts.
Galahad looked up to catch him staring before he slowly ducked his head away. Tristan remained fixed on the mud on the tip of his shoe for a moment longer, troubled somehow. Mouth open. Mouth closed. He shot a wide glance around the lot, sparing the other man; brows knitting together when Tristan's motorcycle wasn’t around.
“Read you were leaving, mind if I go with you?”
Galahad just held the door open for him to get in on the passenger seat. After wetting his lips, a thought finally bubbled out, along with another and another. “How’s Isolde getting back?”
“David brought her, he’s taking her back with the others.” Curt and sharp.
He just nodded and got the engine running. The quiet was easier, now, with Tristan simmering, looking out the window, the radio down to a whisper. Long empty roads turned to the half-busy motorway in no time. Under the dusk, Tristan looked different. There, the way the dying light refused to curl around his scarred nose, or the hazy edges of his braids and misshapen bangs dangling on his brow. Red turned to green too soon each time, and he was forced to focus back on the way home.
Home, whatever that meant anyways.
Galahad stopped in front of his building since Tristan lived close enough. They exchanged a strange look, as if there was a thick curtain between them where there usually is blissfully blank space.
“Do we part ways here or do you want to come up for a drink?”
He turned the offer over in his mind, just to sigh. “Let’s drink.”
*
The apartment was, as always, chilled enough to be uncomfortable when they arrived. They stayed in silence for as long as it took the water to boil, for Tristan to get out of the bathroom and wait for whatever he wished to serve him. In this case-
“Hot toddy. It’s been a long day.”
Galahad handed him the mug, sitting next on the other end of the couch. “Thank you.”
The fondness in those brown eyes won the race against whiskey and tea to warm his stomach. He clutched the grey ceramic harder between his fingers, moving to sip it, make it last. But Tristan had other plans and intentions, given he downed it in two violent gulps, before gingerly leaving it on the table. It made him furious. Doubly so when the man stood tall and about to leave, as if he regretted coming up in the first place, fists curled into balls.
Exhausted, Galahad stood up with him, embodying the deep hurt turning his nerves into livewires, “Will you for once tell me why you are so angry with me? I was late, yes-”
“I’m not angry with you.”
“Then what?” A step closer, almost chest to chest, fuming, incendiary blues. The electrical spark about to burn the entire building down. The flame left on the pilot for too long. Instead of being whispered by the fire, Tristan gave him his back, forcing out the urge to linger at those lips, always a hard wind away from chapping.
"Don't I deserve a fucking answer?"
The slam of the door was answer enough.
He didn't have the strength to chase him, didn't have the strength to do much more than scowl around the house. Stumble around the sharp edges, plug his phone in long enough to turn on just to power it off. Handling the bags rougher than he ought to, the feel of plastic stinging his fingers. Even the stabs at the leftovers threatened to puncture the bottom of the tupperware in evenly spaced fork-tine holes.
By the time he entered the small shower stall, the amped anger had bled into resignation. It had to be psychosomatic, he knew that much, but his rib stung under the water. He wondered if Tristan felt the same. He wondered if he'd gone out on Bea for a drive like he did when upset, if he'd gone down to the pub, if he'd picked someone up, if-
Cold, hissing out of the spiraling thoughts.
Before bed, Galahad took the two pins he'd bought and carefully hooked them on the plain magnets by the fridge. If anything, he'd have something to laugh about in the morning.
*
On Monday, pettiness and bitter defeat coursed through him, clamping down the unwanted thoughts lurking for a free moment to spring. On Tuesday, the double shift of the gym worked to numb his head out of anything that wasn’t sore muscles. Wednesday came with heavy rain to shake him all up again. Thursday was a lonely affair as he was in charge of closing the shop.
It was too quiet, even with his phone notifications volume cranked to the max. A customer wandered in, determined on a specific shelf. In no time they’d arrived at the front to pay, bringing meaninglessly polite small talk to his meaninglessly polite day.
Galahad was distracted, Tristan would have usually apologized by now. And by apologizing he meant contacting him in his easy nonchalant way to offer up a truce, implying the fact that whatever mild annoyance they'd argued about had been blown out of proportion, and that it was good now. That it had passed. They’d learnt this dance by heart. Whoever stormed out, whoever had been called out on their bullshit had to send the message, or drop by, or call, like in the good old days when their friends didn’t know each other well enough and could not buffer (or suffer) between them. Damned be their tempers.
It felt like much more than just that this time, the more he analyzed it.
For how long had they been friends for Tristan to suddenly drop him like this? Were the years nothing to him? Was the offense against that bird it? Was it too great, the last drop, last straw? Isolde could not have cared less if he was there, or if he greeted her before the exposition, or if he left early. He believed Isolde cared for very little.
He shook his head off that tangent, inhaling the, by now nauseating, lingering scent of glue.
So there he was, with his head propped up on his hand, bored out of his racing mind, and at the mercy of the clock. The chair creaked when he swiveled behind the counter that doubled as a desk, melting into the faint sound of the street outside. Galahad admitted to himself that there was some solace: this was his last week. At last, he would move from the stuffed, stale air of paper and dust towards damp grass and wood. The daydream materialized little by little, digging his stance on the earth, wind snapping, the force of the pull of the string. Alive, with his hands calloused and dirty, not out of ink and weights but mud and practice. If he maintained the illusion for ten more minutes he would be able to finish the day on the right foot. Ten more minutes, before he could start to close and go.
Of course, the bell chimed.
Galahad held his breath as Tristan dragged himself in. He must have come off straight from work, since his hair was up in a bun, some shorter strands framing his face, and he had his backpack buckled across his chest. And of course, a helmet perched on his elbow.
There were a thousand things he wanted to say, but the first to come out of his mouth just had to be- ”I see Isolde did not peck you to death as revenge against all humankind.”
The other man grimaced, before nodding. “That was well-earned.”
Gal just hummed in acknowledgement.
“I brought you something since you used your good whiskey on me.” He deposited the black long box from the bag on his shoulder on the desk in a single, dry movement. This was as good as an apology would get, he surmised. Deft fingers picked it up, turned it over. It was a good label, far better than the one he’d poured on their drink. Overcompensating. A very deliberate sigh left his lips, as he put it down again. Galahad wanted, no, needed more. It was not just this, it was the build up. The weeks and months where every skittish comment earned him a glare and every sway had a pair of inkblots attached.
“We both know it’s not about the whiskey.”
“I don’t-”
“It fucking hurts, Tristan. You keep burying the knife when I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”
Seeing how the other man’s entire demeanor slumped, he held his hands up, placating. “Lashing out hurts us both, don’t you realize?” And quickly added, “You’re my best friend, if you are going through something I’m here to listen.”
Tristan looked out the window of the shop, a frightening depth within, as if he wasn’t seeing anything that existed in this realm, before settling back on him, avoiding his eyes. “Not here.”
His heart skipped a beat, “Let me close up, and we’ll talk.”
It took Galahad five minutes to put everything in its right place, turn off the lights, and close the blinds.
“I didn’t see your car outside.” Tristan’s leather jacket crinkles when he pulls to disengage the backpack, tuck in the gift, attaching everything in the back.
The door clicks with finality, Galahad doesn’t look at him while he pockets the keys to answer. Too much anticipation even in the imposed casualness. “Took the bus."
"Perfect, put this on."
The helmet fits him well, but his head seemed pretty standard. The thought that Tristan had kept one helmet with him, specifically, in mind, was too great. Stomach twisted up in knots already for the prospect of their ride. It was too easy to watch Tristan put on his own, already mounted on Bea. Galahad’s mouth found its position between a smirk and a teasing, fully-fledged smile, biting down the revolt in his guts. “Do you always keep a second helmet?”
Tristan decided to ignore that as Galahad pressed himself to his back, holding tight. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last, that Tristan takes him on a ride on the Boulevard. But in all those times, Galahad had been limp, severely inebriated, and it was easier to process the pale hands, clutching in need. If anything, he’d noticed Galahad spoke more with his hands (or his fists) than he let on. Not tactile, or touchy, per se, but put enough drink in him and you’d see him unable to carry a conversation if you were to cut off his hands.
He looked over his shoulder, and saw in those blues the sheen of anxiety he himself was wrestling with. Galahad tightened his grip, and they hit the road.
*
It was now Tristan’s turn to unlock the door and let the other man in. His apartment was smaller, or at least it felt smaller with the walls filled to the brim. What the man had was shelf after shelf of books, and no separation between kitchen and bedroom and living room. The bed was just a mattress on the floor, not even a couch for when the guys dropped in. Galahad had invested in four stools for the breakfast bar of his kitchenette but when it was Tristan’s turn to put his house for game night they sat on the floor. At least it was a trusty hardwood floor. It didn’t creak when you stepped, it didn’t curve or bend.
Right now he wished it did, his steps felt too heavy not to see his surroundings react to them.
Galahad took his shoes off by the door, watching Tristan’s slight tremor as he did the same. Water. Fridge door. The tell-tale clinking of bottles. There was no more stalling, no turning back. Galahad accepted the beer solemnly before cringing at the small quiver in his voice. "What's going on?"
Tristan dropped on the floor, head against the wall opposite his bed as he took a big swig. Waited.
Galahad sat next.
Maybe if they were both looking at the door, at the white expanse of the wall, it would be easier on them. Whatever Tristan had to say… He suppressed a shudder and took his own swig of courage.
“There’s… there’s someone.” Voice rough, too rough even for Tristan’s standards, “I don’t know when I fell in love.”
Tristan tried to let a humorless chuckle out but it turned into a wounded cough, half-sobbed. Smoked and wet words, as wet as his vision. Out of the fire and into the boiling pot. “I don’t know when, might have been the day when we met — when he jumped on me, pulled my hair so I was staring at him in the eye. He'd bested me and clearly needed me to know it."
“Tristan," Galahad started carefully, the floor had dropped; There was nothing but the absence of footing, unfamiliar stairs in the night. "I — that was me. I broke your nose that day.”
“And I your rib."
Galahad took a gulp, but no matter how he tried his mouth still felt awkward, unprepared. "I would really like to be able to say I am sorry for that but-"
"You aren't. And neither am I. You'd broken a string off my lyre."
"And you brought a fragile lyre to a party of Lancelot's. At least it wasn't the worst thing that happened that night, didn't you help Percival lower the piano into the lake?"
They laughed, it seemed so long ago, so foolish and young. Tristan finished his drink, held himself upright against the wall. It was a swelling tension, the unsaid, the easy tangent. Nothing felt different, the burden had not lifted the sword from where it rested on the nape of Tristan’s neck. Losing his best friend - the idea was intolerable, and yet the very probable outcome of having to somehow beat himself out of being in love to keep it… Perhaps the hurt of Galahad storming out would have been kinder than whatever would come next. His brain had already supplied him with a firm but sweet let down in that brusque warm tongue.
He hadn't expected Galahad's hand to find his own, both cold from hanging onto the beer too long. It made Tristan wish his heart were stronger, so perhaps it could break free of his ribcage and crawl to the man's lap where it belonged. As much as he liked to call him pup to annoy him, the real dog who'd been barking for attention was him. Scraggly and willing to take scraps. The weight of the palm pinning him to this earth.
Galahad took an empty swig, too startled to realize nothing but a few drops were left at the bottom of the thick glass. Fuck. None of this felt real. He had half a mind to be grateful they weren't drinking something stronger. The bitter taste forgotten on his lips as he focused on where their hands met. He ran his thumb over Tristan's hand and felt him shiver.
"It was blurry to me too, but one day I just knew." Galahad took the courage to look him in the eye, finally, and it rolled out of his control. "I knew when you got me back to my room after Arthur's birthday, do you remember? I was pissed and I said I'd go back to the inn he'd rented for us but I had no idea where we were and I ended up on the beach. The night - That night was as perfect weather as it could be and…"
He licked his lips, working around the dry stickiness of his throat, "I don't know why I felt that I had to lay down in the sand, look up at the stars. Nobody else in the world existed, like that." Galahad's eyes shone, two bright jewels in the dark. "It scared me, the beauty of it. What if I really was lost and drunk and alone? And nobody but me got to see this? I felt like a child again, in a corner of the foster home, counting the panels of the floor, waiting. I waited for what felt like hours, terrified nobody was going to come for me, again. But you came. You-" His voice cracked, "I was so relieved. And I realized you were the only one I wanted to see then, to share those stars with…"
He paused, smiling as his free hand came to rub the stray tears before they tangled on his beard.
"You helped me get back and into bed since I was seeing double — and I wanted to kiss you. Wanted to pull you down and kiss you until morning came and we had to go home. Thought I could make you understand with that impossible feat."
Tristan blinked, unable to focus through the blur, as he leaned in, "Make me und-”
He stole the words right from his mouth. Galahad held onto the shoulders of his shirt to bring him close, closer, close enough to hurt, keeping him under the bruising kiss. Everything he could have ever wanted to say held in place between their lips, the taste of salt and desperation and an earth-shattering amount of hope, all tangled in a simple Please, stay. I don't care how but stay.
Hands ran to his unruly hair, others curled higher to grasp at his neck. They kissed as if it were their last breath, panting when the need for oxygen was too great and the awareness they were awarded more than just this one taste set in. Tristan tucked his head on his shoulder, getting his breath back. "Promise." Thick and heavy and overcome. "Promise me we'll make this work."
Lips pressed to the scar on the bridge of his nose, "promise."
He kissed Galahad’s neck right where his beard ended, trailing down to the hollow of his throat as Galahad shifted. They knocked over the beer glass with the nudge of a foot, startling them both, before- "Bed."
Without a single cell of restraint in their body anymore they all but flung into it, a dull thud his downstairs neighbor must have heard. Their noses crashed, a mumble, touches that didn't quite know where to go first. Galahad broke the kiss they'd been able to coordinate with a hearty, infectious laugh, all the serious, heady atmosphere dissipated. "What- Okay, what do we want here?"
He could feel one of Tristan's rare smiles on his exposed shoulder, "I want to feel you."
If the tumble hadn't made him hard, that would have made blood rush so quick he would have passed out. Galahad screwed his eyes shut, trying to calm down the images or it would end before it even began. "Fuck, I didn't bring a condom."
Tristan let out an exhale that was as close as a laugh as it would get, and pulled him into his lap; big and capable hands on the back of knee right where the kilt ended. Tristan continued to leave a trail of kisses from shoulder to clavicle. "Hand?" He murmured to the sensitive skin of his breastbone.
"God, yes."
The pads of his fingers climbed up under the pleated material, sliding with enough pressure to feel the toned muscle there. Galahad had one hand lost in the tangle of Tristan's hair, bun undone long ago, and the other on his shoulder for balance. Last time someone had touched him it hadn't been half as dizzying. Last time, it had been a miserable two hours at the pub for a fifteen minute reward. Last time… nothing he'd experienced could compare to this, the attention, the hazy high that was tilting his world into giddiness.
The path of those heavenly hands reached the curve of his ass before snaking down front to squeeze. He nearly jumped off the bed, between that and Tristan's teeth having managed to unbutton more of his shirt. Flushed and lavished, half wondering if it wasn't a cruel dream he’d wake up from soon. But the burn on the right side of itchy that Tristan’s beard left on his skin had to be real. He'd never been a realistic dreamer after all.
Underwear tugged down next, and Galahad was all too aware the other man still hadn't taken off any of his clothes, or had them on the way to being permanently stretched. Bunching the dark fabric of his loose shirt, he tugged it down to reveal more chest hair than he could have imagined. Tristan let him go just to take it off, landing on the edge of a book on the higher up shelves. Galahad twitched at the sight, broad and just soft enough at touch, all that muscle underneath. Faded scars, rough patches. More tattoos in blue ink and faded enough to get lost between the thicket of brown turning silver.
They could have spent much longer just staring at each other trying to commit every detail to the best of their memory, but Tristan was much more practical. He wrapped his hand around him, still covered by the unfastened kilt, and latched back onto his smooth chest. Galahad looked down at the crown of his head, almost haloed in the soft lights: it ached . (Or maybe those were the newly blooming hickeys across his ribs.)
Falling, losing his voice between the quiet, soft gasps and the weight. Galahad was a solid weight, even as he was hovering with his knees bracketing him, palming the tartan to unpin and unwrap it. God forbid it gets ruined, although getting crumpled seemed just fine. The floor would have to make do. Tristan realized if God had anything to do with it-
“Enjoying the view?” Galahad tilted his head to the side, taking in the caramel swirl of those eyes, so focused and yet somewhere else. Tristan gave him the impression that he saw more than others, past and through flesh and steel and stone, either in it’s blur or intensity. What could he be discovering all the way down in him? He lowered back, a better angle for the pressure of those fingers that had trained beasts and played the most delicate-sounding of instruments. At that moment, he felt like both.
“Makes me think about God.”
“Don’t say that while you’re-” A groaned moan, another twist of the wrist. Picking up pace, finally , no more teasing. Galahad, half panting, arched for a sloppy kiss turned heated. “Bastard.”
Spit-slicked lips, reddened swollen, after the ministrations of those sharp teeth. “Your bastard, I hope.”
“ All mine.”
*
Drifting, half-asleep and tangled in each other, Galahad thought to speak, to say something, anything, but all he ended up mumbling out were some clumsy syllables, "You're getting grey hairs already."
“Can’t fight time.” There was no humour in Tristan’s voice, but it could have been that he woke him. Hard to tell his breathing in their position, holding Tristan at the waist but splayed, split. Barely touching and yet completely near, there, as if they shared a nervous system.
“Would you want to?”
“No.” Tristan scooted closer, letting the heat seep into his back. The arms enveloping him tightened for a second, a reassuring crush sensation, solid, stable. He was going to wake covered in sweat under the thick covers and Galahad’s inexplicable ever present warmth, but there was nothing he could be more grateful for.
A deep exhale against his neck, goosebumps in the dark. “Good.”
It took Tristan no time to be lulled back to sleep, between the calm breaths behind him, and the metronomic quality of the raindrops against the window.
*
Friday night arrived and Galahad had one more thing to take from home besides the twelve pack of stout he'd promised. He unclipped the diy magnet and grabbed his car keys.
As predicted, he arrived late. Later than what they had started calling Galahad late. Although it was not his fault this time, he couldn't have known traffic was going to be even worse than usual for the end of the week, and Gawain's house was far enough out into the suburb to be a problem.
"We are going to have to put a tracker on you, Pup." Tristan deadpanned in lieu of greeting.
Gawain waved a hand in dismissal, lying on his own couch in such a way that he was occupying the entire length of it. It reminded him of a housecat stretched across several pillows. Liquid. "Should have done it while he was young…"
"Gawain, we have two years between us, if I am old, so are you."
"Nay, I'm manic pixie dream-"
"Getting the Ramona Flowers haircut went up to your head." Lancelot cut him off, the one who’d opened the door to him and properly welcomed Galahad. And he stayed near him, even if it was just to check he’d brought all the right things.
He wished to protest but just then Arthur walked in from the patio, "Is nobody going to help me assemble the poker table?"
After noticing Gal had arrived, he narrowed his eyes. "And where's Bors?"
Dagonet just shrugged, and resumed his enthusiastic chat with Tristan. Something about a harp, or maybe a harpy, with the clutter in their vowels it could have been either of those things. Perhaps both.
Galahad didn't pay much attention, instead focusing on getting everything into the cooler while Lancelot all but salivated at the alcoholic treasure beside him. Friday nights took over the kitchen they were held in and, in this case, the small green patch in between the semi-detached houses. The cards and chips neatly piled next to the shot glasses. Sweets. A pair of gloves. The weight in his pocket.
When he finally went over to where Dagonet, Gawain and Tristan were lounging, he flipped the pin onto his lap like he would a coin, ( "For the other night." ) and disappeared through the door to help Arthur set up.
“You seem happy, Gal.” Arthur commented, almost amused. He couldn’t wipe the smug smile from his own face, he laughed, instead, waiting for the roar that was sure to come.
Inside, Tristan held in his hands the pewter cast circle as Dagonet twisted, eyebrows up to where his hairline used to be. "Kilt Inspector?!"