Character/s: Mordred, Galahad(OC)
Summary: Galahad can count the number of times Mordred has kissed him, has gone out of his way to intentionally kiss Galahad, on his fingers
Warnings: Nothing really...
Word Count: 848
Author's Notes: So the prompt was so open I felt I needed to do something slightly more angsty with it...
Kisses, to Galahad, are something precious, to be hoarded.
His mother kisses him all the time, of course, and he’ll get the odd peck along with a hug from his father. That’s not the problem.
The problem is, as it always is, as it always has been; Mordred.
Galahad can count the number of times Mordred has kissed him, has gone out of his way to intentionally kiss Galahad, on his fingers. Mordred will allow himself to be kissed, but he won’t initiate anything. Take away the times he’s kissed Galahad during, or just after, sex, and there are only three instances.
Galahad likes to count things, likes to keep track of them. But now his head is fuzzy and he finds he’s losing his grip on numbers, like the number of times his goblet has been refilled, whether he asked for it or not, or the number of people who have congratulated him for his knighthood, or the number of dances he’s been pulled into by ladies he’s so far from interested in.
Mordred watches Galahad, how his smile lights up his face in golds and pinks and browns, how he moves as he dances, swaying with the drink and the lateness of the hour and the giddiness of becoming a knight. Mordred watches him, and knows he hasn’t congratulated him, but doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know how to show Galahad the bubbling feeling within him of warmth and shared happiness and above all want, doesn’t even know if he should. But when he passes Galahad in the coolness of the corridor, stone on all four sides, and Galahad burns with a warmth and a shining that Mordred has to catch, it’s really not much of a choice to him to push him against the wall and hold him there and press their lips together, to show him, to catch him with his lips around Galahad’s; for his, forever.
And then there’s
Galahad’s clear headed enough now to count their attackers. Twelve, and just the four knights on what was meant to be a routine patrol; himself, Mordred, Gareth and Gwaine.
The attackers are on foot, so they stand a better chance at least with their horses and their long swords that slash in brilliant flares of reflected light, trying to stick together for safety in numbers until they can’t. Three of them, and then Galahad, with four of their attackers separating them and two more on the other side. One hits Galahad, another drags him from his saddle. And Mordred watches, and he doesn’t know what to do, eyes wide and searching for something, anything, to speed his sword.
Panic rises within him like it did on a day, so very long ago, surrounded by knights of Camelot who he struck down with a scream alone. And he channels it, like he couldn’t before, eyes flashing gold, sword silver, killing all those in front of him but Galahad.
Though the fight continues behind him, Mordred leaves the other knights. And he throws himself from his horse, and he kneels in the leaf mould next to Galahad, and he holds his thankfully unhurt form, and he kisses him, hard and almost brutal, biting down on his lip over and over again, a promise of protection, and a punishment for allowing himself to be threatened.
Last of all, is
Galahad misses him. He’s been away to see to the outlying villages for weeks now, and Galahad needs him more than he thinks he’s ever needed anything else. He watches every morning, and every evening, for the hooves on the cobbles of the courtyard that would mean Mordred.
Every day apart he worries more that Mordred will never come back.
And there’s the problem of how they parted. Because Galahad was meant to be with the company, but Mordred had gone to the King, to ask him to find some task for Galahad at home. And Galahad had found out that it was Mordred who had stopped him leaving, and he had worried so much that Mordred couldn’t stand his company for that long.
When Mordred arrives, it is with a frown on his face that dissolves into a carefully schooled blankness at the sight of Galahad. And Galahad knows that he’s lost him, and he turns and walks away.
He doesn’t notice Mordred following him until there’s a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to turn around.
“Why did you leave?” Mordred asks, sounding merely curious.
“Because you didn’t want me. You didn’t want me with you and you don’t want me now.”
“I did want you. I’ve never stopped, Galahad, nothing’s changed.”
“Then why did you make me stay?”
“This,” Mordred tells him, and he kisses Galahad, and it’s sweet and almost gentle, though Mordred crowds him against the wall, holding his shoulder crushingly hard. And with his lips Mordred tries to tell Galahad how much he missed him, and how much worse that would be, how he’d never be able to bear it if Galahad were ever taken from him, into death, forever.