[closed post -- stirs on the earth and trembles in the air]

[onthewillowsthere]

Continued from here

The most overarching thing that Galahad feels is cold; he would think he's never been so cold before, except that he has the cloudy memory of doing this once before, and how he sat in front of the fireplace after and thought about crawling into it to try and gather the heat of it to himself like a blanket.

He's not sorry he killed the demon. He's glad. He's fiercely, angrily glad that if God has abandoned him He has at least left him the power to protect the people around him. The idea that the demon could have hurt Claudius, or even Crowley, makes his skin prickle , the fire in his blood longing to reignite. That's not the problem. It's just the aftermath.

Claudius draws a bath and while he does Galahad gets out of his burned clothes (his favorite green corduroy slacks, he remembers, as he touches the cloth to remove it, rubbing his fingers along the channels). He always has trouble not focusing on small details, but it's even harder right now -- he's caught in minute eddies, spun around like a fallen leaf by the singed cuffs of his sweater, the way his numb fingers pull clumsily at the clasp of his watchband, unable to work it. He tries to remember how to meditate, how to put distance between himself and the things that are overwhelming, but his body feels too present, every sensation heightened, the rasp of cotton fabric over his hips when he takes off his boxers, the weight of hair at the back of his neck. The light of the bathroom, which never bothers him, throbs against his eyes. He tries to step outside of his body, to watch himself from the opposite side of the room, and he can't. He feels like a cracked stone slab, ready to fall into pieces at too heavy a touch. He feels like an overfilled cup, wine spilling over the rim. He feels too much.

He doesn't know whether Claudius can tell, whether his face is an unknown language of its own to Claudius. He tries to gather the calm certainty he had before he called the fire out of himself, the way everything was easy -- if he can do that he can find a way back, he can be composed and unfaltering and strong again, as Claudius needs and wants him to be.

As he watches Claudius he shivers, and he can't stop shivering.

Comments

[wickedwit]

Claudius takes care. It's rare, he thinks with wryness, that he can take care of someone like this without being the one to break them apart. If he tried, he could find a way to blame himself -- what happened was for his sake, for his friend's sake, but it was by Galahad's will. That's what made it so arresting to watch.

The acts of care keep Claudius calm, keep him focused, keep at bay any brimming anxieties. He runs his hand fingers through the flowing water, hot as it can get without scalding. "Here," he says, once it's ready. He reaches for Galahad with both hands, guides his steps, everything gentle. "I have thee, beloved. Come, slowly." It's more description than instruction, since he keeps hold of Galahad the whole way, easing him into the warmth so it doesn't overwhelm him.

[onthewillowsthere]

Carefully, he steps into the bath and then folds his body like a pair of hands, so that as much as possible is beneath the water. He remembers doing that the day the angel restored him, except that then he sank beneath -- he sinks beneath, letting himself be swallowed up by the heat, and stays until his lungs ache and he has to surface again, the water soaking his hair down to his shoulders.

[wickedwit]

Claudius is there when he surfaces, waiting with soft patience, ready to catch and hold Galahad. He holds on so that Galahad can feel he's there, nearby to answer anything Galahad needs. After a moment, he eases away a little so he can run his fingers through Galahad's hair, washing it with the soap on his hands. "Thou hast such beautiful hair," he murmurs.

[onthewillowsthere]

He wants to say something -- he wants to thank Claudius, tell him how much he likes it when Claudius tends to his hair, how much it makes him feel like a treasure, one of the precious objects on Claudius' vanity. He wants to tell him that he'll be all right, that he'll get better. It's too much right now, but later it will be better.

Instead he stays quiet and tries to memorize every moment -- every second, because he can count them now -- of Claudius' care.

[wickedwit]

Each moment is a gift given, like the gift of a watch. And Claudius enjoys giving this time to Galahad, enjoys giving Galahad anything he desires. Galahad is a treasure. In Galahad's hair, Claudius's fingers are gentle, thorough, the way they would be handling any precious object.

[onthewillowsthere]

Slowly, the heat of the water begins to permeate the cold of his body, and although the light still feels too sharp, a beam that pierces his brow like a crown of thorns, the rest is better. The suspension in water and the gentleness of Claudius' touch makes the tethering to his body less painful.

He turns around to look at Claudius and signs I'm all right. Too much, but all right.

[wickedwit]

"I'm glad of it." Claudius signs it as he says it, in case Galahad needs to see it, hand steady and circling on glad. "I'm glad of thee. Thou art my dearest savior." It's a gentle blasphemy: dearer than Christ. And like Magdalene washed the feet of Christ, he's reverent in the way he washes Galahad.

[onthewillowsthere]

Seeing it helps. The words are easier to process as words, rather than sounds. You aren't hurt?

[wickedwit]

"Nay, with thanks to thee." When he signs thanks, he lets it linger near his lips, like a kiss.

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad nods, then hesitates. You found Gertrude? fingerspelling her name.

[wickedwit]

"Yes." He flushes, recalling her teasing about weddings -- her blessing, which at last makes him feel like he can release that the clenched fist of jealous pain inside him. "I told her how I loved thee. I've long awaited the day I could tell her, without confessing that hope to myself. She was delighted by the story of us -- by the life I have here with thee." Recreating paradise, she'd said, in a little glass house.

[onthewillowsthere]

"She was?" The idea that Claudius was proud enough of him to have wanted to tell her, and that Gertrude approved of him, both make him tremble in an entirely new way. He feels a whole tangle of things, embarrassment and joy and foolishness and relief, snarled together hopelessly.

[wickedwit]

"Quite. It's been so long since I've seen her so happy." That sign again, hand sweeping up his chest as if gathering up his heart. "I don't only mean since I've came here -- I mean before, at court. She can smile through sadness as well as I can, but in the years before I killed my brother, it seldom reached her eyes. I used to bring her stories to make her laugh, but the more jealous my brother became ... the more I believed I brought her nothing but miseries. The sadness in her eyes confirmed it. But some of what I saw was worry." He signs only the words he knows, the feeling words, and it's well that he learned those first. They make him notice feelings more when he speaks. "She told me ... she spent most of her life worrying about me. But not here. Not with thee."

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad signs with him, sadness and worry and then, at the last, happy?, a question -- asking about Claudius.

[wickedwit]

Sad, then happy is what Claudius signs, though it might have been more accurate if he knew how to sign them both at once. He still goes through the gestures. "Bittersweet. I miss her. And," he confesses, because it's easier to confess fragile feelings with signs behind them, "I spent a lot of today terrified. I was scared my friend would be taken to hell, and I was scared that I could be taken, too. And then I would no longer be with thee," with a faint smile, "in a place Gertrude could feel happy for me." It would feel like a last betrayal somehow, betraying Galahad and Gertrude at the same time. They're both (he realizes this more slowly than he should) people who worry about him. "But when I saw thee, I was hopeful again. I feel that way when I'm with thee: hopeful and happy. Now I'm happy thou wilt have me care for thee, and hopeful thou wilt like how I cut thy hair."

[onthewillowsthere]

Hopeful, he signs. Claudius doesn't love Gertrude more than him, or instead of him. Claudius loves both of them. Galahad is still important to him, still his beloved. It's the same as the sex -- something he's always been told is singular, something that is singular for him, but for Claudius it isn't. He can hold so much more.

He holds himself up on the rim of the bath, gazing at Claudius, his dark eyes and his dark hair, his beautiful hands and lips, which both speak. He can't remember how he ever looked at Claudius and wasn't sure whether he loved him. He loves him so much.

Galahad reaches out for his hand and presses his thumb against the palm.

[wickedwit]

Claudius tilts his head to kiss Galahad, clutching the edge of the tub as he leans over it. Careful not to fall, careful in all things, but there’s a fierce swell of gratitude in the kiss.

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad kisses back, and at first it's soft -- but his own gratitude buoys him to get up on his knees and cup Claudius' face in his wet hands, to press his wet body against Claudius' soft chest.

[wickedwit]

Claudius only took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, but he doesn't care in the least if Galahad gets his shirtfront wet. He's smiling against Galahad's lips, touching Galahad's chin, full of so much fond warmth it flushes his cheeks.

[onthewillowsthere]

Love gathers in him like a physical presence, as if love had a weight and texture to it that could fill the cavity of his lungs and ribs, and he feels the water running down his back from his hair, the throbbing pain of the light in his eye, the scrape of Claudius' shirt buttons against his chest, and those excruciating sensations are eclipsed by the sensation of love. His arms slide around Claudius' neck instead and he goes on kissing him. He kisses him the way he's been afraid to -- afraid to let himself be hungry, afraid to let himself want, afraid to take something that would be an ecstasy greater than God. He kisses open Claudius' mouth. He holds him so close that he thinks he can feel their hearts drumming against one another.

[wickedwit]

Claudius gathers closer to Galahad, as if he were gathering under that same weight of love, sharing it like a cloak to keep warm. He sighs, and parts his lips for Galahad, answering him with deeper kisses, with the heat of his tongue. His pulse pounds, and pressed so close it feels like sharing a heartbeat.

[onthewillowsthere]

It's too much and not enough -- he draws himself further out of the bath so he can be closer with more of his body. Heat like liquid fire floods him, a wanting heat that begins in his chest where the chancel-flame sits and travels through his bones and blood, the opposite of the holy fire which began in his fingertips. He wants so badly to take what he wants. He wants to fall into Claudius' lap and touch him in every way possible, to feel the warmth and weight of his body, to taste him -- he lets out a longing sound, and kisses Claudius harder, demandingly.

[wickedwit]

"My sweet man," Claudius murmurs, in the short space of breath between kisses where he gives Galahad all things demanded of him. "My beloved, thou art warm again."

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad flushes, that feverish red that starts high in his cheeks and spreads down his throat and chest, and sinks back into the water until it covers his shoulders. "I'm sorry."

[wickedwit]

"I'm glad of't," Claudius says with a smile, signing happy with one hand, running the other through Galahad's soft, clean hair. "Thou needst not apologize."