[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 declines to comment, though he smiles behind Galahad's head. Drawing the next section of hair out alongside the last, he trims the ends to make sure they have a length. "Hold still," he reminds Galahad, unnecessarily. Galahad is still, and expressionless -- but Claudius knows the effect he's had, even so.

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad refocuses his attention on the mirror so he can watch Claudius cut his hair, and asks, "Wouldst thou like to look at me in things like that?"

[wickedwit]

The reply is effortless. "Ay. Thou wouldst be lovely to look on. I like thy frame -- thou art like a thing honed, and I can imagine how fineries would hang on thee. In white lace, thou wouldst have an ethereal beauty. But," he teases, "I love always to look on thee. When I saw us in the mirror, I thought we made a handsome couple."

[onthewillowsthere]

He lifts his eyes to Claudius' in the mirror. "Thou art handsome. Thou'rt fair. Thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes."

[wickedwit]

"Thou wilt stop my heart with scripture," Claudius murmurs. His eyes remain steady on the blades, whenever he cuts, and it takes a moment for him to look away from them and smile. "Then let me be the sachet of myrrh at thy breast. Beauty best adorns beauty, perfumes and precious jewels. If I am fair, it lets me suit thy fairness."

[onthewillowsthere]

"Thou wilt make me borders of gold with studs of silver."

[wickedwit]

"Just so. Gold for thy cheeks, silver for thy neck." He touches Galahad's cheek, tilts his head. "Thy hair is its own starlit crown."

[onthewillowsthere]

"My hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from Mount Gilead."

[wickedwit]

"A flock of goats is a treasure," Claudius returns, with the back-and-forth rhythm of banter. He lets the hair on one side of Galahad's head fall from his fingers, and starts work on the other. "And so thy hair is Gilead's treasure. Dost know? Thou told'st me once thy name was not thy own, but now when I hear Gilead I think not of the mountain, but thee. 'Tis the same whenever thou leav'st me verses and commandments. Thou mak'st the Word thine own."

[onthewillowsthere]

"As I hear, I judge: and my judgment is just." He uncurls his fingers; the moment is past when he needs to steel himself against desire, and he relaxes. "I like to give God's Word to thee," he adds softly, knowing it to be a blasphemy as great as thinking Percival Christ-like; but it's true, and he wants Claudius to know it. He loves Claudius more than he's ever loved God.

[wickedwit]

"Thou hast given me the Word anew, and converted me," he says, tone playful, but with a reverence underneath. He watches the light filter through the finer threads of Galahad's hair, suspended through scissors, and it seems as sacred as stained glass. "Thou art my religion."

[onthewillowsthere]

"If thou thirst, let thee come to me and drink," almost a whisper this time; it sends a little shiver through him, to take Christ's words for himself and remake them for Claudius. It's one thing to quote the prophets, or the eroticism of Solomon's love song, but to say verily, verily, to say by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture--

[wickedwit]

Claudius laughs, but softly so his hands won't shake the scissors. If he didn't have the self-discipline, he'd have already shuddered at Galahad's words, and a frisson runs through him knowing that -- knowing he'll control himself for this act of service, knowing he's been entrusted with Galahad's care. "I'd come to thee as my shepherd, to show me quiet waters. Whenever thou lead'st me, I shall not want." Part of the care is worship. He handles Galahad the way a man would a holy relic, restoring him to his beauty, careful not to mar what makes him precious.

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad reaches behind him to touch Claudius: in this position, that means the easiest thing is to put his hand flat on Claudius' thigh. "I know my sheep, and am known of mine."

[wickedwit]

Claudius doesn't shudder, but he does set the scissors down. "Thine, therefore my heart is glad," he says, as he lets Galahad's hair fall through his fingers again. "My flesh also shall rest in hope." After collecting a breath, he touches Galahad's chin and turns his head, gentle and deliberate, studying the sides of his face and how his hair frames them.

[onthewillowsthere]

"Is it finished?"

[wickedwit]

"In a moment." He pulls out a few strands of hair on either side of Galahad's face, and after great consideration, he plucks up his scissors and trims those, too. Galahad's likely seen him do the same thing when arranging a bouquet, trimming back a few leaves to show off blooms to their best advantage. "There." He's changed little of the style of Galahad's hair overall -- Claudius likes it a little wild, likes that it has moods, like that he can't predict it. But he's cut it back, made it manageable, given it softening layers to complement the sharp angles of Galahad's face.

[onthewillowsthere]

It feels good to be one of Claudius' bouquets, to be improved with the attention Claudius gives to stems of larkspur and hollyhock and coriopsis with its frilly, grasslike leaves. His hair is beginning to dry and it lifts away from his neck now, so he can barely feel the weight of it.

"Thank you."

[wickedwit]

"Behold, thou art fair, my love," Claudius says, all shining pride and affection. "Thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks."

[onthewillowsthere]

"Thou art fair, my beloved, yea pleasant," with a flickering smile. He stands, placing the towel over the back of the chair, and begins unbuttoning Claudius' wet shirt -- it's become easy, over the last few weeks, for him to do this without feeling shy. They live together, they sleep together, he trusts Claudius wholly and Claudius trusts him, and there's no reason he can't help him out of his clothes so they can lie under the warm sheets together. He feels better than he did after burning the demon, but still all he really wants is to have his body pressed against Claudius' back, and listen to him talk.

[wickedwit]

It's domestic in a way Claudius didn't realize he could have -- the way Galahad has become easier with closeness, with exchanging acts of intimacy and care. And Claudius does feel cared for, more than he feels roused by Galahad's hands on him undressing him. Small sensory annoyances, like the way his shirt sticks to his skin, go away and he's glad Galahad thought to do this small thing for him. He wonders whether it's anything like the relief Galahad must feel when his hair lifts from the back of his neck. They find ways to make the world more comfortable to exist in for each other. "How dost thou feel?" he asks, and signs the question.

[onthewillowsthere]

"Better," he says, because his hands are busy. "I like how thou hast cut my hair," because Claudius was hopeful he would do it well. He helps him out of the shirt, and slips his hand into Claudius'. "Wilt thou lie down with me?"

[wickedwit]

"In the green pastures of our bed, ay," Claudius says, and he's smiling, glad Galahad likes his hair, glad they can talk to each other like this in all their shared languages. He presses Galahad's hand with his. "Our bed is green, and our rafters of fir. Let me hold thee and tell thee all the things I've seen today."