[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

[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."