[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]

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."

[onthewillowsthere]

Not too much? I shouldn't do it when I can't do more. He knows he's signing like he would with Magnus, whole sentences and not just feelings or the words he and Magnus have taught Claudius. He practices every day with Magnus and sometimes with Laertes. Claudius doesn't know this much yet. It's just so hard to say things with his voice.

[wickedwit]

Not too much is easy enough to repeat in the affirmative. "Some day, I will have to teach thee the pleasure of deliberately teasing and denying a lover," he says, lightly teasing in itself. "But even outside of such games ... thou canst do what thou desirest with me. Anything more I take as a gift from thee, and if thou canst not give all, I would not be stinted. Thou art thyself a gift, and so is each moment of thy company."

[onthewillowsthere]

"Because you love me?"

[wickedwit]

"Ay, because I love thee." He signs that so quickly he may not even be thinking it; it may just leap to his fingers on instinct. "And in every moment, I fall more and more in love with thee. Whatever time thou wilt spend with me, whatever kisses thou wilt share ... I am thankful for all of them, know'st thou."

[onthewillowsthere]

He nods, and then lifts himself out of the bath again, this time to his feet; he steps out dripping, like a man new-baptised, and holds out his hands.

[wickedwit]

Claudius is ready with a towel to wrap Galahad in, along with his own embrace. He's truly glad of the warmth Galahad's regained, glad he could help Galahad regain it. He only wants to share it a moment, like a bonfire meant for company.

[onthewillowsthere]

But Galahad puts the towel around his shoulders and his arms around Claudius' waist and holds him again tightly. Since the day he washed Claudius after the walking corpses, the idea of being naked in front of him has been less terrifying -- it's slowly stopped feeling like Claudius seeing his body is dangerous or shameful. They live together. They sleep beside one another -- they sleep in each other's arms. Claudius understands him.

And he wants Claudius to look at him, in a way he doesn't want anyone else to. He wants to be seen. He wants to be desired. He wants Claudius to desire him.

He lets his body, naked, settle against Claudius' in his carefully chosen clothes, and his head rest on Claudius' shoulder, and he stays there for a long moment, no space between them, only warmth.

[wickedwit]

Claudius feels his skin flush, with the same fever-heat Galahad had a moment ago. He's glad of everything Galahad gives him, glad of every kiss no matter how it ends. Sometimes simply sliding his fingers together with Galahad fills him with a wordless sense of intimacy. And sometimes desire seizes him sharply, like it seizes him now, heart catching in his throat. "I love thee," he whispers, when his voice returns. "Thou art the treasure of my soul."

[onthewillowsthere]

"I love thee." Galahad's own voice is quiet. He lifts his head and kisses Claudius again, cupping his face in one hand.

[wickedwit]

Something in his chest still flutters whenever he hears it. They’re golden words, love thee, and Claudius tastes them from Galahad’s lips like honey.

[onthewillowsthere]

When he draws back he takes Claudius' hand, flattening his fingers and pressing them together so he can sign please with them against his own chest. "Wilt thou cut my hair? I want to lie in bed with thee."

[wickedwit]

Want is a another golden word, and Claudius cherishes every signed and spoken please. "Ay, come," he says with a smile. He twines his fingers back through Galahad's, and leads him over to the little vanity well-stocked with potions and creams, razors and scissors. "It will be quick, and easier than cutting my own hair. Just as certain dances are easier to lead, after learning to follow -- thou hast already done the same steps backwards." And he's picky with his own hair. Galahad has likely witnessed Claudius in deep contemplation over a single strand.

[onthewillowsthere]

He has; in truth, he likes the idea of Claudius taking such care with him, as absorbed by the question of where to cut, and how much. But however much time Claudius takes, it will be a gift, to be shaped in some way by him.

He sits quietly at the vanity, still holding Claudius' hand, not quite ready to let go.

[wickedwit]

For a moment Claudius stares at the image of them, in the oval mirror, and it's a silly, fleeting thought -- but he likes how they look together. Even in a moment like this, when Galahad has a towel around his shoulders and Claudius's shirt-front is sopping wet ... the two of us make a handsome couple.

He redirects his focus to Galahad's hair and, of course, starts fussing as soon as his fingers touch it. "Thy hair will lay differently when 'tis dried by the air," he says, with fondness in his voice for the many times he's touched Galahad and noticed something about it. "I swear thy hair has moods and humors. There are days it lays flat, and days it floats about thee like a fine mist. My hair used to curl in the sea-air; mayhap there's something in the air here, too."

[onthewillowsthere]

He tilts his head back to look at Claudius upside-down. "I want to see your hair curl."

[wickedwit]

"If one day we walk on a beach together, thou wilt see it," Claudius says with a fond laugh. He kisses Galahad's forehead. "Or if I grow my hair long. Thy hair is the same; the longer it is, the more wilful. Thine becomes a cloud, and mine curls."

[onthewillowsthere]

He smiles, and this time it's not there-and-gone -- it stays on his thin mouth. "I'd like it like that," signing as he says it.