[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]

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.

[wickedwit]

"Wouldst thou?" Claudius traces the corner of that smile, with a few fingers curling along Galahad's cheek. Then, gently, he lowers Galahad's head, so he's facing the mirror once more. "I wore it longer when I was younger," he says. He combs Galahad's hair with his fingers, from root to tip, holding out a strand and considering the length of it. "When I went to war, all knew I was no soldier, but I still feared to look soft and effeminate ... and there had already murmurings among good Christians at court, about whether my hair was a shame to me, as Paul wrote to the Christians in Corinth. As though fashions for long hair haven't circled in and out of court since courts existed." He rolls his eyes. "I grew my beard to look more masculine, too -- but I mislike it when it grows too thick and begin to resemble my brother's. We both hair that's a sable silver'd, and there were days I could not bear my reflection. Love was a fine excuse to shave it. Men in love are oft found at the barber's¹, and I was full enamored with thee. I wanted thee to see me soft, to see how thou hadst softened me." And he wanted to face Galahad with a face he could stand, not one that made him bitter.

¹ cf. Much Ado About Nothing --

CLAUDIO
If he be not in love with some woman, there is no
believing old signs: a' brushes his hat o'
mornings; what should that bode?
DON PEDRO
Hath any man seen him at the barber's?
CLAUDIO
No, but the barber's man hath been seen with him,
and the old ornament of his cheek hath already
stuffed tennis-balls.
LEONATO
Indeed, he looks younger than he did, by the loss of a beard.

Old signs! Can't miss them!

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad fixes his unblinking gaze on the mirror, on his own face -- which he finds less than pleasing whenever he studies it, all sharp lines and hollows, with none of the softness of Claudius' lips and cheeks -- and his wild hair, for the moment flattened and tamed by the bathwater; at the lock of it held in Claudius' hand, like a length of silver links in a chain, a precious thing to be studied and appreciated before being divided; at Claudius' face, which he's beginning to be able to understand, at the thoughtful expression Claudius wears as he speaks, the eyeroll, the faint pitying smile that means he's judging his former self, and probably his present self as well. The flame inside Galahad's chest flares with love for all the subtleties of that face, the ones he knows and the ones he can't yet read, the quirks of that full mouth, the depth of feeling in those brown eyes. He imagines looking in Claudius' eyes for hours, ticked by on his watch, while Claudius speaks: imagines all the tiny lines of darker brown that radiate from his pupil, a corona, bleeding into the lighter warmer brown of his iris, bounded at the rim by a final band of dark -- he could study Claudius' eyes infinitely, like a psalter, reading the joyous hymn of his precious face. He reads the couplets of the line of Claudius' jaw, which is less severe than his own; the slope of his nose, the shape of his brows, the faint dark stubble beginning to show on his cheeks, the loose lock of black hair that always falls into his face when he's working on something (and which Galahad, and only Galahad, knows he dyes to prevent the silver strands from showing). The faint bruises under his eyes from never sleeping enough, which he covers with cosmetic; his long dark lashes, his forehead with the nonexistent lines he frets about at his vanity.

Galahad likes it when Claudius talks. He's always been better at listening than speaking, and when Claudius speaks he wants to do nothing but sit and listen -- like a disciple on the mount, hearing parables and sermons, charged with working out the meaning of them. There's so much to try and understand in the things Claudius says, the spaces between words, the inflections and pauses, the occasional hand signs when he wants to emphasize something for Galahad. Claudius' speech and his face work together, adding further complexity that Galahad can't yet untangle, but he believes he will someday.

He looks in the mirror, which holds all these things within it right now, and says, "I like thy face soft."

[wickedwit]

"Ay, thou favorest the softer things," Claudius says, with a smile that's tender. He means, and knows Galahad means, more than the texture -- but he likes the wondering way Galahad touches him, when his fingers seek sensation. "If I wore a beard again, I'd never let it grow coarse. I'd keep it fine and oiled for thee, using only the scents thou lik'st best. And I'd have no wish to be masculine, or compare myself to bearded kings. Masculinity is a chore." For the last he takes a light, confiding tone. "So is femininity, but it's a chore at times I like. Dost know? In artistic allegories, the end of alchemy is illustrated as a divine androgyne. Once, a lover lent me her shift and corset, and I almost imagined myself such a being."

[onthewillowsthere]

He curls his fingers, letting them bite at his palms, and says, "I would like to see thee like that." The flush licks in his cheeks. He doesn't say that he'd like it for himself, too, to try on everything that might make him beautiful, to taste and feel and see beauty.

[wickedwit]

"Whensoever thou wouldst wish," Claudius says -- enjoying the flush on Galahad's face, knowing he inspired it. "In whatever garments thou wouldst wish. There are others than shifts and corsets -- scantier things for wearing under slimmer gowns, made of silk and lace. I could wear them even under suits and sweaters, and thou wouldst know't." As he speaks, he draws out another strand from the canopy of Galahad's hair. With a pair of sharp and silver scissors, selected from the vanity, he makes his first careful cut.

[onthewillowsthere]

Aside from the flush, he's expressionless, but his mind is racing with several thoughts at once, following the trail of a handful of unrolled spools of thread -- Laurel read enough books on fashion that he understands what Claudius is describing, but a corset or stays on a woman held no interest for him and he passed over those pages briskly. Now he's pulling them back up in his mind's eye and imagining boned fabric laced around Claudius' slim waist, imagining the texture of embroidery on the brocade of the corset against his skin. Imagining lace undergarments beneath Claudius' fine suit, thinner and more delicate, with thigh garters and straps, Claudius' cock cradled in silk underwear small enough to make the shape of it stand out--

Galahad carefully stops imagining, although not quickly enough for Claudius to miss the effect it has on him. But he's prayed his way through unwanted erections before. It's fine.

[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.