[open post for real]

[onthewillowsthere]

When the burning stopped he found himself alone. His memory of what happened is hazy -- aren't all his memories hazy? -- but he remembers the light and the fire, the way his hands and mouth were blazing, and even if he didn't remember the scorching on his blue tunic would tell a tale.

He remembers enough.

He can't seem to get warm now, despite the perfectly pleasant climate, and he builds a fire in one of the mansion's many sitting rooms with fireplaces, and then he huddles in front of it, his knees clasped to his chest.

Crowley couldn't make him Galahad again, but he doesn't feel like Damien any more. He remembers enough to know what he had wanted to escape -- whatever purpose it was that made him like this, capable of subsuming into flame or holding a brand-new weapon like a familiar part of his body -- but not enough to know why he's like this, and not enough to be the person Claudius is waiting for. He feels like stone, but a stone that has lost all the earth's heat.

If Crowley, who changed him in the first place, can't change him back, then can he be changed back? It seems to him from what Lan Wangji said that this is all there is now. He's incapable of being loved, incapable of knowing himself, incapable of the lit path that Lan Wangji exhorted him towards.

He stares into the fire, his fixed blue stare that might as well be a stranger's, and wishes he had been rendered in his own bonfire.

Comments

[wickedwit]

"I have parasites in my blood that have been torturing me from the inside," he says sardonically. "If you burst into flame and incinerate me, then I'm afraid that's just an extra bit of bad luck. If I exit the room, I could still fall down dead outside the door -- and then what would've been the point of warning me away? No -- thank you -- but I'm fine."

[onthewillowsthere]

Well. That stops him in his tracks, and he lets Claudius keep hold of his hand, staring at him -- still distressed, but bewildered now too. "What?"

[wickedwit]

"Luo Binghe. Try not to let him kiss you or offer you food." It's wry, flippant, unsuiting for the situation, but he's looking at Galahad -- the man he knows as Galahad -- across from him with hand still clasped, his breath short even from that brief struggle to hold on. "So you don't have it all back, and what you have back isn't helpful. It wasn't helpful before, you know. I don't think you were any happier then, knowing who made you and why He made you this way. If you want to know why you told me you were made like this, I can. But I missed you, Galahad. I'd rather spend this time with you than pacing the hallways fearing my imminent death."

[onthewillowsthere]

His mind is racing now, still trying to incorporate this new knowledge. If Claudius is dying, then he's right, it doesn't matter (no, it does matter, he will still hate himself if he somehow immolates them both even an hour before Claudius would otherwise die) -- he should tell Claudius that he isn't the person he misses, he isn't Galahad, he's this other nameless person with too many and too few memories -- he has, in the last eight hours, thought that Luo Binghe was more than right about him and maybe saw this in him, but the idea of kissing him spirals him off in another direction (what? why? why? did Claudius kiss Luo Binghe? why does that make his chest ache? is he jealous?) -- he wants to have been missed, he wants to have been wanted, he wants to sink down on one of the couches and press himself into Claudius' arms and be comforted, soothed from his fear (but he can't) (fire burns) -- and who is He? Claudius knows why this is happening, who he was before, who crafted him? can he just ask to be retold his memories? is He someone who can be begged for mercy? -- and so on, and so on, wild unspooled thoughts he can't grasp hold of to try and wind up again--

What he actually does is take a step towards Claudius finally, instead of away from him. He can't manage words.

[wickedwit]

"Please," that's the word Claudius manages to speak to him. "Please let me stay with you."

[onthewillowsthere]

He throws his arm around Claudius' shoulder and pulls him into an embrace.

[wickedwit]

Claudius holds on to him fiercely, more fiercely than he thought he was capable for something so simple as a hug. He just can't let go right now. He presses Galahad to his chest, hand soft in his hair and at the nape of his neck, and holds on with all he has.

[onthewillowsthere]

It is a very long time before he tries to bring them towards one of the couches after all -- he doesn't want to break away, he doesn't want any space between them, he wants to be as close as he can be forever -- but his legs are starting to get trembly and the last thing he wants is to stumble.

[wickedwit]

Claudius laughs. It's sweet -- he can feel Galahad trying not to stumble, so he moves his arm Galahad's shoulder so he can bring them more naturally to the couch. He wants to kiss Galahad desperately, but not enough to push for it, so he sits with Galahad still pressed to his chest and softly kisses his hair instead. "Thank thee."

[onthewillowsthere]

He turns his face up at once -- he doesn't want to be below Claudius, he wants to be with him, and he pushes his legs under himself so they're level -- and then he thinks again of Claudius dying, and how he's the wrong person still, and doesn't know that he'll ever be the right one (and certainly not within the time they have left), and he takes Claudius' cheek in his unburned hand and kisses him.

[wickedwit]

Claudius kisses back, tentative at first, not from inexperience but because he's still unsure whether he's allowed to have this. The longer Galahad lets him stay, the longer he lets himself believe it, and the more assured the kiss becomes, lips sliding open under Galahad's as naturally as breathing.

[onthewillowsthere]

He's acting purely out of instinct and desire, with no real skill or even an idea of where he wants this to go, but it's good. The longer Claudius lets him stay, the longer he lets himself believe it, and he lets his hand come to rest over Claudius' heart, feeling for the beat of it, as he ventures into the heat of Claudius' mouth.

[wickedwit]

His heart is thundering again, but he wants to give Galahad everything he has -- everything he is, with or without a kingdom. His heat, his hunger, his hands splayed over Galahad's back, fingers tracing curved shoulder-blades under his burned shirt. There's a yearning symmetry in their kiss, wanting and wanted, wanted for so long.

[onthewillowsthere]

There's still a part of him that thinks he should stop for Claudius' sake -- he's not the right one, he's not Galahad, Claudius wants someone else and somehow he's tricked him, he doesn't deserve this -- but it's overruled by the part of him that felt that rush of love and hunger the first time Claudius invited him to think about what he felt. He just wants to be selfish. He wants to be wanted. He wants, he wants, he wants, and even if they both catch fire because of it he wants; he's exhausted from holding in his fear and so he just stops, he stops thinking, he stops everything except the kiss.

[wickedwit]

When Claudius pulls away at last, his eyes are dark and intent -- and he doesn't pull far. "What wouldst thou have of me?" he asks. "I am thine."

[onthewillowsthere]

The room itself is dark, too, except for the firelight, and one of those pulses of memory strikes him, of firelight under the dark sky, and a bedroll shared with ruddy Percival. He touches Claudius' lips. "Wilt thou sleep with me? I don't care if anything happens. I want thee to be with me."

[wickedwit]

He kisses the tips of Galahad's fingers, lips curving to a smile. "Then I will be thy bedmate, and speak such sweet things in thy ear thou canst not to fail to sleep as sweetly."

[onthewillowsthere]

"And thou canst kiss me-- I would thou didst. I want to be kissed."

[wickedwit]

“Kiss thy lip? Thy throat?” His hand slides once more to the nape of Galahad’s neck, then down again the plane of his back, both deliberate and gentle — a soothing, stoking touch. “Or any part of thee?”

[onthewillowsthere]

He had been working around to the idea of trying again to tell Claudius who he is -- but that touch unravels him. He surges forward into Claudius' lap, burying his face in his neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his skin.

[wickedwit]

Already sweet words are spilling from his lips, Sweet Galahad sworn like an oath, thou lovely man as he arches and bares his neck to be kissed, willing to be marked, to be burned, murmuring praise and encouragement, come, take thy fill, kiss me harder. One hand comes up to tangle in Galahad’s hair, nails light but sharp enough against his scalp to add a new sensation, a new urgency to their touches. The other smooths it way along his side with a seeking pressure — seeking to know more and more of this man, to find what touches will make his breath catch or his body tremble.

Galahad would not do this with him. Claudius has to know this, somehow — but he saw so much of Galahad, then, the Galahad who so tenderly admitted that at times he questioned his purpose, and looked at Claudius with longing in his eyes and face flushed from some inner fire. It should be proof enough they're not the same, that he could speak those questions aloud. Why make me like this? Galahad spoke of his path, the path that was written, what was set and foretold for him, with no doubt or deviation, but there must have been some question there. Why?

And Claudius has no answers. But whoever this man is, it's someone he wishes to protect, to protect from himself before he kills all the man in him with self-denial and self-martyrdom. He can't bear to watch Galahad hurt himself anymore, can't add any longer to his suffering. So he urges Galahad to want, and to take all he wants, before some fresh flare of pain starts, before the final one comes without warning and Claudius has nothing left to give.

[onthewillowsthere]

His inexperience is balanced by his fervor; each new touch from Claudius, the hand in his hair and the hand on his side, stirs fresh hunger in him. He didn't know these were things he could want. He didn't know that when he kissed Claudius' neck he would taste salt and the taste of it would rush from his tongue to his groin, that heat would pool between his legs so suddenly he'd think he truly was catching fire again.

He brings his hand again to the placket of Claudius' shirt, but this time he wants to get beneath it. He wants to know what Claudius looks like, beneath the silk, if their bodies are the same. He wants Claudius to look at him too, and to admire him? To think him enough, no matter who he is.

He is already on fire, he thinks, so what does it matter? He is burning, burning to be seen.

[wickedwit]

"Wait --" It isn't stop, but wait, his hand catching on Galahad's wrist. "Any could walk in. I wish to give thee all the luxuries of privacy ..." With his other hand, he tilts up Galahad's head, searching for his eyes for any sign of fear or regret or hesitancy, anything that would need to make the wait a stop. "How dost thou?"

[onthewillowsthere]

He swallows, brought up short. His eyes hold Claudius', but the only thing there is longing. His pale face is flushed as fever, his hair a tangle, his mouth a little bruised from the ferocity of kissing. He laughs, wondering. "I am afire."

[wickedwit]

The laugh catches in Claudius like spark and tinder, the wonder alighting his face as he stares at this beautiful, disheveled man, this debauched saint, this unnamed mystery. “And yet thou hast not burned me. Dost see?” He takes the bandaged hand and holds it to his chest, his heart. “I am whole, and wholly thine.” For at least a moment longer.