[closed post -- john 20:25]

[onthewillowsthere]

For the last few weeks, Galahad and Laertes have met regularly for baking. Most of the time Laertes only helps a little, which is no trouble to Galahad -- he works just as well on his own. Sometimes Laertes brings a book and reads in silence; sometimes he talks, about his and Sagramore's new puppy and how perfect she is, the most clever and beautiful creature in all the world, or about what he's learning, about alchemy (Galahad likes the differences in the way Claudius and Laertes talk about alchemy and what it's like to make distillations and tinctures) or about the cosmos and its order.

Galahad thinks idly how much he'd like to bring the record player into the kitchen for them, for the times they don't talk. After spending so much of his life without music, every new song is like a new taste, and he can lose hours to them, watching the spin of the records or sketching and listening.

He and Claudius have made a list together. When his mind isn't otherwise occupied he thinks of it, straying back to it like a snatch of song that keeps repeating -- of all the things he doesn't dare but wants to, the ways he could touch Claudius and be touched: all the fruit-sweet temptations that he's still too afraid to take from his beloved serpent, subtle and beguiling.

The list is both a comfort and a source of anxiety. In many ways he's glad of it; he likes knowing what Claudius likes. He likes having some frame for his imagination, he likes the orderly arrangement of things, he likes having time to roll all the possibilities around inside his mind like grains of sand turning to pearls. It's simpler to know what is and isn't permitted between them, or would be permitted if he could-- and there's the anxiety.

He's taking too long, he keeps thinking. Claudius loves sex; it's how he gets to know people. It's a language for him. And Galahad is mute, withholding still. All the things they could be learning in each other are closed to him, because he doesn't know to unlock the door of himself and let Claudius put his hand to the latch, dripping with myrrh or no.

He should trust Claudius -- he knows that. Claudius has accepted his ring, accepted his betrothal. And yet: Galahad is so inexperienced. He knows so much less of the world, so much less about people, so much less about everything but God (and he can't imagine Claudius is really enchanted by the idea of hearing Galahad speak on the heresy of adoptionism and the theologies of Peter Abélard). Sometimes in the mornings when he's caught between Matins and Prime and can't get out of bed, he thinks about how much better suited Laertes and Sagramore, with their warmth and brightness and spontaneity, are to keeping Claudius from loneliness and melancholy. Grantaire is so sweet and sad; Claudius says so all the time. Claudius has been open about his love for all three of them, and often Galahad can reason that of all the men Claudius loves it's Galahad he's chosen to live with. But sometimes it's hard; sometimes he feels too quiet, too inexpressive, too chaste. He's taking too long. He's too slow.

Usually he's attentive when he's baking with Laertes. He listens well -- he's good at listening. Today he can't stop thinking about the list and his slowness.

Galahad is folding browned butter into the madeleine batter when he realizes Laertes has asked him a question that he's missed entirely. He puts the saucepan down.

"What did you say?"

Comments

[timebethine]

"I'd asked if thou hadst read any good romances lately," says Laertes again. "I've had a craving for them."

[onthewillowsthere]

"Kade gave me one. I'll get it for you." The madeleine batter has to chill for four hours anyway.

[timebethine]

"Ay--but stay a while," says Laertes. He signs as he talks, halting but earnest, hands flitting between known and half-known shapes. "There's something on thy mind." What you pondering? he asks, using the sign not for thoughts suddenly sprung to mind, but for deep and ruminating thought.

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad smiles briefly. Smiling is something that's become easier over time, from knowing and watching Claudius and Magnus. He's getting more confident at knowing when to smile, and at trusting his friends to understand his smiles.

Sex, touching the x against his cheek somewhat wryly.

[timebethine]

Surprise splits Laertes's face into a grin. Favorite thought, Laertes says, eyes crinkled.

[onthewillowsthere]

In spite of himself he laughs, though a second later he flushes about it. Never done.

[timebethine]

Laertes nods, accepting and digesting this information. It's not entirely unknown to him; Claudius has never complained about a lack of sex with Galahad, but neither has he gone into the raptures that he has regarding (to pick one example at random) Grantaire's unstinting submission. That silence is its own kind of admission. You not want?

[onthewillowsthere]

Want so much, widening his eyes and letting his hands drop open emphatically. Afraid.

[timebethine]

I was afraid, too, Laertes says, ducking his head a little. All new! Very scary! Can't not-do!

[onthewillowsthere]

How change?

[timebethine]

Laertes leans back against the counter, half-shaping words that never quite materialize. "I believe," he says at last, "that the fear remained, but in the end it was lesser than my desire."

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad nods. If that's the balance, then he has a long while to go yet. He was able to withstand his desire for Percival for almost five years, and that was before he knew how to meditate.

[timebethine]

What afraid? God?

[onthewillowsthere]

Another nod. For a long moment he says nothing, then: Miss God. Angry, but miss God. Break covenant then gone forever.

[timebethine]

Understand, says Laertes, and offers his arms.

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad is struck by the memory of the two of them in this same kitchen, after he was restored to himself, and Laertes offering the same embrace -- back then he couldn't take it. Even if he's still too afraid of the things his body wants, he's different enough now that he doesn't have to wait for Laertes to be the one to choose to hold him. He steps forward, floury apron and all, and wraps his arms around Laertes tightly.

[timebethine]

Laertes catches him close and holds him, tucking his chin over Galahad's shoulder as though he means to stay. He strokes slow circles on Galahad's back with one hand, the other keeping him in the embrace. "If thou wouldst keep compact with God, I will not say thee nay," says Laertes. "But for my part, I would rather have loved my fellow mortals well, and face eternal damnation, than hold myself apart from them for the promise of eternal life."

[onthewillowsthere]

That slow touch is soothing; he feels like a cat being stroked gently, being comforted. It's because of this that he turns his head and whispers into Laertes' hair, "I'm afraid he'll want someone who doesn't-- hold himself apart."

[timebethine]

"He may," says Laertes. "But not in thy place. Each of his loves is a separate flower, blooming and flourishing in his care; not a one of them could replace the others."

[onthewillowsthere]

There is something reassuring about that choice of metaphor. He's seen Claudius labor over his plants so many times, and he knows how much he cares for all of them, though he has his favorites. Galahad imagines himself a seedling of mimosa that Claudius has transplanted, soft as a globose flower covered in lavender filaments, shy as bipinnate leaves whose leaflets fold inward at a touch.

[timebethine]

Laertes nuzzles his cheek against Galahad's hair just a little. "He loves thee," he says, sure as summer. "He loves thee deeply, singularly, to distraction; he loves thee, and he is a better and happier man for loving thee. There is nothing that he would have in place of thee, for in his eyes, there is no one and nothing better than thee."

[onthewillowsthere]

"Is he happier?" startled.

[timebethine]

"Hast not seen? He reels with joy at thee. Thou art the very star and compass of his happiness."

[onthewillowsthere]

He's seized with a sudden, greedy longing to hear everything Laertes thinks about how Claudius looks at him. Laertes is so good at speaking extravagantly, at making things sound wonderful -- he reels with joy at thee is like a bracelet of rubies Galahad could clasp around his wrist and breathe the joy of whenever he needs it -- and Galahad wants more; he wants to lay them up like treasures on earth. Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also, and his heart will be here in this kitchen snatching up everything Laertes says about how much Claudius loves him.

Galahad makes himself take a breath instead. "Will you tell me about him, from Denmark?"

[timebethine]

"I ... fear I knew him very little, there," says Laertes as he lets Galahad go. "He seemed to me the pinnacle and flower of manhood, when I was a boy--handsome, and clever, and well-versed in what to say. But as I entered my own youth, he was often abroad, and we saw each other only seldom; in my own manhood, I followed his example, and was little at court. I know now some of the griefs that drove him from his homeland, but he hid them well. He knew that to show a wound was to invite his brother to deepen it."