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onthewillowsthereAfter a week and a half Magnus decides he wants to try sleeping in Damien's old room by himself, with the caveat that he might come pounding on Claudius and Galahad's door in the middle of the night if things get bad, which Galahad accepts without question. He knows Claudius will understand, and if Magnus needs him he'll come.
In the meantime, he comes home.
He hadn't realized how much their shared room is home until he returns to it, and all at once the sense of being where he's most comfortable covers him like a heavy blanket or a snowfall, surrounding and enveloping him. He was happy to sleep with Magnus, but he loves their bed, he loves that on his side he knows where everything is, that his nightstand is neatly arranged with his lamp and its beaded pull-cord and his notebook and sketchbook and romance novels, the little bowl where he keeps his bracelets and hangs his earrings. He loves that the sheets smell like Claudius, even though Galahad changes them regularly. He loves the familiar sight of Claudius' desk and its locked drawer, the microscope and box of glass slides still sitting to the right; his vanity covered with lotions and creams and concealers and dyes, his jewelry box with its cufflinks and tiepins.
It's so good to be home. He unpacks the clothes he kept from his and Magnus' day at the closet into his dresser -- he and Claudius both have so many clothes now that he moved another set of drawers in a month ago. It seems impossible that he should have gone this long and hardly spoken to Claudius, but somehow there was always some interference or other, or when he came back to their room to get something Claudius wasn't there. Galahad misses him: misses sitting in bed with him, sketching while Claudius reads, or watching him at his evening rituals, or listening to the day's gossip. He misses the warm weight of him in his arms at night. He misses the way Claudius is always casually touching him or looking at him and how precious it makes him feel.
It's already late afternoon, the sun sinking in the sky (although by Galahad's calendar it's already March, and the days should be getting longer -- here they're still winter-short), and if it were an ordinary day Claudius would have come back to the room by now with the supper he'd made them from the refrigerator, with a menu chosen to meet the requirements of Galahad's fast while still holding at least one thing he's never tried before, an indulgence Galahad hasn't said anything against even though he's certain it goes against the spirit of self-denial. The only thing he likes more than new tastes is the look on Claudius' face when he watches Galahad discovering them.
But Claudius doesn't know he's coming back, so he won't have planned.
Galahad should go get them something himself; he should make sure Claudius is eating properly. He's missed breaking his fast after dark with Claudius there, and knowing that Claudius is taking care of himself. He should be ready. And still, all he wants is to be here when Claudius comes back, as if by leaving he might somehow miss him.
In the end, though, responsibility wins out.
An hour later he returns home for the second time today, this time with a tray, and works the handle of the door open with his wrist before he steps inside.
In the meantime, he comes home.
He hadn't realized how much their shared room is home until he returns to it, and all at once the sense of being where he's most comfortable covers him like a heavy blanket or a snowfall, surrounding and enveloping him. He was happy to sleep with Magnus, but he loves their bed, he loves that on his side he knows where everything is, that his nightstand is neatly arranged with his lamp and its beaded pull-cord and his notebook and sketchbook and romance novels, the little bowl where he keeps his bracelets and hangs his earrings. He loves that the sheets smell like Claudius, even though Galahad changes them regularly. He loves the familiar sight of Claudius' desk and its locked drawer, the microscope and box of glass slides still sitting to the right; his vanity covered with lotions and creams and concealers and dyes, his jewelry box with its cufflinks and tiepins.
It's so good to be home. He unpacks the clothes he kept from his and Magnus' day at the closet into his dresser -- he and Claudius both have so many clothes now that he moved another set of drawers in a month ago. It seems impossible that he should have gone this long and hardly spoken to Claudius, but somehow there was always some interference or other, or when he came back to their room to get something Claudius wasn't there. Galahad misses him: misses sitting in bed with him, sketching while Claudius reads, or watching him at his evening rituals, or listening to the day's gossip. He misses the warm weight of him in his arms at night. He misses the way Claudius is always casually touching him or looking at him and how precious it makes him feel.
It's already late afternoon, the sun sinking in the sky (although by Galahad's calendar it's already March, and the days should be getting longer -- here they're still winter-short), and if it were an ordinary day Claudius would have come back to the room by now with the supper he'd made them from the refrigerator, with a menu chosen to meet the requirements of Galahad's fast while still holding at least one thing he's never tried before, an indulgence Galahad hasn't said anything against even though he's certain it goes against the spirit of self-denial. The only thing he likes more than new tastes is the look on Claudius' face when he watches Galahad discovering them.
But Claudius doesn't know he's coming back, so he won't have planned.
Galahad should go get them something himself; he should make sure Claudius is eating properly. He's missed breaking his fast after dark with Claudius there, and knowing that Claudius is taking care of himself. He should be ready. And still, all he wants is to be here when Claudius comes back, as if by leaving he might somehow miss him.
In the end, though, responsibility wins out.
An hour later he returns home for the second time today, this time with a tray, and works the handle of the door open with his wrist before he steps inside.
