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Chapter Text

The night Lancelot comes to Galehaut's camp, the stars look very beautiful and very distant.

Humility and dread, in powerful waves, drown Lancelot in turn. One moment he thinks that he's exaggerating his own importance, that Galehaut is a king and can have whatever concubines he wants. Lancelot knows he's pretty, but he also knows Galehaut hadn't even seen his face when he'd agreed to his conditions. So it has to be just a matter of admiration for Lancelot's skill, determination and luck. Maybe Galehaut wants to talk, to buy his services in battle, to get him to betray Arthur despite his assurance he won't try. Then he will fail, and Lancelot will be very polite about it, and everything might end well.

He listens to Galehaut's impassioned speech about him being the best knight ever, and he blushes in embarrassment. Yes, that's what it is, Galehaut wants to flatter him, wants to steal him from Arthur, he doesn't mean any of this.

And then Galehaut looks at him, his eyes deep and focused, and Lancelot is no longer sure of what he sees, but it's no trickery. It might be the sincere admiration he speaks of, or it could be unbridled lust.

This dark and terrible alternative - this is what he almost expected when he agreed to this. He's untainted but he's not fully innocent, he has dreamed of sin. Who could offer someone everything for just a night of company, if it wasn't the kind of company that surrenders everything too? He thinks Galehaut desires something about him, and there's one kind of desire that makes men crazy above all else.

He knows, and he's resigned to it. If it can save Arthur and Guinevere's kingdom, it's more than worth it. Lancelot wonders if Arthur and his men, and Guinevere, realize what's happening here. Do they have the same doubts, the same fears, about Galehaut's desires?

Once they're in Galehaut's tent, Galehaut undoes Lancelot's armor himself. Lancelot knows he can't feel it through the hard iron, but it still feels too intimate: the touch of an enemy, like a sword passing so close you can feel wind on your face. Then Lancelot himself removes his padded tunic, and one of Galehaut's servants brings Lancelot a superb robe, embroidered with gold and silver thread.

Near the fire of the tent, it shines like false stars.

Galehaut is removing his own armor too, and Lancelot can't stop himself from stealing glances. It's not just an impression that the armor gives: Galehaut is taller than any man Lancelot has met. He's muscular too, his shoulders and chest wide even out of armor. Lancelot beat him on horse, but he's not sure he could fight him barehanded...

No, he's not here for that. He might have renounced part of his honor, but an oath is still sacred. He's not Judith coming to Holophernes, there will be no fight tonight, no murder. Only the hard steel of the given word.

Galehaut also has a sharp-featured but very handsome face, far from the kind of deformity or ugliness you might imagine of a giant, pretty golden hair down to his shoulders, and very big hands. He looks at Lancelot directly, sees him watching, and holds his gaze, smiling, hopeful. Lancelot feels like he'd like to give him what he wants, even if he already knows it’s a false feeling.

As soon as Galehaut is dressed in his own kingly robes, Lancelot is invited to his table. The collation would be pleasant if it was just what it seems, and not one of the threads in a tapestry or war of intrigue. Galehaut's open praise still makes Lancelot’s cheeks redden with shame, but the music is soft, the food incredibly good for a walking army, and Galehaut answers all of Lancelot's questions with an open heart.

He talks about his mother the giantess and his dreams of conquest, he talks about his vassals and allies, and once again he insists Lancelot is superior to any of them, while gazing at him intensely.

Lancelot, who was getting interested in the military campaigns, blushes again as these dark blue eyes tear into him like a sword. It's one more battle they're waging, so Lancelot doesn't lower his eyes though, and looks back. Even as they're both sitting, he has to look up. His shirt is half-open on his chest, revealing sparse golden hairs.

Lancelot tells himself he doesn't want to think about what might happen. But maybe he should, to be prepared, for the reality to slide over him like nothing once the imagination has done the job. He thinks about those hands undressing him. He thinks. Galehaut seems heavy and strong. Lancelot imagines him rough, but he can bear anything for the Realm. As this thought goes to his head, he can feel his cheeks heat up again. He eats one more grape, to look away from the way Galehaut is looking at him.

As sacrifices go, it could be worse. Galehaut is a generous king and a beautiful man.

It's at this point that Galehaut leads him to a huge, luxurious bed, with blankets made of northern foxes' pelts, as white as ermines and thicker. Lancelot slides under the cover, and defies Galehaut with his eyes.

He may have chosen to play with his honour, but he's not a coward.

And then Galehaut salutes him, and leaves.

Lancelot isn't sure of what happened, but a huge tension seems lifted from his shoulders. He feels weak and safe and grateful, like a little child. At this moment only, his body reminds him of how hard a day of fighting this was, how tired he is.

He dreams of Galehaut; he dreams of the battlefield, and their fight, first lance to lance, then sword to sword. Galehaut isn't wearing his helmet, and Lancelot, on the verge of losing, desperate, can only think about reaching and biting him.

Galehaut kisses him in return. His lips are soft, and still Lancelot feels a sharp pain in his heart, like he's been stabbed. He tries to run, like a coward, but he can't.

When he awakes, Galehaut is near him, reclining on the other side of the huge bed. The intensity of his gaze hasn't changed, and Lancelot feels fully awake in an instant. He analyses the situation: Galehaut is still all clothed in his night robe, and there are two other knights here. This means, very probably, nothing unbecoming has happened. This also means that nothing Lancelot says will be fully private.

"Did you sleep here?" he asks.

"I spent the night contemplating more pleasant visions than sleep," Galehaut says, smiling.

Lancelot rolls on his knees, and gets close to him.

"Did you touch me while I was sleeping?" He says it in his ear, because he doesn't want anyone else to hear.

"I didn't," Galehaut answers, his voice clear, but the other knights can't know what he's answering to. "Should I have?"

His hand is raised, very close to Lancelot's neck, but still not touching. His eyes are as deep as ever, darker than a sea under the storm. He's smiling, or pretending to. Lancelot can feel the desire radiating from him.

At this moment Lancelot feels like he should do this, offer himself to Galehaut, that the terror he feels at the idea isn't that different from desire, that he has never been someone to fear in the face of any kind of pain.

But he controls this, like all the rest.

"It's more honorable not to do it," he says for both of them.

Galehaut nods. His smile is now frozen, and could break at any moment.

When Lancelot asks him, as the accomplishment of his oath, to surrender to King Arthur, he fears that it's not going to happen. When Galehaut, after a short hesitation, nods and submits to his own promises, true of word and heart, Lancelot should feel overjoyed. Still, as he promises eternal friendship and gratitude, the feeling decaying in his guts is guilt, like he has cheated, like he hasn't sacrificed enough.

Chapter Text

Lancelot has given his name to Galehaut; to Arthur's Court, he's still the Black Knight. Galehaut didn't mention any reason why he surrendered, but the Court saw Lancelot join him at night. They don't thank him to his face, but they're grateful.

They don't call him a sodomite to his face, but they believe it's what happened. Lancelot can't really blame them, since he was ready for him, and still. He wants to scream the truth, if only for Galehaut's honour.

He's feeling his patience with other knights grow thin. As their imagined contempt for Lancelot grows, Lancelot's silent anger grows in return. He wants anyone to accuse him, to be able to duel them, to prove his right by the strength of his sword. Any other denial, especially uninvited, will seem false.

His greatest fear is that Guinevere, who shows him an impenetrable smile, thinks the same.

So he decides to leave Arthur's Court again. He'll come back with new weapons, a new name, a new face. No one knows who he really is. Maybe no one will ever know. He rides at dawn.

Galehaut is waiting for him.

"Do you intend to stop me?" Lancelot asks.

"No, but I'd like to go with you."

"You don't even know where I'm going."

"That's not really important to me."

"Aren't you King Arthur's honoured guest?"

"I am, though the honour should be yours, and we both know it. You talked of friendship between us. It allows me the right to offer my company. So, do you want it?"

Lancelot was waiting for this question, and still the exact words hit him in the stomach. What does he want? He's immediately tempted: he admires Galehaut's honour and bravery, and the idea of fighting by his side is a thrilling one. And then he thinks, it's wrong to want this, it's wrong to profit any longer from what part of him still considers a treachery. But wouldn't it be worse if he cheated him of the friendship he offered, of the friendship he wants?

He can't even know how he feels, when Galehaut stands proud near him.

"You can come, of course." Lancelot answers.

"That was not my question. Do you accept my company freely?"

"Yes." Lancelot answers, without thinking this time.

Like this, they start riding together. The dawn is very red. The silence is only broken by birds singing.

Lancelot has to ask.

"How did you know I was going to leave today?"

Galehaut looks at him - as always he looks down, because he's tall, and it's not exactly on purpose but he's very aware of it. "Are you sure you want to know? Aren't you enjoying the mystery?"

"No!"

Galehaut laughs loudly, a strong, honest laugh. "I'll tell you then. I didn't know you would leave today."

"Then how?"

"But I know that it's in your personality to leave without telling anyone, and you were missing something. Sometimes, at night, you were crying."

"I wasn't," Lancelot lies. He doesn't even know why, it's just an old reflex. Galehaut ignores him.

"So I went to the stables every morning to check you weren't leaving. Now you know, and I'm sure you loved the mystery better."

Lancelot hates being flattered. Objectively, he's not, Galehaut said nothing good about him. And this doesn't hurt like flattery. This time, the blood in his cheeks almost feels good, even if he looks away.

Then the pain comes back, a different one. Yes, he loved being treasured like this. No, he did nothing to deserve it.

"What do you want from me?" he asks. His voice sounds desperate, and he doesn't know why.

"Everything you'll give freely," Galehaut answers, without any hesitation - and Lancelot feels it again, this guilty shame that bubbles like pleasure. "What do you want from me?"

Nothing, Lancelot thinks. It feels like a lie even in his mind, and an offensive one too. He wants his friendship and respect, that's sure. He doesn't know if these feelings can burn together with such violent passion, but he hopes so.

Finally, he eludes the question. "You already gave me your hope of victory, which is as much as anyone can ask from another person. Maybe I was desperate and unjust. Maybe you have already given me too much."

"It's mine to judge, and I don't think so," Galehaut answers. "Come to my castle, and I'll give you more."

"Where is it?"

"In my kingdom of Sorelois. We're going in the right direction, did you know?"

"I didn't."

Galehaut smiles. Lancelot wonders how he can feel unquenched passion, and still smile like the sun. "It must be destiny, then."

There are not many roads leaving Camelot, Lancelot thinks, but this protest seems a weak weapon, and he doesn't even want to fight.

There is still something he needs to know, though.

"What do you think they think of us, in Camelot?"

"Of course they know you're the best knight ever. They know of your bravery, your strength, your skill. And they know of mine, too, though I accept being overshadowed by you this day."

"You know what I mean," though Lancelot isn't sure he does. "Do they think we are... do they think we did..." The idea is clear in his head, but he can't find words that won't dishonor him. "We left the same day. Do they imagine we left as lovers?"

His skin is burning with shame again, and this time, it's his fault alone.

"I have no idea. Do you care about it?"

"Of course!"

"Why?"

Lancelot doesn't want to answer this. He would be ashamed to be thought of as Galehaut's lover, especially, given the circumstances, a venal one. But it's hard to explain this without bringing shame on Galehaut too.

He thinks about Guinevere's face.

"I just hate when people believe things about me that are false."

"You shouldn't," Galehaut answers. "It adds to the mystery, like hiding your name and your face."

Lancelot laughs, and for an instant, he's just happy.

"You really don't care about your reputation?" he insists.

"I do," Galehaut answers. "I'm a king. But as long as it doesn't affect my alliances and the obedience of my subjects, I love rumors. It says things about you, what people dream about your life. Not true things, but interesting ones."

Lancelot has been raised to show the measure of his valor, nothing less and nothing more, certainly not to have untrue stories be heard about him. Galehaut's freedom isn't for him, but right now, he wishes it was.

Chapter Text

Lancelot never had an adventuring companion before.

Galehaut insists on paying people to eat with them, rather than eating the little they can forage while sleeping under the stars. It's because he's a king, Lancelot comments; and then Galehaut looks at him like he's the weird one.

Lancelot feels weirdly guilty about the hot and regular food. But he feels frustrated about having to talk to people, so it balances somehow.

As they're riding to Sorelois, adventure often comes to them, fighting renegade knights or monsters, and having a companion makes him stronger, almost invulnerable. He has to share the glory, he sometimes thinks. He could have managed by himself! He hates the idea that he couldn't have!

But he wouldn't have had a witness, either. If anything, Galehaut's loving gaze makes him take more desperate risks, because he wants the admiration, he wants to impress.

Maybe if he saves his life, his debt will be paid. But he can't build a foundation on this. He would have managed by himself. Galehaut probably would have, too.

This time, they fought a bear as huge as a hill - or that's what they believed, because there were two of them, and Galehaut was nearly hurt when the second one jumped to the rescue.

Now the bear carcasses are lying on the ground, a crow tentatively checking whether they are really dead. Lancelot and Galehaut are covered in blood, seeping through their armors. Lancelot is seized by an emotion that besmirches their triumph: the bears must have been very much in love.

"There was a river not far off," Galehaut says. "Let's have a bath."

That's one difference between them. Lancelot doesn't mind blood and grime, as long as it makes him intimidating. Some situations ask for beauty, and murder isn't one of those. Galehaut just hates the feeling of filth on his skin, whatever it might be - like a king.

He also loves seeing Lancelot all beautiful and clean, which is flattering. So Lancelot has no reason to protest. He certainly doesn't want to imply he wouldn't like the river's icy water, so much colder than his childhood lake.

He enters slowly, testing the mud of the bank with his toe. Galehaut is swimming already, leaving behind a trail of diluted blood. He now stands on the sand of the river, waving to him.

Lancelot knew, of course, that they were both naked, but the awareness of it strikes him like it did Eve in the Garden. He tumbles down the bank faster than he had planned.

Nudity happens among male knights, like any warrior group. Lancelot is still a novice, but once or twice he shared precious hot water for a well-needed bath. Those times, he compared his frame to the other knights, finding himself not always the more muscular, but well-proportioned with smooth skin. He might have also compared their lengths, and ended up pride of these silent competitions most often. But this time he's not so confident.

Galehaut is immersed into water to the waist, but the sand is coarse, almost gravel, and the water very clear. Lancelot steals a glance, then averts his eyes, blushing. He isn't even sure, because of the light rays playing in the water.

"You can look," Galehaut says. "Actually, you can do anything you want. I told you, I'll take everything you'll give."

Lancelot forgets for a second that the water is cold. But he can't run away from this. He can only parry, as he walks on the sand bottom, walking towards Galehaut, looking him in the eye. "And you, what do you want?"

"Ah," Galehaut answers. Lancelot doesn't avert his eyes this time, and he can see Galehaut's cock hardening, rising out of the water. The feeling of being wanted, no matter how crudely, makes Lancelot's stomach flutter. "Do you want the details?"

Lancelot does, but the surprise is that he finds the words to confess it.

"I would give you gifts every day, everything that would make you happy, the most beautiful clothes, jewelry and weapons. I would have you lie down in the most luxurious bed of my castle, and I would massage your limbs until you'd feel soft as water, and I would kiss every inch of your beautiful body. I would spread your legs like unveiling a treasure, and then I would give you everything of me. I would make it so delicious you would scream in pleasure."

Lancelot revels, far more than he would have thought, in these words of desire; he has to start swimming, to hide the obvious reactions of his body. He wants to be desired, not to desire himself, or at least more so.

That's it, he's very close now. "Why didn't you take me by force on that day?"

"If it's the game you want to play, I would wrestle you into the bed, and I would win." Galehaut answers, hitting Lancelot with a spear of desire beyond understanding. His voice sounds assured, but his voice is trembling a little. "But if you're talking about my honor as a king, I'll never touch you unless you ask for it from me."

"Then don't," Lancelot answers.

He takes Galehaut's erection into his hand - into both his hands now, because it has grown even bigger that Lancelot could have imagined. Galehaut balls his big hands into fists, but he's honourable, and won't try to grab Lancelot, or to kiss him, or to spread his legs like he told him about.

Lancelot feels very hot, despite the running water. There's a part of him that wishes Galehaut's desire was more intense, that he would take him anyway. As his price for having given away the Kingdom of Camelot, the price he deserves. Or because he could want Lancelot even harder than he does now.

Lancelot thinks about Guinevere - no, it's less self-indulgent than that, it's a short, fugitive image, that leaves him soon. Just enough to realize he hasn't thought about her for a long time, and while he might want to repent of it, now isn't the moment.

Lancelot caresses the head of Galehaut's member with his thumb, then the slit, then pulls back the foreskin. He's a bit awkward at first when he starts to jerk him off, but quite soon his hands find the right places, one just below the head, the second one around the balls, and Galehaut starts to whisper his name. Lancelot concentrates, he wants this to be perfect, he wants everything to be perfect for Galehaut, he wants not even to notice if he's hard himself.

He almost manages that last part, and he thinks he comes close to perfection too, because Galehaut comes hard and fast, tears running on his cheeks.

Lancelot has never seen him cry, and it feels wrong. All of this feels wrong. Was he too daring, too familiar, what happened to him?

"I owed you this," he tells Galehaut, like a desperate apology.

Galehaut smiles through his tears, but he doesn't answer.

Chapter Text

Galehaut doesn't change after that day.

He keeps reminding Lancelot that he's the most valiant and most beautiful knight of the realm, he keeps smiling at him, his smile wide and bright when he greets him, soft when he believes Lancelot isn't watching him.

Lancelot wanted things to change. He doesn't know how, he hadn't had precise expectations. He certainly didn't want to lose Galehaut's company, or even his favour, so this is good. Maybe he wanted Galehaut to join him at night and give him his pleasure back, to play it like a game, like a joust. No, this is absurd -- it's Galehaut who wants him, not the reverse.

It should have changed something in Galehaut's bearing, in his eyes, because Lancelot feels like, while he himself wasn't soiled, it changed him deeply. He's not even sure how, but it did.

So he regrets that it has happened, and persuades himself that it can't happen again.

A few days after that day, they passed the bridge leading to Sorelois, and Lancelot can only see how pretty it is. It feels like they're in another country, the seasons smelling different.

"Is it a giant land?" Lancelot asks. The Lady of the Lake told him about fairy realms, where time passes differently. She also told him about winds, currents, and how islands can be very special places without any magic, though.

"No, it's not my homeland," Galehaut says. "It's just, among the kingdoms I personally rule, the closest to Camelot."

"Isn't it a lot of work?" Lancelot asks.

Galehaut laughs. "Good thing my mother loves to rule at home, and loyal seneschals are an important thing. But you should know, it's not in my habit to throw my responsibilities to the wind, and go run wild with a noble and beautiful knight. It's only you."

Lancelot used to be ashamed of this exaggerated praise. Now he's getting used to it. It makes him warm in the chest, especially when no one can hear, when it's only for him.

People have been recognizing their king, and even if Galehaut is a conqueror here, he seems well loved. Lancelot isn't sure how the message system is working, but when they arrive at the castle, everything has been prepared for them.

Galehaut presents Lancelot as "the Black Knight, the best knight of the realm, and my friend," and Lancelot is relieved that even here his name is safe.

Even here, what they have done is a secret.

Though these people are all Galehaut's servants, so in front of them, he wouldn't have been so ashamed to be called Galehaut's lover. Though of course, he is not. That was one time, and it changed nothing.

Galehaut shows him the castle, and Lancelot feels strange. Maybe even more than the first night, he understands he's in the power of a king. The stones are old, and every one of them smells like magic to Lancelot. In the treasure room there are gold and precious stones, and also many richly adorned weapons and arms.

"Take anything you want," Galehaut says. Lancelot wants to protest, but it's an order, and he has no reason not to submit. He just wishes he was more pure, and not attracted by the beautiful, deadly weapons.

He takes one whose bluish metal seems as sharp as a bolt of lightning, with the pommel ornamented with green precious stones. It vibrates in his hands. He wants to try it.

"Thank you," he remembers to say first.

"My pleasure," Galehaut comments, deadpan, and still Lancelot shivers. Galehaut had promised him infinite gifts first, didn't he?

So they need to spar now, so he can think about something else. Lancelot gives his best when stakes are high, and he's not sure of what he wants today. He loses; maybe he has tried to show off, rather than to win. Maybe Galehaut's castle supports its master and wants him to lose. Not the sword, though; it's a good one, and Lancelot can't blame it.

"You fought well," Galehaut says, as Lancelot is still panting on his knees. Galehaut offers his hand. Lancelot is not sure he can take it, or rather, not sure of what will happen if he does; he can’t allow himself to need it. It only takes a bit of effort to stand, despite the armor's weight. He feels like he should say something.

"I can fight harder next time!" he promises.

"I can't wait," Galehaut answers, the need in his voice probably from Lancelot's hand lacking in his.

They have a real feast this evening, so much that Lancelot wonders if the news of Galehaut's return didn't start to arrive far before he'd thought. The fish and venison stuffed with fruits and spices seems to have been planned for a while. Sometimes Galehaut insisted for him to eat, but here the taste of the food speaks for itself, melting in his mouth like the taste of a dream.

Galehaut's knights, who eat at his table, bow to Lancelot like he was a royal guest. His jesters and magicians are looking for Lancelot's approval only. Lancelot looks at Galehaut, tries to read how he feels about that. But Galehaut, as always, only looks at him. It seemed so natural when they were alone, but now, he can feel the weight of it, as Galehaut graciously wears the honour and power that are his heritage.

"Come with me," Galehaut says, after the last festivities of dinner are finished.

Lancelot can't help thinking about that first night, when Galehaut led him to his chambers. Lancelot had been terrified and determined. Now he can't be afraid - he shouldn't be afraid - but his legs are weaker. Galehaut no longer poses any threat to the Realm or to Lancelot, and still, Lancelot can feel his strength and power enter his mind like a living thing.

He wonders about what will happen, like the first time. He doesn't want to understand what he's afraid of.

Galehaut leads him to his room, and Lancelot had believed the bed in Galehaut's war tent was absurdly big and soft, but this one beats everything. One could swim in it, and maybe drown.

Galehaut starts removing his outer clothing, and Lancelot does it too. They've done this quite a few times now. They've slept in small beds, very close to each other. They've even been fully naked together.

Lancelot has to look at the rich wooden floor for a while, to clear his thoughts. But this floor is still Galehaut's accomplice and can only make him think about him.

"We're sleeping in the same bed?" he asks, to be sure, to remind himself that he has a voice.

"Sure," Galehaut says. "I can put a naked sword between us, if you want."

Is it a joke? Is it actually in good humor or bitter? Lancelot looks at him in his beautiful, dark blue eyes, and still can't tell.

"Please don't," he answers, his voice a bit too rough, a bit too needy.

They bury themselves under the rich blankets, and blow out every candle but one. Lancelot can no longer see Galehaut's face or body, and concentrates on listening to his breath and smelling his smell.

He understands now: this time he was afraid it might not happen. But it's hard, being proud, to concede that he had been wrong in the past, that he had wanted all the wrong things.

"You can do it," he whispers in the golden night. "Take me."

For a few long seconds, Galehaut doesn't answer _What is the worst that can happen? Nothing changes. I can deal with that,_ Lancelot lies in his head. He wishes he could hear Galehaut's heart but it's hidden by the sound of his own hard breathing, of his panicked heart.

And then Galehaut moves, fast and hard, and he's on his hands and knees, over Lancelot, just close enough so he can see the shadow of his face.

"Do you want this or do you owe me this?" he asks.

Lancelot's mind realizes that he can feel Galehaut's heat, near his hips and face and all over his torso, but they're not actually touching, and it's like being thirsty and deprived of water. _I won't touch you unless you ask_, Galehaut had said. But Lancelot is quite sure he asked by now.

He blinks, then opens his eyes again, enjoys what a lone candle can give him.

"Please," he manages to say. And then, because he realizes he didn't answer the question: "I want this. I want you."

There's a delightful freedom in confessing, in letting go. It's like being vulnerable, in a good way instead of bad.

Galehaut captures Lancelot's face between his hands and kisses his eyebrow, his neck, his lips. Lancelot lets him, lips open, too awestruck to kiss back, and then he remembers that he can, and almost bites Galehaut's lip out of eagerness. He grabs Galehaut's waist and pulls down, so he can feel his weight on him, so he can have his breath taken away in body as well as in mind. He gasps and stretches out his neck when Galehaut sucks a mark of raw pleasure on his skin.

He feels so small when Galehaut makes him roll over, and so beloved when he starts sucking at the back of his neck. He feels soft like clay under Galehaut's hand, except his hard cock, that still needs Galehaut's hand more than all the rest of his body. He thinks about begging for it. He wonders if he has begged enough, if he needs to go slow, otherwise he'll hit a limit and shame will take him again.

For now, shame has fled. Galehaut's mouth is dancing on his back, small kisses feeling like little sparks of love. Is it sacrilegious to think about love in the middle of sensual pleasures, or is it the most natural thing?

Galehaut's hand grabs his thigh - with strength, but not all his strength, and Lancelot shivers at this thought - and starts to lick at his asshole.

Lancelot nearly cries out. He buried his face in his pillow, to wipe away his tears, or maybe to smell their taste better. Pleasure is an ocean, and the ocean makes ships float, but it can crash them, it can make them long to be destroyed...

Galehaut's mouth leaves his skin, and he feels one long and wet finger entering him, playing with him, an unfamiliar and teasing feeling. The mattress is too soft to rub against, even if he desperately tries.

"Tell me if I hurt you," Galehaut says.

"You should hurt me more!" Lancelot answers, his voice humiliatingly needy to his ears.

Galehaut's finger stops moving, and it's frustrating as hell. But Lancelot is the one who needs to be reasonable. "I'll tell you if I'm hurt," he concedes. He's not sure which is good and which is bad, between the ordeal of submitting and the oath of taking care of himself.

And then he's rewarded by Galehaut slowly inserting one more finger, pressing in a way so perfect that Lancelot has to force himself not to tumble in the way of pleasure, like a stupid youngster.

"Do you love me?" he asks, because he can't control everything at the same time.

Galehaut stops moving again, but it's not like the first time. This time, he's almost shaking.

"Of course," he answers. "Do you love when I tell you the obvious, my beautiful, beloved knight?"

Lancelot knew, so there's no reason why it should hit him this way. It changes his shape and makes this weird castle a home, a heart beating outside him.

"I'm yours," he answers, because it's easier than speaking about love.

After this, Galehaut gives him a third finger, and this is good, almost too good to remember that he wants more than this. Almost. Good enough not to beg anyway, to wait until Galehaut wants to take him at least.

He knows Galehaut is big, already knows it intimately, but it's nothing compared to being entered. Galehaut is cautious and slow, and it doesn't really hurt, but it feels like it takes all the attention of Lancelot's body and mind to sharpen the point of his awareness, and surrender to all this, to ignite the euphoria that drowns the discomfort in waves of pleasure. He moans; it's too much and he still wants more, to be taken completely. He hopes Galehaut can feel the intensity of his need.

He moans again when Galehaut thrusts, and then he manages to articulate "please don't stop, I don't want you to stop", before he starts screaming in pleasure, a pleasure that's only sharpened by the pain. He manages to think about how people will hear, because it's part of the surrender, because the shame can no longer hurt him but caresses him instead.

Ecstasy takes him, rolls him like a wave, and leaves him exhausted with just enough strength to enjoy the wet warmth of Galehaut reaching his own pleasure inside him.

His body needs to sleep, but his heart is still beating like a wild drum, and he's a knight. He knows he can't pass out before doing everything that needs to be done.

"I might love you too," he says. No, that was cowardly. It's better than nothing, and for this night, it might even be enough. Galehaut puts his arm around his waist, and Lancelot feels that it’s more than the strong muscles and the deft finger, he’s surrounded by the warmth of his love, and by the softness of the bed, and by the ancient magic of very old stones, and by the poor words he dared to confess. He’s very aware that all these have the shape of restraints and goals. However, he feels like he never tasted before what it means to be free.