(no subject)
Title: Enough to Go By
Author: Soujin
Characters/Pairings: Sagramore/Mordred
Rating: R
Archive: Yes
Disclaimer: Copyright has presumably expired.
Summary: Sagramore is sick. Mordred can cope with that. (What he can't cope with is girlfriends.)
Notes: present for mhari.
Enough to Go By
"What's it like, when you're sick?" he asks, lying in bed beside Sagramore, pressing the cold wet rag against his chest and forehead. "What does it feel like?"
"I cannot say," Sagramore says dizzily. "I always forget. I cannot remember being sick after it happens. Now I feel that I shall vomit," he adds, with a weak smile at Mordred. His face is white, and sweat is beaded on his forehead and his lip.
"Tell me if you are and I'll get the pot. I'm sick of changing the bedding." It gets a laugh from Sagramore, and Mordred feels better for that, at least. He'd die before telling Sagramore, but it frightens him, the wild thrashing and the way Sagramore moans, and the terrible part afterward when he lies still for what always feels like hours, and a part of Mordred always knots inside him, watching Sagramore's chest rise and fall so slightly, waiting for it--one of these days--to stop. It's the stupidest thing, maybe it's because he's young, but he doesn't imagine what it would be like without Sagramore. He's like a colt, childishly eager, but full of a grace of motion that makes Mordred's chest ache it's so beautiful. He's always there. He's always been there, since the day Mordred and Gawain saved his life on some half-barren patch of land four years ago.
Mordred hates responsibility--he can't manage things the way Gawain can, can't hold things together or use the same patient, firm hand Gawain has for people and animals alike; his temper is short and when he loves something enough to look out for it he gets scared he's going to break it, and that makes him sullen and unapproachable. All the same, he's taught Sagramore his English, helped him learn to hold his sword better, stayed by him when he seizes, and now--that's his business. It's no one else's. He bites his tongue over every girl Sagramore falls in love with, but he damned well doesn't like it when Sagramore comes home talking himself breathless over some lady's maid with beautiful eyes and coquettish ways, and he says I told you so when she leaves, when she finds someone who's a better knight, or won't ask her to share his affections, or doesn't get sick-- because they do leave. A good deal of the time, they leave, and every time Sagramore's as heartbroken as if she were his own true love.
And Mordred does the comforting, in his sardonic way, and helps get the wounds licked, and knows that he's the one who holds Sagramore still when the seizures come, he's the one who knows what to do, who doesn't turn a hair, who gets everything cleaned up and bathes Sagramore's skin until he comes round, aching and confused. He's the one who whispers things in Norse and strokes back Sagramore's sweat-soaked hair, and he's the one who later on straddles that thin body and teases Sagramore into a half-panic with kisses. He's the one who goes out riding as far as they can go in a day, and rolls over with Sagramore in the long grass, groping blind with desire. Afterwards they wash clean together in the cold streams, splashing water on each other until Sagramore leaps on him and pins him down against the bank, and kisses him beyond all thought so that they end up in the grass again, making love until they're both so tired they just lie still against each other, and Sagramore breathes things in Hungarian that Mordred would hit him over if he could understand.
Most importantly, Sagramore has learned not to treat him with deference, not to call him the prince he is, and when they're together he is free from Arthur, free from his mother, free from every damned thing in Camelot that knows what he is. He can forget about prophecy and Merlin's whispering in his father's ear, the things Morgause wants that he isn't going to forgive her. He's just a man with a sick friend.
A man with a sick friend.
Sagramore pales even further under his dark skin. "I am going to vomit. Oh, Jesu, Mordred--"
"Shh, softly, I've got you." Mordred reaches under the bed for the chamber pot, where he's been keeping it handy, and holds Sagramore's bruised body in his arms while he retches. It's taking its damned toll, Sagramore's looking worse, but there are always times when it gets bad and then goes away for a while, sometimes even months between seizures. It's only when it's bad like this that Sagramore gets so weak he can hardly move, and his eyes look blacked. "Shhh. Heart's friend, I've got you."
Eventually it subsides, and Sagramore leans against him, panting. "Jesu, I cannot bear it. I am so tired, I cannot bear it, Mordred."
"Melodramatic son of a bitch," Mordred says, pressing a kiss against his temple.
"No more than you." Sagramore pats his shoulder wearily. "But I am tired."
"For the love of Christ. It always passes, doesn't it? You'll get better."
"Suppose I do not."
"The hell with it."
Sagramore laughs, although it's shaky, and closes his eyes. "When I am better again, we should ask the King to give us a quest. They say he is going to send me away; Menw says if I am to get better I must go somewhere colder and drier, and the King would have me to go Cornwall."
"Of all the stupid places."
"There is some kind of trouble there with Sir Tristam."
"He's a fool, that's what his trouble is. Half of them are fools. Christ, man. You don't have to go to Cornwall to get better, you have to stop lying around with these half-witted girls who throw you over in a week for somebody else because they're too stupid to understand you haven't got the devil in you when you start kicking around like a boar with its throat slit. Why the hell do you think you get so damned mopey? Because you fall in love with your Lady Lifts-her-skirts and two days later she's fucking somebody else in the haymow and can't be bothered with you. They're women, you might as well give them up. You're not going to get more than that out of them."
"Jesu Christ, you are vile. Aelwyd left because she wanted a husband. That was fair."
Mordred scoffs. "Either they want you in bed for as long as they think's reasonable, or they want something from you, and you'll end up in trouble either way."
"You want me in bed for as long as you think is reasonable."
"I think for-ever is reasonable."
He puts his hand over his eyes. "I cannot think, I cannot argue with you now."
"Then go to sleep. You've been up too long anyway."
It doesn't matter, Mordred tells himself, stroking the black curls off Sagramore's neck, waiting for his breathing to slow into sleep, tucking the blanket more closely around him when he sighs and rolls onto his side, looking thin and exhausted. It doesn't matter. It's him Sagramore comes back to, it's him here right now, not whatever girl Sagramore will choose to fall in love with to-morrow. It'll be him to-night when Sagramore wakes and wants something to drink, him when the seizures start again, him when they end. It'll be him when Sagramore's well again and they get out of Camelot before dawn, riding into the forest, out to the furthest extent, to lie down in the moss where he can kiss Sagramore into stupidity, get him too caught up to speak English, suck him off so he can't remember his own name, let alone Maggie's or Aelwyd's or Saffir's.
And Sagramore will come to him, too, when he has nightmares about Morgause, or Arthur does something that he would swear to Christ was calculated to hurt him, if he didn't know Arthur was too well-intentioned for that. Sagramore will be the warm body in the night who keeps him sane. Sagramore will call him brother, and love him the best, and he will not--God damn it!--die from these seizures, because Mordred needs him.
Sagramore will live, and Mordred will take care of him, and, damn it, that's fair.
That's fair.
He can hear now that Sagramore is sleeping, and he lies down beside him, throwing the rag on the floor. "Heart's friend," he says in Norse, slipping his arm quietly around Sagramore's naked waist. "Shh. I have you. I've got you now."
Sagramore doesn't answer, but Mordred knows later he will.
Author: Soujin
Characters/Pairings: Sagramore/Mordred
Rating: R
Archive: Yes
Disclaimer: Copyright has presumably expired.
Summary: Sagramore is sick. Mordred can cope with that. (What he can't cope with is girlfriends.)
Notes: present for mhari.
Enough to Go By
"What's it like, when you're sick?" he asks, lying in bed beside Sagramore, pressing the cold wet rag against his chest and forehead. "What does it feel like?"
"I cannot say," Sagramore says dizzily. "I always forget. I cannot remember being sick after it happens. Now I feel that I shall vomit," he adds, with a weak smile at Mordred. His face is white, and sweat is beaded on his forehead and his lip.
"Tell me if you are and I'll get the pot. I'm sick of changing the bedding." It gets a laugh from Sagramore, and Mordred feels better for that, at least. He'd die before telling Sagramore, but it frightens him, the wild thrashing and the way Sagramore moans, and the terrible part afterward when he lies still for what always feels like hours, and a part of Mordred always knots inside him, watching Sagramore's chest rise and fall so slightly, waiting for it--one of these days--to stop. It's the stupidest thing, maybe it's because he's young, but he doesn't imagine what it would be like without Sagramore. He's like a colt, childishly eager, but full of a grace of motion that makes Mordred's chest ache it's so beautiful. He's always there. He's always been there, since the day Mordred and Gawain saved his life on some half-barren patch of land four years ago.
Mordred hates responsibility--he can't manage things the way Gawain can, can't hold things together or use the same patient, firm hand Gawain has for people and animals alike; his temper is short and when he loves something enough to look out for it he gets scared he's going to break it, and that makes him sullen and unapproachable. All the same, he's taught Sagramore his English, helped him learn to hold his sword better, stayed by him when he seizes, and now--that's his business. It's no one else's. He bites his tongue over every girl Sagramore falls in love with, but he damned well doesn't like it when Sagramore comes home talking himself breathless over some lady's maid with beautiful eyes and coquettish ways, and he says I told you so when she leaves, when she finds someone who's a better knight, or won't ask her to share his affections, or doesn't get sick-- because they do leave. A good deal of the time, they leave, and every time Sagramore's as heartbroken as if she were his own true love.
And Mordred does the comforting, in his sardonic way, and helps get the wounds licked, and knows that he's the one who holds Sagramore still when the seizures come, he's the one who knows what to do, who doesn't turn a hair, who gets everything cleaned up and bathes Sagramore's skin until he comes round, aching and confused. He's the one who whispers things in Norse and strokes back Sagramore's sweat-soaked hair, and he's the one who later on straddles that thin body and teases Sagramore into a half-panic with kisses. He's the one who goes out riding as far as they can go in a day, and rolls over with Sagramore in the long grass, groping blind with desire. Afterwards they wash clean together in the cold streams, splashing water on each other until Sagramore leaps on him and pins him down against the bank, and kisses him beyond all thought so that they end up in the grass again, making love until they're both so tired they just lie still against each other, and Sagramore breathes things in Hungarian that Mordred would hit him over if he could understand.
Most importantly, Sagramore has learned not to treat him with deference, not to call him the prince he is, and when they're together he is free from Arthur, free from his mother, free from every damned thing in Camelot that knows what he is. He can forget about prophecy and Merlin's whispering in his father's ear, the things Morgause wants that he isn't going to forgive her. He's just a man with a sick friend.
A man with a sick friend.
Sagramore pales even further under his dark skin. "I am going to vomit. Oh, Jesu, Mordred--"
"Shh, softly, I've got you." Mordred reaches under the bed for the chamber pot, where he's been keeping it handy, and holds Sagramore's bruised body in his arms while he retches. It's taking its damned toll, Sagramore's looking worse, but there are always times when it gets bad and then goes away for a while, sometimes even months between seizures. It's only when it's bad like this that Sagramore gets so weak he can hardly move, and his eyes look blacked. "Shhh. Heart's friend, I've got you."
Eventually it subsides, and Sagramore leans against him, panting. "Jesu, I cannot bear it. I am so tired, I cannot bear it, Mordred."
"Melodramatic son of a bitch," Mordred says, pressing a kiss against his temple.
"No more than you." Sagramore pats his shoulder wearily. "But I am tired."
"For the love of Christ. It always passes, doesn't it? You'll get better."
"Suppose I do not."
"The hell with it."
Sagramore laughs, although it's shaky, and closes his eyes. "When I am better again, we should ask the King to give us a quest. They say he is going to send me away; Menw says if I am to get better I must go somewhere colder and drier, and the King would have me to go Cornwall."
"Of all the stupid places."
"There is some kind of trouble there with Sir Tristam."
"He's a fool, that's what his trouble is. Half of them are fools. Christ, man. You don't have to go to Cornwall to get better, you have to stop lying around with these half-witted girls who throw you over in a week for somebody else because they're too stupid to understand you haven't got the devil in you when you start kicking around like a boar with its throat slit. Why the hell do you think you get so damned mopey? Because you fall in love with your Lady Lifts-her-skirts and two days later she's fucking somebody else in the haymow and can't be bothered with you. They're women, you might as well give them up. You're not going to get more than that out of them."
"Jesu Christ, you are vile. Aelwyd left because she wanted a husband. That was fair."
Mordred scoffs. "Either they want you in bed for as long as they think's reasonable, or they want something from you, and you'll end up in trouble either way."
"You want me in bed for as long as you think is reasonable."
"I think for-ever is reasonable."
He puts his hand over his eyes. "I cannot think, I cannot argue with you now."
"Then go to sleep. You've been up too long anyway."
It doesn't matter, Mordred tells himself, stroking the black curls off Sagramore's neck, waiting for his breathing to slow into sleep, tucking the blanket more closely around him when he sighs and rolls onto his side, looking thin and exhausted. It doesn't matter. It's him Sagramore comes back to, it's him here right now, not whatever girl Sagramore will choose to fall in love with to-morrow. It'll be him to-night when Sagramore wakes and wants something to drink, him when the seizures start again, him when they end. It'll be him when Sagramore's well again and they get out of Camelot before dawn, riding into the forest, out to the furthest extent, to lie down in the moss where he can kiss Sagramore into stupidity, get him too caught up to speak English, suck him off so he can't remember his own name, let alone Maggie's or Aelwyd's or Saffir's.
And Sagramore will come to him, too, when he has nightmares about Morgause, or Arthur does something that he would swear to Christ was calculated to hurt him, if he didn't know Arthur was too well-intentioned for that. Sagramore will be the warm body in the night who keeps him sane. Sagramore will call him brother, and love him the best, and he will not--God damn it!--die from these seizures, because Mordred needs him.
Sagramore will live, and Mordred will take care of him, and, damn it, that's fair.
That's fair.
He can hear now that Sagramore is sleeping, and he lies down beside him, throwing the rag on the floor. "Heart's friend," he says in Norse, slipping his arm quietly around Sagramore's naked waist. "Shh. I have you. I've got you now."
Sagramore doesn't answer, but Mordred knows later he will.