(Untitled)

[garcon_dor]

It's exactly as it was - exactly - and that was only months ago but in many ways it's been centuries, and that's what it feels like. Galahad fastens the clasp slowly, not in any state of mind to notice that it's been fixed.

The last time?

The smell of blood and the screams of horses, somewhere, and some poor man come to tell him that his prince

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[maydaybrat]

If Galahad is listening, he might hear soft footsteps approaching the door from the hallway, but maybe not. Mordred can be fairly silent, sometimes. The faint sound of the lock being opened, and the prince walks in without paying attention. He's not, that is he's...

He has an air of caged, edgy anger and hurt, a familer air.

"The world," he declares as he throws himself into an armchair, "has gone to hell." That's when the light catches on the pendent, and Mordred freezes. Stills. Whatever the word is, he's staring at the collar with his mouth slightly open.

Faintly strangled, "Ala?"

[garcon_dor]

Galahad smiles and looks very, very slightly smug.

"Gone to hell, my lord?"

[maydaybrat]

It takes a few attempts for his voice to work.

Faintly, "Some parts of it, anyway, pretty one." Mordred blinks, focusing his eyes on the pendent (though he notices the smile, how could he not?).

"You...you got it back."

[garcon_dor]

"Someone did." Flick, flick, and a flicker of uncertainty. "I...I think it was Adam. He said he would."

The name is said precisely, carefully, though with a vehement overtone of disgust. French accents are good for that kind of thing.

[maydaybrat]

"Ah." Just one syllable, but it covers all kinds of implications and question. British accents, then, are good at that.

Now Mordred is sitting in front of Galahad, cross-legged and with his edgy air somehow worse then before. He reaches out, and touches the pendent; twisting it this way and that in the warm light.

"Kept his word, then."

[garcon_dor]

"Not something he makes a habit of."

Galahad's face blurs a little and his hand moves as fast as a knight's can, his fingers tight around Mordred's hand. He speaks quickly, as though afraid of his own voice.

"Perhaps he meant to show off. Perhaps he did not mean it as an apology. But it is the best apology I can offer, for what I did, so maybe it balances."

Mais seulement peut-être.

[maydaybrat]

Softly, "How do you say...'mais seulement peut-être'?" His eyes flick up, and though they are full of love, they are still Mordred's eyes, and thus have a strong element of cruelty in them.

"Maybe, pretty one," he tugs the pendent, "Maybe."

[garcon_dor]

Mordred shouldn't be reading him this easily, but Galahad's too tired and too happy to care.

"I know. It may not be enough," he says softly. "I understand."

You can leave, his eyes say, but his grip does not waver; it tightens, if anything.

[maydaybrat]

Mordred smiles. No real indication of mood, but his voice is low and possesive and rough.

"You're mine." A sharper tug, pulling Galahad's head forward into a rough kiss. "Mine."

[garcon_dor]

Galahad lets go and lets himself go and if he isn't moving much then it's mostly because of the giddy rush of relief washing over him. His limbs don't really want to reform out of the suffocating euphoria.

"Yes," he says when Mordred pulls away, just a bit breathless. "And it is clearer, now, at least."

Mordred's still holding onto the pendant, so he can't see it, but he knows that the dragon is there.

[maydaybrat]

He tilts his head slightly, his free hand cupping Galahad's cheek.

"Clearer? Good." Another kiss - lighter, gentler, and then he nips Galahad's lower lip. "I'm not going to lose you again, Galahad du Lac. Not to words or your own mind or death or whatever. Never," a kiss on the corner of his jaw, "Again."

This time the kiss is more like a bite. He's not in the mood to be gentle for long.

[garcon_dor]

"Good." There is something fiercer than normal in Galahad's tone, in the way his whole body shivers at the kisses and somehow ends up closer to Mordred's. "Am I entitled to a certain measure of possessiveness, my lord, or shall I leave that to you?"

He laughs, for no reason at all, and looks nineteen and crazy-hesitant-just-in-love and alive.

[maydaybrat]

This time the smile is a grin - bright and lazy and cocky as anything. They look like boys, alive and glowing and intoxicated.

"Oh, I think I can grant you a certain measure of possessiveness, pretty one," Mordred purrs, letting going of the pendent and burying his fingers into Galahad's thick, golden hair. "Fair's fair."

[garcon_dor]

"How very generous. Perhaps you can take it out of my pay, my lord Pendragon."

The Prince's Champion raises his eyebrows almost mockingly, running the tips of his fingers across his prince's smiling lips and around sparkling golden eyes.

[maydaybrat]

Mordred raises an eyebrow in return. "I pay you? I thought you were here as my personal slave, my lord du Lac." Capturing Galahd's hand, he brings it to back to his lips, kissing the palm before nipping the skin just hard enough to hurt.

And yes, his eyes are bright. Still cruel, but his eyes rarely aren't if you look close. The edgy anger is giving way to edgy, happy lust, and that is start to show.

[garcon_dor]

"Oh, indeed. Thus the harassment, the insults, the continual invasion of my...ah..." Galahad sucks in a breath, his thumb brushing over Mordred's lips "...personal space."