The Get Mordred Project
So now I've introduced Galahad and Elaine I can show you this! In this modern AU Morgana and Elaine are together, and Galahad lives with them. Arthur, Merlin, Lancelot and Gwaine are together, and living together not too far away. This is part one of a three-part series, and is very very angsty, but hey, I like it
Title: The Get Mordred Project
Author:
weepingwillow9
Disclaimer: Merlin is not my property. The characters Galahad and Elaine are, though
Characters: Arthur, Merlin, Lance, Gwaine, Morgana, Elaine (OC), Galahad (OC), Mordred
Pairings: Mordred/Galahad, Arthur/Merlin/Lance/Gwaine, Morgana/Elaine
Warnings: Angst, sex, orgasm denial, blood play, abusive relationship
Spoilers: None, really. I reference the legends probably more than the show
Rating: NC-17
Length: 6105
Summary: “Because I really like you and I don’t want to lose you and, really, what do you have to lose?"
The first time Galahad sees Mordred, they’re aged seven and eight respectively. Mordred’s clutching Morgana’s coat, and his hair’s falling into wet eyes. Galahad’s peering out between the banisters; he shouldn’t be there, but he wants to see the new arrival. Mordred’s eyes meet his about thirty seconds after he gets in through the door. All Galahad can think is how brave and strong those eyes are, not giving into the tears.
Morgana catches Mordred looking, and waves at Galahad.
“Hey, Galahad,” she says, pausing in her conversation with his Mummy. Then she kneels down, calmly replaces her coat with her hand in Mordred’s grip, and smiles.
“Go and play with Galahad, Mordred. Auntie Morgana and Auntie Elaine need to talk.”
He walks up the stairs to Galahad with a sure step, betrayed only by the downwards tilt of the corners of his mouth, the shiny wetness to his eyes. Galahad waits till he reaches him, then leads him to his room.
“Do you want to play knights?”
Mordred doesn’t reply, so Galahad gets out the little wooden horses and figures anyway.
“This one’s me,” he says, hoping that if he chatters enough, Mordred might smile, “This is my Dad, and this is Uncle Arthur. This is Uncle Gwaine. Uncle Merlin’s the wizard, ‘cause he does magic tricks for me. This one can be you! Because he doesn’t have a name. Mordred.”
He looks up for approval. There’s just blankness.
When he goes to get some milk for them both (“Do you want some milk? I want some milk.” Shrug.) He finds Mordred surrounding by glowing, floating wooden knights.
“Wow!”
When he speaks, Mordred turns. The figures burst into a thousand tiny splinters.
Galahad leans on the wall, sinks against it, and bursts into tears. The milk is spilt all over the carpet.
When he can breathe properly again, and see clearly, the milk’s back in the glasses, and the figures are intact again. Mordred passes him his figure, as if to prove that there’s no harm done. But he doesn’t speak.
---
They saw each other quite a bit after that. Not often, to begin with. At least once a year, increasing to once every couple of months as they reach their teens. And then Mordred hit puberty, gaining height faster than Galahad could follow. Still skinny, though. When Galahad had his own growth spurt, and the hormones came thick and fast, well, Mordred was there, and Galahad thought he was beautiful; pale skin, dark hair, sullen with piercing steel blue eyes.
They were sitting in the garden one day, in late spring, when Galahad finally found the courage to ask. He was twice the age he’d been when Mordred had walked into his life, gangly, and reading an astrophysics book in a polo shirt and wide knee length shorts. Mordred sat in a garden chair on the patio, in head to toe black, with headphones in and a neglected English book in his lap.
“Aren’t you hot like that?” was the first thing Galahad had asked. Mordred had shrugged.
“Not too bad.”
“Mor, why do you come here?”
There had been a pause, as Mordred tensed, and his eyes unfocussed. Then he shrugged, and put his headphones back in.
Over the years, Galahad came to realise that Mordred was the only person he ever thought of as a potential partner for sex. He barely looked at anyone at school, and certainly not the girls. The only deviation had been that time when he was new on the rugby team and was desperately in love with the captain, who Galahad was convinced had tried to cop a feel in their first scrum. But nothing came of it, and it was only a month’s infatuation, and MordredMordredMordred had been his wet dream throughout, so he supposed it could be forgiven.
By the time he got into the sixth form, Galahad had grown to barely an inch shorter than Mordred. His shoulders had broadened, his features sharpened, and he’d lost anything resembling puppy fat, revealing strong, defined muscles. He tanned easily with his father’s complexion, and his ocean deep blue eyes and golden brown hair had him playing the part of a heartthrob. He was bright, taking physics, maths, chemistry and further maths, and fully expected to get A*s in at least three of the four. He’d realised he was attractive because of the girls who’d called him gorgeous before he had a chance to politely decline. He’d also realised he was head over heels in love with Mordred.
Galahad had precisely three pictures of Mordred. One was of them as kids, and he only looked at that one when he felt over-emotional and needed some sort of foundation for his love. The next, they were sitting almost together on the sofa, in the dark, lit by the candles of Mordred’s sixteenth birthday cake. He’d needed to stay at theirs that night, which was why Galahad was there. The last was one Galahad kept under his pillow, and gazed at nearly every night. Sometimes, he’d been known to kiss it goodnight. In it, he and Mordred wore only swimming trunks, and Mordred splashed him with water, a rare smile on his lips. He loved his mother so much for catching that moment.
There were photos on facebook, too, but they didn’t include Galahad, so they didn’t count. Plus, Mordred was never on facebook.
Galahad shouldn’t know that. It verged on stalking. He was going to have to do something about this being in love thing.
The next time he visited, Galahad was obvious to say the least. Parading around shirtless and discarding his glasses whenever Mordred walked into the room. He made sure Mordred had anything he wanted. Anything at all, somehow managing to be nicer than usual. Which, his friends had thought, was completely impossible.
But it hadn’t worked, Mordred still barely spoke to him, and there was no sign at all of swooning at the sight of abs. So Galahad was forced to be mortified about the whole affair, and, after lengthy conversations with Gareth and Linet and (after a day filled with angst and no studying whatsoever) his Dad; he decided that new methods were in order.
And so the Get Mordred Project began.
---
Galahad doesn’t have long to wait to put his plan into action. He wants to speak to Mordred alone, none of his slightly scary friends hanging around. He knows he wouldn’t be able to find the bravery to speak in front of them. But he’s in luck, after school Mordred’s snuck round the back of the gym, in the little wooded area that’s technically off-site, so used by the kids who smoke.
He’s got a cigarette now, taking a drag, cheeks hollowing just slightly. It’s ridiculous, Galahad thinks, how that little can make him want Mordred desperately. But it does.
Mordred’s eyes dart up and meet his, and Galahad can’t move. He had wanted to sneak up, but he couldn’t as he doesn’t know this area well; has every cause to avoid it.
“Mordred, hi.”
Mordred only nods.
Galahad doesn’t like this place, it’s shadowed and cold and far too open.
“Would you like to go for a coffee?”
Mordred shrugs.
“Alright.”
Galahad beams up at him, and leads the way out of the woods, desperately trying to work out what to say.
He tries to instigate a conversation twice on the way into town. Both, admittedly poor, attempts are met with a shrug.
“What do you want, Mor?”
Mordred orders, and so does Galahad, a hot chocolate instead of coffee, because he knows he’s going to need the sugar rush desperately. He buys a muffin, too, maybe that will stop his stomach churning.
“Can you get us a table?”
Mordred walks off into the shop, while Galahad finds his breath, pays, and takes the tray. Turning, he catches sight of Mordred lounging on a seat in the corner, and loses his grip on his breathing again.
He slides into his chair, reaching over to pass Mordred his coffee, and tries for nonchalance. He isn’t even close.
Mordred takes a few sips of his coffee. Galahad fishes his marshmallows out with a spoon and eats them. He picks at the muffin, then catches sight of Mordred and, flustered, pushes the plate towards him.
“Want some?”
Mordred almost smiles then, shaking his head.
“So, I was thinking,” Galahad begins, for lack of any other conversation topic, and needing to get the mortification out of the way, “I’m running out of time to do this, and I don’t even know if you like boys, so I’m not really expecting to get anywhere, but would you go out with me?”
He knows he’s making a hash of it. That wasn’t anything like the extremely impressive and mature line he had planned, but he can’t even remember the first word, let alone how it related to kissing Mordred. Or, possibly, doing anything else to Mordred.
He blushes, more out of the train of thought than anything else. Mordred’s eyes slowly trail up from the coffee to him.
“Why would I?”
Galahad splutters, turning redder.
“Because I really like you and I don’t want to lose you and, really, what do you have to lose? Unless you don’t like boys. That would be a bad idea.”
“Yeah, it would.”
There’s a tapping on Galahad’s ankle, and his eyes jump up to Mordred’s.
“I like boys, though. So yeah. Sure. What’ve I got to lose?”
Galahad grins, and shuffles his chair around the table, so he’s close enough to lean in to Mordred and kiss his cheek quickly, shyly. When Mordred doesn’t object, turning to look at Galahad, he leans in again to kiss his lips. It doesn’t last for long, but it’s enough. Mordred’s lips are warm against his, Galahad’s press only soft. Then Galahad falls back into his chair, picking at his muffin again until his hot chocolate cools down.
“Mum and Morgana are out tonight. Want to come round? I’ll cook.”
“Okay. Finish your drink.”
Galahad nods, drinking it as fast as he can, which isn’t very fast. He rests a hand on Mordred’s thigh, because he can touch now. Mordred doesn’t pull away, so he softens his palm into the denim.
They’re quiet on the way to Galahad’s home. A couple of streets away, Mordred loops his finger through Galahad’s belt loop, proprietarily. He doesn’t let go, until Galahad’s got the door unlocked and open, and they’re inside, when he uses the hold to throw Galahad against the wall, crowding up against him, kissing him hard and desperately. He bites at Galahad’s lips, so hard it nearly draws blood. Galahad just gasps, letting Mordred shove his tongue roughly into his mouth, running over every surface and claiming it.
They manage to make it to the sofa, somehow. Mordred falls onto it, dragging Galahad with him, holding Galahad’s hips still and grinding up into them. He sucks and bites bruises into Galahad’s shoulder and then, once he’s got his shirt off, the muscles down one side of his chest. When Galahad’s pupils are blown, just a halo of blue around the black, Mordred falls back, waits to see what Galahad will do to him.
He’s gentle, laying over Mordred, kissing him until the bitterness of the coffee and the lingering tobacco taste have gone, and its’ just Mordred. Then he nibbles over his lips, sure he needs something more. Galahad slides Mordred’s top up his chest, fingers skimming over the pale skin and raising goosebumps. Mordred sits up, but lets Galahad remove the shirt otherwise unaided.
Galahad’s kisses are wet, and sweet, and sporadic. There’s one over Mordred’s left nipple, one on his navel, a couple across his abs, and then they’re trailing over his shoulder and forearm.
When Galahad looks up to see how Mordred’s doing, he’s looking away. Staring off into space. Galahad half wishes he could see what Mordred’s thinking about.
“Mor…”
He wriggles a bit, pleased to find that Mordred’s just as hard as he is.
“Upstairs. Bed. Now.”
And, of course, Galahad isn’t going to argue with that particular instruction.
It’s getting dark, but Mordred stops Galahad pulling the curtains. Instead, he pushes Galahad down, onto the plain blue bedspread, undoing his jeans and stripping Galahad in the moonlight. Mordred stands over a naked Galahad, looking at him appraisingly. It’s nice, to start with, to have Mordred just looking at him. But as time goes on. It gets a little embarrassing. Galahad blushes.
Eventually, Mordred does strip, and Galahad gets his first sight of Mordred’s cock. It’s long, a little thinner than his, but it’s utterly perfect. Galahad goes red again, Mordred has to see the naked want on his face, in his, fuck, in his hardening cock.
Then Mordred’s lying over him, biting his earlobe, hard enough to make Galahad gasp. And then he’s drowning, clutching at gasps of air when Mordred moves even slightly, rubbing their cocks together. Galahad reaches down, desperate, but Mordred bats him away with a curt shake of his head.
“Lube?” Mordred asks. Galahad shakes his head, frantically.
“I didn’t think it would go this quickly.”
“There’s a condom in my wallet. Get it out while I’m gone.”
Galahad watches him retreat, then somehow breaks out of his daze and moves, searching through their discarded clothes for Mordred’s wallet. There’s cigarettes, a lighter, and then the wallet. He fumbles it open, manages to find the packet and get back onto the bed just before Mordred returns.
There’s something pink in his palm, slippery, and it smells of roses. The handcream Morgana bought for Galahad’s mother, that she was violently allergic to but doesn’t have the heart to throw away.
“Why-” he begins, cut off when Mordred slips one slicked finger into his entrance. “Oohhh.”
Galahad passes Mordred the condom and Mordred prepares him only just enough, before tearing open the packet and pulling the condom on, driving into Galahad and making him gasp, then moan, then bury his head into Mordred’s shoulder. When Mordred comes, and Galahad can feel it, that’s weird, but also a little bit nice, there’s a hand on Galahad’s cock. He comes embarrassingly quickly, then clutches onto Mordred’s shoulders as he bins the condom.
“Mor…”
There’s a pressure on Galahad’s chest, and on his wrists, pinning them above his head and keeping his body pressed to the bed. They smell of sex and sweat and roses. Mordred kisses Galahad. He and the sheets feel less and less sticky with every dab of Mordred’s magically aided tissue. When Mordred’s teeth and lazy tongue are gone, he’s clean. But Galahad can’t move until he’s gone, left the house, halfway up the road for all Galahad knows.
“Shit.”
---
He gets a text the next morning, halfway through his first lesson.
Behind the gym, break.
Galahad grins. They must be alright then, if Mordred wants to meet him.
He all but runs there, not worrying about Mordred’s strange friends, because Mordred will be there, and it’ll be fine.
When he gets there, sure enough, it’s just him and Mordred. Alone in the shadowy woods. Mordred takes a step towards him, holds him by the neck, tilts his head up and breathes smoke into his mouth. Galahad forces himself not to cough, white smoke curling between them. Mordred kisses him slowly, lazily.
“Mmm, I like you rebellious.”
Galahad shivers as a finger trails down his neck, hands opening up his shirt, pulling him out of it. Mordred crouches down, opens Galahad’s trousers, tugs them down.
“Such a good boy. You’d do anything I wanted, wouldn’t you?” he doesn’t wait for an answer, just takes a last drag and stamps out the cigarette, “I’ll give you your reward now.”
He pushes Galahad against a tree, Galahad reaching out to clutch the trunk with one hand for support, the other clinging onto Mordred’s shoulder. Mordred kneels fully, stroking Galahad’s half hard cock until the half is no longer relevant, and sucks the tip in.
Galahad breathes out a hard, barely concealed moan. Light dapples over his skin, golden patches next to duller ones. Mordred watches the muscles of his chest, as they move in the pattern.
Mordred works him over, first with short, slow sucks, then licking, then taking the whole length in. Galahad gasps, groans, clutches onto Mordred, fingers digging in with the effort to keep him upright. Mordred watches him come undone, Galahad opening up for him like his clothes did, revealing just another layer more primal than the last, head tipping back in pleasure. When he whimpers, Mordred hums, he can’t stop himself.
“Mor, I-”
Mordred pulls back, quickly, wanting to watch. But Galahad’s covered, come all over his bare chest.
“Tissues?” Mordred asks.
Galahad shakes his head, looking down at himself in surprise.
“Sorry.”
Mordred shakes his head.
“I’ll only be a minute. Stay there.”
And then Mordred jogs off.
Galahad waits. And he waits. It’s been five minutes, and he’s heard the bell sounding the end of break in the distance. He’s late. He’s never late. But he can’t go like this. Surely Mordred wouldn’t leave him like this.
He’s contemplating using leaves when the rustling begins. He grabs his shirt; there’s no way to see if it’s Mordred, and he really doesn’t want to be caught mainly naked in the woods by anyone who isn’t him.
But it is Mordred, appearing out of the shadows, a wad of tissues in his hand.
“Mr Drake caught me. Wants me in detention tonight.” His eyes dare Galahad to question him. But Galahad would never.
“I’ll wait for you.”
Mordred just nods, waiting for Galahad to get clean and dressed. Galahad flails around, loathe to litter, but not wanting to be seen carrying come stained tissue through school. In the end, he buries it under some leaves, hoping it’ll biodegrade.
“If anyone asks, you had a nosebleed.”
Galahad leans over impulsively, squeezes Mordred’s hand then lets go, because he knows that holding hands wouldn’t be acceptable. Mordred walks him up to the sixth form common room to collect his bag, then Galahad rushes off to chemistry, a quick parting kiss for Mordred.
“Thank you, for everything.” He beams. Mordred grimaces.
---
The library’s closing early, and Galahad has nothing to do until Mr Drake lets Mordred go for the evening. And it’s cold. So he walks down to Mr Drake’s classroom, as slowly as he can, meaning to join the detention students.
He knocks, shyly.
“Hi, Mr Drake?”
“Galahad!” The man’s ancient, all white hair and wrinkles and strong, piercing eyes. Galahad’s Dad remembers him being old when he was at school, so how old he must be now is anyone’s guess.
With anyone else, Mr Drake’s a moody git, but Galahad can always draw a smile from the head of sixth form.
“What can I do for you?”
“Well, actually,” Galahad risks a quick glance past Mr Drake. Mordred’s looking down, but Galahad can just tell he’s listening, “I was waiting for Mordred, but the library’s shut early, so I was wondering if I could sit in until he’s finished?”
Mr Drake looks between them, mutters something that Galahad’s sure sounds like “surely not”, and frowns.
“I’ll let him go now, since it’s you, Galahad. Maybe you’ll be a good influence on him.”
Galahad nods, attention now taken by Mordred, silently packing up behind his desk. He walks over to Galahad and kisses him, long and hard, right there in front of Mr Drake. Before they leave, he shoots a smirk in the general direction of the teacher’s desk.
Galahad takes Mordred home with him. There’s this ice cream shop on the way, and Galahad ducks in.
“Hey, do you want one?”
“I’m good.”
Galahad buys one for himself, strawberry, and spends the rest of the way home licking at it. By the time they’re in through the door, he’s down to the last half of the cone.
Mordred pounces on him, knocking the cone flying.
“Mor-”
But Galahad’s cut off, Mordred’s lips on his, tongue pushing into his mouth before he can shut it, coaxing Galahad’s tongue back out.
“Tease,” Mordred accuses. Galahad doesn’t know what he’s done, only that what he’s doing now is taking Mordred up to his room, only breaking apart from him to get up the stairs.
“I haven’t had a chance to get into town,” Galahad warns, words seeping into Mordred’s skin, kisses pressed down his neck. He pulls back, dragging Mordred’s shirt off and taking off his own, returning to kiss down Mordred’s chest.
“I brought things.”
Mordred gets of the bed - off Galahad - and rummages through his school bag. Hidden underneath loose papers and textbooks with torn covers are a bottle of lube, a strip of condoms, and a length of smooth rope.
Galahad watches him, half hungrily, half intrigued.
“What’s that for?”
“You do exactly as I say. Starting now. Yes?”
“Yes,” Galahad breathes.
Mordred takes hold of his wrists, pressing them together until Galahad looks like he’s praying. And then he wraps the rope a couple of times around Galahad’s wrists, ties a rough knot that just loosens when he lets go.
“That’s never going to work,” Galahad tells him, “If you’re going to tie me up, it’ll take more than a granny knot.”
Galahad extricates himself, shows Mordred a different knot, slowly.
“Scouts,” he explains.
Mordred ties him up properly this time, pulling the rope until Galahad’s hands are out of the way over his head, tying him to the headboard. Then he moves down the bed, undressing Galahad. He doesn’t take his own trousers off.
“Don’t watch,” Mordred instructs, so Galahad closes his eyes obediently.
There’s soft, wet, trailing up the inside of his calves, and something harder and sharper pressing along the outside, up and over his knees. A fingernail, maybe? Mordred sucks love bites into his inner thighs, properly biting, too. Galahad concentrates on his eyes, though. Keep them closed.
He moans, just quietly.
And then Mordred licks over the head of his cock and his eyes snap open.
“I said, don’t look.”
Mordred radiates disapproval, and Galahad shrinks a little, shutting his eyes. But Mordred doesn’t return. The next thing Galahad knows, there’s something being tied around his head, like a blindfold.
“There. Now you can’t see.”
Mordred mouths over Galahad’s hip, sucks him gently. His tongue curls round, and Galahad groans. Mordred sucks harder, then, taking the whole length in. Galahad’s not sure what sounds he makes, but he knows they’re incomprehensible, and pretty loud.
Then Mordred pulls off, leaving Galahad panting, hips bucking up. Mordred holds him down.
“Turn around. On your hands and knees.”
It’s difficult, what with being tied up, but Galahad does as he’s told, shuffling up the bed.
Then Mordred wraps around him, and he’s undressed, and hard. He pulls the blindfold off, letting it drop to the bed, running his hands over Galahad’s chest on the way back to his hips. He grinds against Galahad once, twice, biting into his shoulder before pulling back. Mordred parts Galahad’s legs a little further, manoeuvring him like some sort of doll. A slicked finger presses straight inside, and Galahad shivers, bracing himself because it’s odd but it’s good. Mordred takes his time, agonisingly slowly, so Galahad’s begging for fuck, now, more, please by the time the second finger goes in. Mordred strokes his cock slowly, and it’s just too much.
“So close, Mor, I’m-”
Mordred slips down, squeezing tight around the base of his cock just soon enough that he can’t come.
“Not yet.”
He’s more careful after that, but still far too slow for Galahad’s liking. Finally, when he’s fallen into tiny pieces over and over again, and he thinks he may as well be dust, Mordred pushes into him, fucking him hard and fast and gripping the base of Galahad’s cock until he’s done. When Mordred comes, he lets go of Galahad, not pulling out. Galahad all but collapses onto his tied hands, and comes. When Mordred’s gone from inside him, he collapses fully, near sobbing.
Mordred cleans him, leaning over the bed to kiss him, and unties him. And then he gets dressed, packs up his bag, and walks away.
---
Mordred plays Galahad like a tune. The next time, and every time after, he takes a narrow ring of silicone to Galahad’s house, slides it down Galahad’s cock so it squeezes at the base, so Galahad can’t come until he’s allowed. It’s so good, so ridiculously good, Mordred pushing him to the edge and keeping him there, like he’s tethered somewhere to stop him falling fully, drawing it out. Mordred helps him fall to pieces, and sometimes he even stops long enough to pick a few back up again, a quick kiss before he leaves.
Sometimes, when Mordred frowns just a little harder than usual, Galahad knows it’s coming. He takes out a flick knife from his pocket, and just gently presses the cold blade over Galahad’s skin, both of them watching the metal as it smooths over golden brown skin, glinting in the meagre light. Galahad’s breath hitches at the cold, at the soclosesharpness of it all. Mordred drinks it in with his eyes, smiling just a little dirtily.
It’s their two month anniversary when Mordred first presses the blade into Galahad’s skin. Galahad keeps track of these things. Mordred says the blade is their present to each other. And it is, it’s good, the small, hot pain. It hurts, but less than it would if Mordred didn’t cut. Galahad needs this. The blood pools up, a thin red line over Galahad’s thigh, and Mordred spreads the blood out. He takes his finger and uses the blood as ink, drawing runes over Galahad’s wrists, his neck, his chest. The runes spark with Mordred’s magic, and Galahad feels them, never intrusive, just claiming. When Mordred’s done, he sucks the blood from his fingers, licks it from the cuts on Galahad’s legs, stomach, hips, anywhere they won’t show when he’s clothed. Mordred mixes the blood with slick, spreading the iron smell everywhere, mixing it with the smell of sex, so strong that it carries Galahad down, down…
They only dare do anything when Elaine and Morgana are out, which consists mainly of straight after school. Galahad’s loud, he knows, but Mordred’s near silent, the odd moan or something whispered when he comes, something Galahad can’t quite hear that makes him shiver.
At the weekend, they sit under the canopy of the apple tree in the garden, Mordred’s back braced against the trunk, Galahad draped over him, pressing kisses to his skin, worshipping him. Sometimes, Mordred’s fingers will card through his hair. Most of the time though, Mordred just stares into the middle distance, thinking thoughts Galahad can’t quite bring himself to ask about. Why, he doesn’t know. Mordred rarely looks at him, except when he’s done something a bit surprising, or when they have sex. Even then, it’s never in the eye. Galahad thinks he just needs some time to get used to the newness of a relationship.
---
“Where are you taking me?”
Galahad just smiles, squeezes Mordred’s hand and pulls.
“Gala, tell me.” Mordred’s voice is commanding, so Galahad sighs and stops.
“Call me that again and I will.” He just loves to hear it. His pet name, from Mordred’s lips, rare and hoarded, and he wants to hear the syllables fall of Mor’s tongue, just one more time.
Mordred almost rolls his eyes.
“Gala.”
“We’re going to Dad’s. He wants to meet the boyfriend.”
Mordred snorts, and Galahad smiles, lovingly, looking up into his eyes.
“It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Come on.”
Galahad tugs him again, and Mordred falls into step beside him, quiet, brooding. Galahad knows better than to disturb him.
---
The day’s lovely. Mordred does nothing to earn Lance’s disapproval, but there’s something. Galahad can tell his Dad doesn’t like Mordred quite as much as he tries to. But maybe it’s just that he’s Galahad’s first boyfriend, and any father’s going to be a little uncomfortable about that.
They’re sitting out in the garden, just him and Mordred, curled up in the same deck chair, basking in the rare sunshine. It’s comfortable. Mordred’s still, straight lines, with Galahad an arc curving around him, never quite stationary, pushing up Mordred’s t-shirt and drawing lines across his pale stomach. Mordred stares towards the house, and Galahad watches him. Something makes his expression change, become a little more animate, and then Mordred pushes at him, gently.
“Shove off, I need a piss.”
Galahad smiles, and stands for him.
“You know where it is? Need me to show you?”
Mordred shakes his head, and walks off.
He can’t have been gone for five minutes when Galahad hears a shout of anger, and a door slamming. He’s up in an instant, sprinting over to the house.
Arthur lies, limbs stretched at uncomfortable angles, in a pile at the bottom of the stairs. He groans, quietly, slipping into unconsciousness.
“Help!” Galahad cries, pulling at Arthur to get him more comfortable, though never touching his back. He could spine could be injured. “Help!”
Merlin comes running down the stairs, pulling his mobile out of his jeans pocket and calling 999. He crouches next to Arthur, strokes over his forehead and holds his hand. Galahad can’t remember if Mordred ever held his hand of his own volition.
“Mordred,” he murmurs, and Merlin looks up at him.
“Go,” he says, “I can manage this. Go!”
Merlin shoos him with one hand, talking quietly on the phone, and Galahad runs.
He catches up with Mordred half way into town, breathless and doubled over with the pain of a stitch, though he’s a good runner. No one can sprint long distance, and Galahad tried, because he can’t let him go.
“What are you doing here?”
Mordred’s voice is cold and emotionless, and makes Galahad shudder.
“I came for you.”
“Well, that was a stupid idea, wasn’t it?”
Galahad flinches. Mordred sneers.
“What- what happened?”
“You’re not worth me, is what happened. I tried to offer myself to someone who might have been, but he had too many ties.”
And it all makes blinding sense. Mordred isn’t the only one Galahad knows with magic; there’s Morgana, and Merlin. He’d offered himself to Merlin. And Merlin had said no, so he’d hurt Arthur.
“No,” Galahad says, because surely Mordred couldn’t do that, surely he was a good person, “No, I can’t believe you would.”
“That’s the problem with you!” Mordred shouts, “You’re so naïve, so fucking trusting! You can’t see what I am, what a pathetic little creature you are compared to it. I don’t even know why I’m with you, it’s not even for the sex.”
“Mor, please, stop now before you go too far.”
“No! I’ve gone too far already. We’re through. We never should have been! You’re worthless, nothing. You are nothing to me! I never want to see your miserable face again.”
“But Mor, I thought you loved me, I thought-”
Mordred flinches.
“Don’t call me that.” His voice deepens, dangerously low, and Galahad draws back. “I could never love you. You’re so weak, so utterly powerless. So normal. Why would I want you?”
“Mor…” It’s a whimper more than anything, Galahad straining to hold back his tears in the face of Mordred’s satisfied smile.
“It was convenient. And now it’s not. Let me spell it out for you, Galahad. I’m breaking up with you.”
Mordred walks away, saving Galahad the trouble of storming off. When he’s around the corner, Galahad collapses against the low wall alongside the pavement, and starts to cry.
---
Elaine finds him, on the way to the boys’ house. Gwaine had come home from town just after Galahad had left, found a sobbing Merlin holding Arthur’s unconscious body and the phone, and had rung her immediately, so she and Morgana could go with them up to the hospital.
A car pulls over in front of him, and through his blurred vision Galahad can see that it’s exactly the colour of his Mum’s.
Heeled feet get out of the passenger door, pull him up from the ground and hold him close.
“Come on,” Morgana says, “Get in the car. We’ll talk about it when we get to your Dad’s, alright?”
He nods, even though it isn’t, and slides onto the seat when she opens the back door.
“Do your seatbelt up, sweetie. There we go.” His mother looks at him appraisingly, and her face hardens into a frown, lips tightening, eyes narrowing. There’s murder in her face, for whoever did this to him.
Between Elaine and Morgana, they get Galahad into the house, working around the ambulance parked across the drive. Morgana gasps when she sees Arthur strapped down to the stretcher, rushes over to him and squeezes his hand.
“I’m his sister,” she says in explanation, though there are incredulous looks. “Half sister. Who’s going with him in the ambulance.”
“I am,” Merlin says.
“See you there.”
Elaine has Galahad sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter, a mug of something entirely too hot and tasteless to his tongue in his hands.
“What happened?” she asks, sternly.
“Apparently, Mordred asked Merlin to basically run away with him, so they could rule the world together, or something like that.” Gwaine glares at no one in particular, and Lance wraps an arm around his waist and takes over.
“He said something about how powerful they both are, and how they should make an alliance to better themselves, or something. It didn’t seem very well thought out, he didn’t take Merlin’s feelings into account, just decided they needed to leave together. And when Merlin said no, because he loves us, and laughed at him, Mordred got angry. And he pushed Arthur down the stairs and ran off.”
“And then he broke up with me.”
All eyes shoot to Galahad, and Elaine pulls his head to her stomach. He’s so drained, so hoarse and broken sounding, that everyone momentarily forgets about Arthur.
“Right, hospital, the lot of you,” Elaine instructs, “We’ll lock up.”
They file out, and Elaine silently takes Galahad’s mug from his hands, sets it down on the counter so she can hug him properly.
“Tell me about it?”
It’s all he needs, a bit of kindness, to start crying again.
“Why is he so cruel, Mum? Why?”
All Elaine can do is smooth down his hair and tell him to sshhh, shh.
---
It comes out, slowly; how Mordred’s face twisted into a smirk, and how maybe it was all true, maybe he never did care. Elaine would let him believe that, because well, maybe it was. But she won’t let him believe he’s worthless. Smartest kid in his year. Kindest, too; he knows everyone loves him. And who else would take the time to try to care for Mordred? No, it’s his loss, not Galahad’s, and now school’s over he won’t ever have to see Mordred again.
He hardens just a little, sitting there in the kitchen with his mother. Grows, a tiny bit. Picks up all the signs that he had been too blind to see, that Mordred was just in it for the sake of it, the regular sex that he still doesn’t admit to his mother, the adoration of someone else who followed him everywhere, puppy-like. Who he eventually tired of. Maybe Galahad had been a little pathetic. But he will be no longer. He learns.
Elaine drives him to the hospital, by which time Arthur’s awake again. There’s no permanent damage, just concussion. Galahad apologises to everyone for being so stupid. Everyone tells him not to apologise.
He hates himself for a while. After that, he hates Mordred. But he never stops loving him, not fully. A look, Mordred courses through his mind when he perfects the equations for The Grail four years later. A litany of look, look, look, as he sits through endless interviews, explaining just how an undergraduate can perfect a device that most post-grads - hell, most professors - struggle to understand. When he stands in front of the camera and smiles, when he sees the article: Twenty-Two-Year-Old Miracle Worker and under it Galahad Astolat, Birmingham University, creates ‘The Grail’, a device that can revive patients from comas or give doctors precious extra moments in A&E. And all he can think is look how powerful I am now, Mordred. Am I worth it now? Even though he knows he wants more than Mordred could ever give.
The Get Galahad Project
Title: The Get Mordred Project
Author:
weepingwillow9
Disclaimer: Merlin is not my property. The characters Galahad and Elaine are, though
Characters: Arthur, Merlin, Lance, Gwaine, Morgana, Elaine (OC), Galahad (OC), Mordred
Pairings: Mordred/Galahad, Arthur/Merlin/Lance/Gwaine, Morgana/Elaine
Warnings: Angst, sex, orgasm denial, blood play, abusive relationship
Spoilers: None, really. I reference the legends probably more than the show
Rating: NC-17
Length: 6105
Summary: “Because I really like you and I don’t want to lose you and, really, what do you have to lose?"
The first time Galahad sees Mordred, they’re aged seven and eight respectively. Mordred’s clutching Morgana’s coat, and his hair’s falling into wet eyes. Galahad’s peering out between the banisters; he shouldn’t be there, but he wants to see the new arrival. Mordred’s eyes meet his about thirty seconds after he gets in through the door. All Galahad can think is how brave and strong those eyes are, not giving into the tears.
Morgana catches Mordred looking, and waves at Galahad.
“Hey, Galahad,” she says, pausing in her conversation with his Mummy. Then she kneels down, calmly replaces her coat with her hand in Mordred’s grip, and smiles.
“Go and play with Galahad, Mordred. Auntie Morgana and Auntie Elaine need to talk.”
He walks up the stairs to Galahad with a sure step, betrayed only by the downwards tilt of the corners of his mouth, the shiny wetness to his eyes. Galahad waits till he reaches him, then leads him to his room.
“Do you want to play knights?”
Mordred doesn’t reply, so Galahad gets out the little wooden horses and figures anyway.
“This one’s me,” he says, hoping that if he chatters enough, Mordred might smile, “This is my Dad, and this is Uncle Arthur. This is Uncle Gwaine. Uncle Merlin’s the wizard, ‘cause he does magic tricks for me. This one can be you! Because he doesn’t have a name. Mordred.”
He looks up for approval. There’s just blankness.
When he goes to get some milk for them both (“Do you want some milk? I want some milk.” Shrug.) He finds Mordred surrounding by glowing, floating wooden knights.
“Wow!”
When he speaks, Mordred turns. The figures burst into a thousand tiny splinters.
Galahad leans on the wall, sinks against it, and bursts into tears. The milk is spilt all over the carpet.
When he can breathe properly again, and see clearly, the milk’s back in the glasses, and the figures are intact again. Mordred passes him his figure, as if to prove that there’s no harm done. But he doesn’t speak.
---
They saw each other quite a bit after that. Not often, to begin with. At least once a year, increasing to once every couple of months as they reach their teens. And then Mordred hit puberty, gaining height faster than Galahad could follow. Still skinny, though. When Galahad had his own growth spurt, and the hormones came thick and fast, well, Mordred was there, and Galahad thought he was beautiful; pale skin, dark hair, sullen with piercing steel blue eyes.
They were sitting in the garden one day, in late spring, when Galahad finally found the courage to ask. He was twice the age he’d been when Mordred had walked into his life, gangly, and reading an astrophysics book in a polo shirt and wide knee length shorts. Mordred sat in a garden chair on the patio, in head to toe black, with headphones in and a neglected English book in his lap.
“Aren’t you hot like that?” was the first thing Galahad had asked. Mordred had shrugged.
“Not too bad.”
“Mor, why do you come here?”
There had been a pause, as Mordred tensed, and his eyes unfocussed. Then he shrugged, and put his headphones back in.
Over the years, Galahad came to realise that Mordred was the only person he ever thought of as a potential partner for sex. He barely looked at anyone at school, and certainly not the girls. The only deviation had been that time when he was new on the rugby team and was desperately in love with the captain, who Galahad was convinced had tried to cop a feel in their first scrum. But nothing came of it, and it was only a month’s infatuation, and MordredMordredMordred had been his wet dream throughout, so he supposed it could be forgiven.
By the time he got into the sixth form, Galahad had grown to barely an inch shorter than Mordred. His shoulders had broadened, his features sharpened, and he’d lost anything resembling puppy fat, revealing strong, defined muscles. He tanned easily with his father’s complexion, and his ocean deep blue eyes and golden brown hair had him playing the part of a heartthrob. He was bright, taking physics, maths, chemistry and further maths, and fully expected to get A*s in at least three of the four. He’d realised he was attractive because of the girls who’d called him gorgeous before he had a chance to politely decline. He’d also realised he was head over heels in love with Mordred.
Galahad had precisely three pictures of Mordred. One was of them as kids, and he only looked at that one when he felt over-emotional and needed some sort of foundation for his love. The next, they were sitting almost together on the sofa, in the dark, lit by the candles of Mordred’s sixteenth birthday cake. He’d needed to stay at theirs that night, which was why Galahad was there. The last was one Galahad kept under his pillow, and gazed at nearly every night. Sometimes, he’d been known to kiss it goodnight. In it, he and Mordred wore only swimming trunks, and Mordred splashed him with water, a rare smile on his lips. He loved his mother so much for catching that moment.
There were photos on facebook, too, but they didn’t include Galahad, so they didn’t count. Plus, Mordred was never on facebook.
Galahad shouldn’t know that. It verged on stalking. He was going to have to do something about this being in love thing.
The next time he visited, Galahad was obvious to say the least. Parading around shirtless and discarding his glasses whenever Mordred walked into the room. He made sure Mordred had anything he wanted. Anything at all, somehow managing to be nicer than usual. Which, his friends had thought, was completely impossible.
But it hadn’t worked, Mordred still barely spoke to him, and there was no sign at all of swooning at the sight of abs. So Galahad was forced to be mortified about the whole affair, and, after lengthy conversations with Gareth and Linet and (after a day filled with angst and no studying whatsoever) his Dad; he decided that new methods were in order.
And so the Get Mordred Project began.
---
Galahad doesn’t have long to wait to put his plan into action. He wants to speak to Mordred alone, none of his slightly scary friends hanging around. He knows he wouldn’t be able to find the bravery to speak in front of them. But he’s in luck, after school Mordred’s snuck round the back of the gym, in the little wooded area that’s technically off-site, so used by the kids who smoke.
He’s got a cigarette now, taking a drag, cheeks hollowing just slightly. It’s ridiculous, Galahad thinks, how that little can make him want Mordred desperately. But it does.
Mordred’s eyes dart up and meet his, and Galahad can’t move. He had wanted to sneak up, but he couldn’t as he doesn’t know this area well; has every cause to avoid it.
“Mordred, hi.”
Mordred only nods.
Galahad doesn’t like this place, it’s shadowed and cold and far too open.
“Would you like to go for a coffee?”
Mordred shrugs.
“Alright.”
Galahad beams up at him, and leads the way out of the woods, desperately trying to work out what to say.
He tries to instigate a conversation twice on the way into town. Both, admittedly poor, attempts are met with a shrug.
“What do you want, Mor?”
Mordred orders, and so does Galahad, a hot chocolate instead of coffee, because he knows he’s going to need the sugar rush desperately. He buys a muffin, too, maybe that will stop his stomach churning.
“Can you get us a table?”
Mordred walks off into the shop, while Galahad finds his breath, pays, and takes the tray. Turning, he catches sight of Mordred lounging on a seat in the corner, and loses his grip on his breathing again.
He slides into his chair, reaching over to pass Mordred his coffee, and tries for nonchalance. He isn’t even close.
Mordred takes a few sips of his coffee. Galahad fishes his marshmallows out with a spoon and eats them. He picks at the muffin, then catches sight of Mordred and, flustered, pushes the plate towards him.
“Want some?”
Mordred almost smiles then, shaking his head.
“So, I was thinking,” Galahad begins, for lack of any other conversation topic, and needing to get the mortification out of the way, “I’m running out of time to do this, and I don’t even know if you like boys, so I’m not really expecting to get anywhere, but would you go out with me?”
He knows he’s making a hash of it. That wasn’t anything like the extremely impressive and mature line he had planned, but he can’t even remember the first word, let alone how it related to kissing Mordred. Or, possibly, doing anything else to Mordred.
He blushes, more out of the train of thought than anything else. Mordred’s eyes slowly trail up from the coffee to him.
“Why would I?”
Galahad splutters, turning redder.
“Because I really like you and I don’t want to lose you and, really, what do you have to lose? Unless you don’t like boys. That would be a bad idea.”
“Yeah, it would.”
There’s a tapping on Galahad’s ankle, and his eyes jump up to Mordred’s.
“I like boys, though. So yeah. Sure. What’ve I got to lose?”
Galahad grins, and shuffles his chair around the table, so he’s close enough to lean in to Mordred and kiss his cheek quickly, shyly. When Mordred doesn’t object, turning to look at Galahad, he leans in again to kiss his lips. It doesn’t last for long, but it’s enough. Mordred’s lips are warm against his, Galahad’s press only soft. Then Galahad falls back into his chair, picking at his muffin again until his hot chocolate cools down.
“Mum and Morgana are out tonight. Want to come round? I’ll cook.”
“Okay. Finish your drink.”
Galahad nods, drinking it as fast as he can, which isn’t very fast. He rests a hand on Mordred’s thigh, because he can touch now. Mordred doesn’t pull away, so he softens his palm into the denim.
They’re quiet on the way to Galahad’s home. A couple of streets away, Mordred loops his finger through Galahad’s belt loop, proprietarily. He doesn’t let go, until Galahad’s got the door unlocked and open, and they’re inside, when he uses the hold to throw Galahad against the wall, crowding up against him, kissing him hard and desperately. He bites at Galahad’s lips, so hard it nearly draws blood. Galahad just gasps, letting Mordred shove his tongue roughly into his mouth, running over every surface and claiming it.
They manage to make it to the sofa, somehow. Mordred falls onto it, dragging Galahad with him, holding Galahad’s hips still and grinding up into them. He sucks and bites bruises into Galahad’s shoulder and then, once he’s got his shirt off, the muscles down one side of his chest. When Galahad’s pupils are blown, just a halo of blue around the black, Mordred falls back, waits to see what Galahad will do to him.
He’s gentle, laying over Mordred, kissing him until the bitterness of the coffee and the lingering tobacco taste have gone, and its’ just Mordred. Then he nibbles over his lips, sure he needs something more. Galahad slides Mordred’s top up his chest, fingers skimming over the pale skin and raising goosebumps. Mordred sits up, but lets Galahad remove the shirt otherwise unaided.
Galahad’s kisses are wet, and sweet, and sporadic. There’s one over Mordred’s left nipple, one on his navel, a couple across his abs, and then they’re trailing over his shoulder and forearm.
When Galahad looks up to see how Mordred’s doing, he’s looking away. Staring off into space. Galahad half wishes he could see what Mordred’s thinking about.
“Mor…”
He wriggles a bit, pleased to find that Mordred’s just as hard as he is.
“Upstairs. Bed. Now.”
And, of course, Galahad isn’t going to argue with that particular instruction.
It’s getting dark, but Mordred stops Galahad pulling the curtains. Instead, he pushes Galahad down, onto the plain blue bedspread, undoing his jeans and stripping Galahad in the moonlight. Mordred stands over a naked Galahad, looking at him appraisingly. It’s nice, to start with, to have Mordred just looking at him. But as time goes on. It gets a little embarrassing. Galahad blushes.
Eventually, Mordred does strip, and Galahad gets his first sight of Mordred’s cock. It’s long, a little thinner than his, but it’s utterly perfect. Galahad goes red again, Mordred has to see the naked want on his face, in his, fuck, in his hardening cock.
Then Mordred’s lying over him, biting his earlobe, hard enough to make Galahad gasp. And then he’s drowning, clutching at gasps of air when Mordred moves even slightly, rubbing their cocks together. Galahad reaches down, desperate, but Mordred bats him away with a curt shake of his head.
“Lube?” Mordred asks. Galahad shakes his head, frantically.
“I didn’t think it would go this quickly.”
“There’s a condom in my wallet. Get it out while I’m gone.”
Galahad watches him retreat, then somehow breaks out of his daze and moves, searching through their discarded clothes for Mordred’s wallet. There’s cigarettes, a lighter, and then the wallet. He fumbles it open, manages to find the packet and get back onto the bed just before Mordred returns.
There’s something pink in his palm, slippery, and it smells of roses. The handcream Morgana bought for Galahad’s mother, that she was violently allergic to but doesn’t have the heart to throw away.
“Why-” he begins, cut off when Mordred slips one slicked finger into his entrance. “Oohhh.”
Galahad passes Mordred the condom and Mordred prepares him only just enough, before tearing open the packet and pulling the condom on, driving into Galahad and making him gasp, then moan, then bury his head into Mordred’s shoulder. When Mordred comes, and Galahad can feel it, that’s weird, but also a little bit nice, there’s a hand on Galahad’s cock. He comes embarrassingly quickly, then clutches onto Mordred’s shoulders as he bins the condom.
“Mor…”
There’s a pressure on Galahad’s chest, and on his wrists, pinning them above his head and keeping his body pressed to the bed. They smell of sex and sweat and roses. Mordred kisses Galahad. He and the sheets feel less and less sticky with every dab of Mordred’s magically aided tissue. When Mordred’s teeth and lazy tongue are gone, he’s clean. But Galahad can’t move until he’s gone, left the house, halfway up the road for all Galahad knows.
“Shit.”
---
He gets a text the next morning, halfway through his first lesson.
Behind the gym, break.
Galahad grins. They must be alright then, if Mordred wants to meet him.
He all but runs there, not worrying about Mordred’s strange friends, because Mordred will be there, and it’ll be fine.
When he gets there, sure enough, it’s just him and Mordred. Alone in the shadowy woods. Mordred takes a step towards him, holds him by the neck, tilts his head up and breathes smoke into his mouth. Galahad forces himself not to cough, white smoke curling between them. Mordred kisses him slowly, lazily.
“Mmm, I like you rebellious.”
Galahad shivers as a finger trails down his neck, hands opening up his shirt, pulling him out of it. Mordred crouches down, opens Galahad’s trousers, tugs them down.
“Such a good boy. You’d do anything I wanted, wouldn’t you?” he doesn’t wait for an answer, just takes a last drag and stamps out the cigarette, “I’ll give you your reward now.”
He pushes Galahad against a tree, Galahad reaching out to clutch the trunk with one hand for support, the other clinging onto Mordred’s shoulder. Mordred kneels fully, stroking Galahad’s half hard cock until the half is no longer relevant, and sucks the tip in.
Galahad breathes out a hard, barely concealed moan. Light dapples over his skin, golden patches next to duller ones. Mordred watches the muscles of his chest, as they move in the pattern.
Mordred works him over, first with short, slow sucks, then licking, then taking the whole length in. Galahad gasps, groans, clutches onto Mordred, fingers digging in with the effort to keep him upright. Mordred watches him come undone, Galahad opening up for him like his clothes did, revealing just another layer more primal than the last, head tipping back in pleasure. When he whimpers, Mordred hums, he can’t stop himself.
“Mor, I-”
Mordred pulls back, quickly, wanting to watch. But Galahad’s covered, come all over his bare chest.
“Tissues?” Mordred asks.
Galahad shakes his head, looking down at himself in surprise.
“Sorry.”
Mordred shakes his head.
“I’ll only be a minute. Stay there.”
And then Mordred jogs off.
Galahad waits. And he waits. It’s been five minutes, and he’s heard the bell sounding the end of break in the distance. He’s late. He’s never late. But he can’t go like this. Surely Mordred wouldn’t leave him like this.
He’s contemplating using leaves when the rustling begins. He grabs his shirt; there’s no way to see if it’s Mordred, and he really doesn’t want to be caught mainly naked in the woods by anyone who isn’t him.
But it is Mordred, appearing out of the shadows, a wad of tissues in his hand.
“Mr Drake caught me. Wants me in detention tonight.” His eyes dare Galahad to question him. But Galahad would never.
“I’ll wait for you.”
Mordred just nods, waiting for Galahad to get clean and dressed. Galahad flails around, loathe to litter, but not wanting to be seen carrying come stained tissue through school. In the end, he buries it under some leaves, hoping it’ll biodegrade.
“If anyone asks, you had a nosebleed.”
Galahad leans over impulsively, squeezes Mordred’s hand then lets go, because he knows that holding hands wouldn’t be acceptable. Mordred walks him up to the sixth form common room to collect his bag, then Galahad rushes off to chemistry, a quick parting kiss for Mordred.
“Thank you, for everything.” He beams. Mordred grimaces.
---
The library’s closing early, and Galahad has nothing to do until Mr Drake lets Mordred go for the evening. And it’s cold. So he walks down to Mr Drake’s classroom, as slowly as he can, meaning to join the detention students.
He knocks, shyly.
“Hi, Mr Drake?”
“Galahad!” The man’s ancient, all white hair and wrinkles and strong, piercing eyes. Galahad’s Dad remembers him being old when he was at school, so how old he must be now is anyone’s guess.
With anyone else, Mr Drake’s a moody git, but Galahad can always draw a smile from the head of sixth form.
“What can I do for you?”
“Well, actually,” Galahad risks a quick glance past Mr Drake. Mordred’s looking down, but Galahad can just tell he’s listening, “I was waiting for Mordred, but the library’s shut early, so I was wondering if I could sit in until he’s finished?”
Mr Drake looks between them, mutters something that Galahad’s sure sounds like “surely not”, and frowns.
“I’ll let him go now, since it’s you, Galahad. Maybe you’ll be a good influence on him.”
Galahad nods, attention now taken by Mordred, silently packing up behind his desk. He walks over to Galahad and kisses him, long and hard, right there in front of Mr Drake. Before they leave, he shoots a smirk in the general direction of the teacher’s desk.
Galahad takes Mordred home with him. There’s this ice cream shop on the way, and Galahad ducks in.
“Hey, do you want one?”
“I’m good.”
Galahad buys one for himself, strawberry, and spends the rest of the way home licking at it. By the time they’re in through the door, he’s down to the last half of the cone.
Mordred pounces on him, knocking the cone flying.
“Mor-”
But Galahad’s cut off, Mordred’s lips on his, tongue pushing into his mouth before he can shut it, coaxing Galahad’s tongue back out.
“Tease,” Mordred accuses. Galahad doesn’t know what he’s done, only that what he’s doing now is taking Mordred up to his room, only breaking apart from him to get up the stairs.
“I haven’t had a chance to get into town,” Galahad warns, words seeping into Mordred’s skin, kisses pressed down his neck. He pulls back, dragging Mordred’s shirt off and taking off his own, returning to kiss down Mordred’s chest.
“I brought things.”
Mordred gets of the bed - off Galahad - and rummages through his school bag. Hidden underneath loose papers and textbooks with torn covers are a bottle of lube, a strip of condoms, and a length of smooth rope.
Galahad watches him, half hungrily, half intrigued.
“What’s that for?”
“You do exactly as I say. Starting now. Yes?”
“Yes,” Galahad breathes.
Mordred takes hold of his wrists, pressing them together until Galahad looks like he’s praying. And then he wraps the rope a couple of times around Galahad’s wrists, ties a rough knot that just loosens when he lets go.
“That’s never going to work,” Galahad tells him, “If you’re going to tie me up, it’ll take more than a granny knot.”
Galahad extricates himself, shows Mordred a different knot, slowly.
“Scouts,” he explains.
Mordred ties him up properly this time, pulling the rope until Galahad’s hands are out of the way over his head, tying him to the headboard. Then he moves down the bed, undressing Galahad. He doesn’t take his own trousers off.
“Don’t watch,” Mordred instructs, so Galahad closes his eyes obediently.
There’s soft, wet, trailing up the inside of his calves, and something harder and sharper pressing along the outside, up and over his knees. A fingernail, maybe? Mordred sucks love bites into his inner thighs, properly biting, too. Galahad concentrates on his eyes, though. Keep them closed.
He moans, just quietly.
And then Mordred licks over the head of his cock and his eyes snap open.
“I said, don’t look.”
Mordred radiates disapproval, and Galahad shrinks a little, shutting his eyes. But Mordred doesn’t return. The next thing Galahad knows, there’s something being tied around his head, like a blindfold.
“There. Now you can’t see.”
Mordred mouths over Galahad’s hip, sucks him gently. His tongue curls round, and Galahad groans. Mordred sucks harder, then, taking the whole length in. Galahad’s not sure what sounds he makes, but he knows they’re incomprehensible, and pretty loud.
Then Mordred pulls off, leaving Galahad panting, hips bucking up. Mordred holds him down.
“Turn around. On your hands and knees.”
It’s difficult, what with being tied up, but Galahad does as he’s told, shuffling up the bed.
Then Mordred wraps around him, and he’s undressed, and hard. He pulls the blindfold off, letting it drop to the bed, running his hands over Galahad’s chest on the way back to his hips. He grinds against Galahad once, twice, biting into his shoulder before pulling back. Mordred parts Galahad’s legs a little further, manoeuvring him like some sort of doll. A slicked finger presses straight inside, and Galahad shivers, bracing himself because it’s odd but it’s good. Mordred takes his time, agonisingly slowly, so Galahad’s begging for fuck, now, more, please by the time the second finger goes in. Mordred strokes his cock slowly, and it’s just too much.
“So close, Mor, I’m-”
Mordred slips down, squeezing tight around the base of his cock just soon enough that he can’t come.
“Not yet.”
He’s more careful after that, but still far too slow for Galahad’s liking. Finally, when he’s fallen into tiny pieces over and over again, and he thinks he may as well be dust, Mordred pushes into him, fucking him hard and fast and gripping the base of Galahad’s cock until he’s done. When Mordred comes, he lets go of Galahad, not pulling out. Galahad all but collapses onto his tied hands, and comes. When Mordred’s gone from inside him, he collapses fully, near sobbing.
Mordred cleans him, leaning over the bed to kiss him, and unties him. And then he gets dressed, packs up his bag, and walks away.
---
Mordred plays Galahad like a tune. The next time, and every time after, he takes a narrow ring of silicone to Galahad’s house, slides it down Galahad’s cock so it squeezes at the base, so Galahad can’t come until he’s allowed. It’s so good, so ridiculously good, Mordred pushing him to the edge and keeping him there, like he’s tethered somewhere to stop him falling fully, drawing it out. Mordred helps him fall to pieces, and sometimes he even stops long enough to pick a few back up again, a quick kiss before he leaves.
Sometimes, when Mordred frowns just a little harder than usual, Galahad knows it’s coming. He takes out a flick knife from his pocket, and just gently presses the cold blade over Galahad’s skin, both of them watching the metal as it smooths over golden brown skin, glinting in the meagre light. Galahad’s breath hitches at the cold, at the soclosesharpness of it all. Mordred drinks it in with his eyes, smiling just a little dirtily.
It’s their two month anniversary when Mordred first presses the blade into Galahad’s skin. Galahad keeps track of these things. Mordred says the blade is their present to each other. And it is, it’s good, the small, hot pain. It hurts, but less than it would if Mordred didn’t cut. Galahad needs this. The blood pools up, a thin red line over Galahad’s thigh, and Mordred spreads the blood out. He takes his finger and uses the blood as ink, drawing runes over Galahad’s wrists, his neck, his chest. The runes spark with Mordred’s magic, and Galahad feels them, never intrusive, just claiming. When Mordred’s done, he sucks the blood from his fingers, licks it from the cuts on Galahad’s legs, stomach, hips, anywhere they won’t show when he’s clothed. Mordred mixes the blood with slick, spreading the iron smell everywhere, mixing it with the smell of sex, so strong that it carries Galahad down, down…
They only dare do anything when Elaine and Morgana are out, which consists mainly of straight after school. Galahad’s loud, he knows, but Mordred’s near silent, the odd moan or something whispered when he comes, something Galahad can’t quite hear that makes him shiver.
At the weekend, they sit under the canopy of the apple tree in the garden, Mordred’s back braced against the trunk, Galahad draped over him, pressing kisses to his skin, worshipping him. Sometimes, Mordred’s fingers will card through his hair. Most of the time though, Mordred just stares into the middle distance, thinking thoughts Galahad can’t quite bring himself to ask about. Why, he doesn’t know. Mordred rarely looks at him, except when he’s done something a bit surprising, or when they have sex. Even then, it’s never in the eye. Galahad thinks he just needs some time to get used to the newness of a relationship.
---
“Where are you taking me?”
Galahad just smiles, squeezes Mordred’s hand and pulls.
“Gala, tell me.” Mordred’s voice is commanding, so Galahad sighs and stops.
“Call me that again and I will.” He just loves to hear it. His pet name, from Mordred’s lips, rare and hoarded, and he wants to hear the syllables fall of Mor’s tongue, just one more time.
Mordred almost rolls his eyes.
“Gala.”
“We’re going to Dad’s. He wants to meet the boyfriend.”
Mordred snorts, and Galahad smiles, lovingly, looking up into his eyes.
“It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Come on.”
Galahad tugs him again, and Mordred falls into step beside him, quiet, brooding. Galahad knows better than to disturb him.
---
The day’s lovely. Mordred does nothing to earn Lance’s disapproval, but there’s something. Galahad can tell his Dad doesn’t like Mordred quite as much as he tries to. But maybe it’s just that he’s Galahad’s first boyfriend, and any father’s going to be a little uncomfortable about that.
They’re sitting out in the garden, just him and Mordred, curled up in the same deck chair, basking in the rare sunshine. It’s comfortable. Mordred’s still, straight lines, with Galahad an arc curving around him, never quite stationary, pushing up Mordred’s t-shirt and drawing lines across his pale stomach. Mordred stares towards the house, and Galahad watches him. Something makes his expression change, become a little more animate, and then Mordred pushes at him, gently.
“Shove off, I need a piss.”
Galahad smiles, and stands for him.
“You know where it is? Need me to show you?”
Mordred shakes his head, and walks off.
He can’t have been gone for five minutes when Galahad hears a shout of anger, and a door slamming. He’s up in an instant, sprinting over to the house.
Arthur lies, limbs stretched at uncomfortable angles, in a pile at the bottom of the stairs. He groans, quietly, slipping into unconsciousness.
“Help!” Galahad cries, pulling at Arthur to get him more comfortable, though never touching his back. He could spine could be injured. “Help!”
Merlin comes running down the stairs, pulling his mobile out of his jeans pocket and calling 999. He crouches next to Arthur, strokes over his forehead and holds his hand. Galahad can’t remember if Mordred ever held his hand of his own volition.
“Mordred,” he murmurs, and Merlin looks up at him.
“Go,” he says, “I can manage this. Go!”
Merlin shoos him with one hand, talking quietly on the phone, and Galahad runs.
He catches up with Mordred half way into town, breathless and doubled over with the pain of a stitch, though he’s a good runner. No one can sprint long distance, and Galahad tried, because he can’t let him go.
“What are you doing here?”
Mordred’s voice is cold and emotionless, and makes Galahad shudder.
“I came for you.”
“Well, that was a stupid idea, wasn’t it?”
Galahad flinches. Mordred sneers.
“What- what happened?”
“You’re not worth me, is what happened. I tried to offer myself to someone who might have been, but he had too many ties.”
And it all makes blinding sense. Mordred isn’t the only one Galahad knows with magic; there’s Morgana, and Merlin. He’d offered himself to Merlin. And Merlin had said no, so he’d hurt Arthur.
“No,” Galahad says, because surely Mordred couldn’t do that, surely he was a good person, “No, I can’t believe you would.”
“That’s the problem with you!” Mordred shouts, “You’re so naïve, so fucking trusting! You can’t see what I am, what a pathetic little creature you are compared to it. I don’t even know why I’m with you, it’s not even for the sex.”
“Mor, please, stop now before you go too far.”
“No! I’ve gone too far already. We’re through. We never should have been! You’re worthless, nothing. You are nothing to me! I never want to see your miserable face again.”
“But Mor, I thought you loved me, I thought-”
Mordred flinches.
“Don’t call me that.” His voice deepens, dangerously low, and Galahad draws back. “I could never love you. You’re so weak, so utterly powerless. So normal. Why would I want you?”
“Mor…” It’s a whimper more than anything, Galahad straining to hold back his tears in the face of Mordred’s satisfied smile.
“It was convenient. And now it’s not. Let me spell it out for you, Galahad. I’m breaking up with you.”
Mordred walks away, saving Galahad the trouble of storming off. When he’s around the corner, Galahad collapses against the low wall alongside the pavement, and starts to cry.
---
Elaine finds him, on the way to the boys’ house. Gwaine had come home from town just after Galahad had left, found a sobbing Merlin holding Arthur’s unconscious body and the phone, and had rung her immediately, so she and Morgana could go with them up to the hospital.
A car pulls over in front of him, and through his blurred vision Galahad can see that it’s exactly the colour of his Mum’s.
Heeled feet get out of the passenger door, pull him up from the ground and hold him close.
“Come on,” Morgana says, “Get in the car. We’ll talk about it when we get to your Dad’s, alright?”
He nods, even though it isn’t, and slides onto the seat when she opens the back door.
“Do your seatbelt up, sweetie. There we go.” His mother looks at him appraisingly, and her face hardens into a frown, lips tightening, eyes narrowing. There’s murder in her face, for whoever did this to him.
Between Elaine and Morgana, they get Galahad into the house, working around the ambulance parked across the drive. Morgana gasps when she sees Arthur strapped down to the stretcher, rushes over to him and squeezes his hand.
“I’m his sister,” she says in explanation, though there are incredulous looks. “Half sister. Who’s going with him in the ambulance.”
“I am,” Merlin says.
“See you there.”
Elaine has Galahad sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter, a mug of something entirely too hot and tasteless to his tongue in his hands.
“What happened?” she asks, sternly.
“Apparently, Mordred asked Merlin to basically run away with him, so they could rule the world together, or something like that.” Gwaine glares at no one in particular, and Lance wraps an arm around his waist and takes over.
“He said something about how powerful they both are, and how they should make an alliance to better themselves, or something. It didn’t seem very well thought out, he didn’t take Merlin’s feelings into account, just decided they needed to leave together. And when Merlin said no, because he loves us, and laughed at him, Mordred got angry. And he pushed Arthur down the stairs and ran off.”
“And then he broke up with me.”
All eyes shoot to Galahad, and Elaine pulls his head to her stomach. He’s so drained, so hoarse and broken sounding, that everyone momentarily forgets about Arthur.
“Right, hospital, the lot of you,” Elaine instructs, “We’ll lock up.”
They file out, and Elaine silently takes Galahad’s mug from his hands, sets it down on the counter so she can hug him properly.
“Tell me about it?”
It’s all he needs, a bit of kindness, to start crying again.
“Why is he so cruel, Mum? Why?”
All Elaine can do is smooth down his hair and tell him to sshhh, shh.
---
It comes out, slowly; how Mordred’s face twisted into a smirk, and how maybe it was all true, maybe he never did care. Elaine would let him believe that, because well, maybe it was. But she won’t let him believe he’s worthless. Smartest kid in his year. Kindest, too; he knows everyone loves him. And who else would take the time to try to care for Mordred? No, it’s his loss, not Galahad’s, and now school’s over he won’t ever have to see Mordred again.
He hardens just a little, sitting there in the kitchen with his mother. Grows, a tiny bit. Picks up all the signs that he had been too blind to see, that Mordred was just in it for the sake of it, the regular sex that he still doesn’t admit to his mother, the adoration of someone else who followed him everywhere, puppy-like. Who he eventually tired of. Maybe Galahad had been a little pathetic. But he will be no longer. He learns.
Elaine drives him to the hospital, by which time Arthur’s awake again. There’s no permanent damage, just concussion. Galahad apologises to everyone for being so stupid. Everyone tells him not to apologise.
He hates himself for a while. After that, he hates Mordred. But he never stops loving him, not fully. A look, Mordred courses through his mind when he perfects the equations for The Grail four years later. A litany of look, look, look, as he sits through endless interviews, explaining just how an undergraduate can perfect a device that most post-grads - hell, most professors - struggle to understand. When he stands in front of the camera and smiles, when he sees the article: Twenty-Two-Year-Old Miracle Worker and under it Galahad Astolat, Birmingham University, creates ‘The Grail’, a device that can revive patients from comas or give doctors precious extra moments in A&E. And all he can think is look how powerful I am now, Mordred. Am I worth it now? Even though he knows he wants more than Mordred could ever give.
The Get Galahad Project