Breakfast talk

When you spot Galahad at the table you know that's your chance.

You sidle up to the knight, summoning a smile that's as radiant as the morning sun blazing in through the window. It's not hard to do, either - Galahad's sight alone makes your lips curl up unwittingly.

He glances up from his plate as you slide next to him, then looks around himself to check that there is indeed space enough to host a dozen more Mordreds at the bench without need for you to sit so close. His gray gaze returns to you, narrowed in suspicion, seeming to wonder why then you'd choose this place.

"Good morning," you say, undaunted by such circumspect reception. You're used by now to being stared at by Galahad as if he was trying very hard to solve some intricate puzzle. One that upon completion would give him the answer to a grand treasonous scheme.

He hastily replies, "Good morning," and stuffs his mouth with scrambled eggs.

You've been in Camelot for a few days now and have been trying your best to pick up where you left things off with Galahad, to pick up the thread you'd managed to knock loose the last times you've seen each other: that growing hesitation, that glimmer in his eyes that lets you know that something inside him is changing and starting to see you in a different light. But in the years between then and now, something must have snapped that thread.

No matter. You will reach out again and again, slowly working away at that shield he puts up all the time. You just need to get him to lower it, little by little.

"Gawain and Elaine are both out on town duty, aren't they?" you remark, intent on making conversation, and lean over the table to grab an apple from the fruit bowl. Galahad watches your motion out of the corner of his eye. "Whoever paired them up must know what a boon they did to them."

They're good knights and you're sure they make for a formidable team - you're also sure they must be having a blast patrolling together.

You bite into your apple, waiting for a response. When it doesn't come, you go on, "I'll be training a bit this morning. I was thinking of sword fighting, maybe some archery too. What about you?"

Galahad pushes around a slice of red pepper before stabbing it with his fork. "Training as well."

"Oh," you perk up as a surge of hope shoots through you. "Perhaps we could train together?" You've seen Galahad a little on the training ground before. You've seen how determined and decisive and skilled each of his strikes and parries were. You also remember how his gaze fell on you as he moved towards the bench to pick up his cloth - tanned skin looking gilded sheened in sweat as it was, golden hair sleeked to his forehead and neck, the violet gray eyes pinned on you electrified by the exercise. You remember the heat that flooded your cheeks, an echo of it even now creeping up your neck at the memory.

Galahad keeps his face composed into a picture of aloof calm. "I already promised Percival I'd duel him."

Your hope deflates but you cling to it nonetheless. "Perhaps you'll find a little bit of energy to duel me too afterwards?" you prod, keeping your tone light and your smile lopsided and playful.

Galahad stares at you over the rim of his goblet as if expecting you to draw a dagger and stab him the moment he agreed.

Then he frowns.

"Why are you doing this?"

You quirk an eyebrow. "Conversation? It's a thing fellow knights usually do over breakfast-"

"No." He sets down his goblet, a little more forcefully than necessary. "This. This whole thing. Approaching me. Trying to be my friend."

Your smile turns quizzical as you study the man in front of you. Galahad tries to maintain a cool front, but it seems to be breaking; there's something in his eyes...a certain desperation that seeps into the urgency of his tone, too. He always looks so troubled when you level his stony demeanor with smiles and kind words; he looks even more troubled when he catches himself indulging them.

"Haven't you asked me this before?" You place down your apple, barely bitten. "I'm trying to be your friend...because I want to know you better."

You don't even dare hope that you might achieve anything else than friendship, which is already proving to be quite the challenge. You sometimes allow yourself to indulge in the notion of something more, in the fantasy of how it might feel to run your fingers along his honeyed cheek, through his golden hair; how it might be like, sitting by the hearth in his arms, laughing and smiling in the ways he does in those brief moments when his armor is down, when he thinks you're not watching. Talking to you as gently and warmly as you know him to be capable of.

But it's foolish to indulge such fantasies.

You swallow the lump that's suddenly formed in your throat. Your mouth feels dry. "Because I think we could be friends," you add, softly.

Galahad studies your face, frown deeply etched in place. His hands clench into fists atop the table. "I don't need your friendship."

Ah. You've heard that one before, too. 

"Perhaps you don't need my friendship. But do you want it?"

The shield drops momentarily. His frown smooths away to surprise, his violet eyes regard you as if he's actually, intently considering the question and might find the answer within your features. 

"And I really do mean what you want," you push on. You're both aware of the implications your words carry - the unspoken part. 

That breaks the charm. Galahad clams back up, furrow deepening again between his brows. He stands up abruptly, almost stumbling in his hurry. 

"I'll be late for training," he tosses your way before spinning around and all but running out of the hall. You're left with a bitten apple, his half-finished plate and curious eyes drawn your way.

But all you can think about is Galahad's expression and the hint of red you glimpsed, trying to determine whether you deluded yourself into imagining it.

You pick up your apple and munch on it as you ruminate.