GawaiN

It was a relief to see her smile.

He appreciated the out she offered him, but wasn’t entirely sure he deserved it. She was beautiful, she was exactly his type, and despite the awkwardness of the moment it was still difficult not to look at her for longer than he should. They’d been drunk, from the rain, on the island, on each other, but it still didn’t quite sit right.

“Accept my apologies anyway,” he urged her, “I’ll sleep better for it.”

And it would save his knees a few extra hours kneeling on a hard chapel floor, the click click of beads echoing in the candlelight.

“And if you remember…” he hesitated, he recalled little more than she did, but the mind was a curious thing “…if you want to talk, if you want more tea. I want you to know I’m willing, and…” he chanced a sincere smile, “…I’m never far from a tea pot.”

Gawain raises his mug to toast her and takes a sip, savouring the heat.

“Either way,” he continued, setting his mug down on the table beside him, “I don’t think I’m prepared to test my relationship with my brother so far.” Fixing her with a knowing look, Gawain smiles the smallest of smiles, his expression sympathetic, laced with understanding. “And I could really use your help.”

He sighed, glancing out of the nearest window, his mind shifting to the steadily emptying decanters scattered around Tristan’s rooms, his all-too infrequently empty hands…the haunted looks, the dark circles forming beneath his eyes.

“I’m worried about him,” Gawain explained, his earnestness returning. “And I’m sure I can’t be the only one. Can you tell me I’m imagining it?” He drifts to the edge of his chair, closing the gap between them, feeling increasingly like a conspirator. “How does he seem to you?”