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“Alright, fine,” Kay huffed and threw down the ledger, “I give up. What do you want.”
Almost an hour ago, Gawain had let himself into Kay’s study and, without a word, sat down across the desk from him. When this action was not acknowledged, he merely waited, silent and patient. And infuriating. Kay had read the ledger through three times, but finally he had to admit that whatever weird power play was going on, he had lost.
Despite his petty victory, Gawain frowned, “You need to go easier on Percival.”
“I’m making him tough!” Kay protested.
“You’re makin’ him cry.”
“It’s my job to deal with the new kids, and if you have a problem with how I’m going about it, you can go complain to your uncle.” The Senechal rose as if to leave, even though this was in fact his room, pretending to peruse through the collection of papers he held.
But Gawain was stubborn. It was Kay’s job to sort the multitude of youths that showed up at Camelot, and his harsh judgment was the only thing stopping every third son in Britain from riding straight into the open mouth of a dragon. But Gawain suspected that, in this particular case, a broken collarbone and bruised pride had a lot more to do with Kay’s harsh treatment than any concern for safety.
“What’ll it take?”
“Huh?”
“What do I have to do to make you stop tormentin’ the poor boy. Anything you want. Come ‘en, this is a rare offer.”
“I want the axe,” Kay said, without a hint of hesitation. He was endlessly and vocally frustrated by the fact that the huge, green axe had done nothing but hang on the wall since Gawain had won it a half-dozen Christmases ago.
“I- well- that’s- not that. Ask for something else.”
“You’re not even using it!”
“It has sentimental value!”
Gawain paused a moment, embarrassed by this outburst.
“Well, then I suppose we don’t have a deal.” Kay thought for a moment, and then smiled slyly, “Unless you want to settle this by combat?”
Gawain jumped at this suggestion: “Aye, combat- and if I win, I’ll take over training Percival.”
“And if you lose, I get the axe.”
“Deal!”
They shook on it.
“Good. For my champion I choose Lancelot.”
“Wait, no- that’s, that’s not fair-”
“I’m within my rights to choose a proxy. Will you forfeit?”
Gawain frowned. This conversation had gone in a wildly different direction than planned, but he wasn’t going to back down now.
"I’ll meet you on the field in an hour. I doubt he’ll agree to fight for you anyway.”
Kay laughed, “You’ll be surprised then. He owes me a favour,” he paused,
“Wait. My door was locked. Gawain, the door was locked how did you-”
But he was already gone.
“...huh.”
The match was poorly timed for Gawain- it was nearly nones, and even at high noon, Gawain would have had a great deal of trouble against Lancelot. An only child may have thrown in the towel, facing these odds, but growing up with three, now four brothers had given him an unhealthy competitive streak. A charitable assessment would ascribe this stubbornness to concern for Percival, but in truth, in Gawain’s mind at least, the whole affair was barely about Percival at all anymore. Now it was about beating Lancelot, and, by deputy, Kay.
He’d have little luck in a fair fight, which meant utilizing what Agravain would call ‘strategy,’ and Gareth would call ‘cheating’. But needs must.
It wasn’t a formal duel, which would take place on the tourney grounds with an audience. When they convened it was in a dusty, utilitarian section of Camelot’s outer ward where squires and young knights frequently trained. Kay was apparently so confident in his delegated victory he hadn’t bothered to show up, and had merely directed Lancelot to the spot where they were to fight.
“So… are you going to explain what this is about?”
“Only if you tell me why you owe Kay.”
Lancelot shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t wearing full armour, only a red gambeson, and had traded his sword for a dulled one. Gawain, also, had left Galatine behind in favour of a practice sword.
“I’d rather not.”
Gawain shrugged. Fair enough.
“Then I suppose we should begin.”
Within about ten minutes they both sensed the inevitable outcome- Lancelot’s victory- but also that this may take till compline to come about. In pure martial skill and training, they were evenly matched, but he had the advantage of superior strength and reach, and seemed to never tire.
“You could do this forever, couldn’t you?” Gawain huffed, barely blocking another flurry of blows. Even after over an hour, the force beyond them was unrelenting.
“... not forever.”
“You’re not e’en out of breath!” a feint, and a lunge- solidly blocked, with enough force to send a bolt of pain up both his arms.
“Well, I’m not talking.”
At that, Gawain laughed.
“Point.”
They continued in silence, till the shadows were starting to grow long and even the indefatigable Lancelot was winded. Finally, long after what had begun as a structured, elegant competition of swordsmanship devolved into a scuffle in the dirt, Gawain was pinned, his sword out of reach, opponent above him with sword raised. He had until Lancelot caught his breath enough to demand surrender.
Gawain was aware that he had somewhat of a reputation, not wholly undeserved but, nevertheless, exaggerated. He was also aware that things had been insinuated about how he actually escaped beheading at the hands of the Green Knight. But he hadn’t actually seduced Bertilak, no matter what Guenevere and the ladies of the court liked to teasingly imply. He hadn’t intended to, at any rate.
So it wasn’t true. But perhaps in this instance, it didn’t matter, because Lancelot, he reasoned, was French and Catholic, and, therefore, deeply repressed.
This has got to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever tried, and I'll be disappointed if it works, he thought, then did it anyway.
“Oh-” Gawain breathed, shifting up subtly against his captor, “What shall you do with me, m’laird, now that you have caught me-” He gestured at their tangled legs with his free hand- “In such a manner as you have.”
“What- what do you mean?” Lancelot asked in confusion.
His voice was soft and the air was warm, and, suddenly hyper-aware of the many places their bodies were currently touching, Gawain flushed and looked away. This impulse was not nearly as feigned as he would like to pretend it was, and, wishing to oust the moment from his mind, he barreled on.
“Is it not custom for the victor to take a war-prize, in deliciis amoribusque?”* He answered, voice low and thick.
Realization dawned abruptly, and Lancelot swallowed hard.
“I don’t, that’s- um-” He sat back and lowered his sword, red-faced.
Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Gawain grabbed his opponent’s wrist and, in one smooth movement, shoved him roughly to the side and twisted to settle atop him, so now their positions from a few moments before were reversed, with the exception that instead of a dull practice sword, the blade against the bested party’s throat was the sharp dagger he kept always at his waist.
“Yield!” he cried, surprised that his trick had worked.
“I, I yield, what-”
Half wild with the thrill of an unexpected victory, and with assorted other emotions he dared not examine, Gawain grinned and pressed the knife down against soft skin, stopping just shy of drawing blood.
“I cannae hear you.”
“I yield!”
Instantly he sheathed the knife, clasped Lancelot’s hand and rose, bringing them both to their feet. “I accept your surrender.”
Releasing his hand too quickly, Gawain made as if to leave.
“Wait,” Lancelot stepped forward and grasped his wrist.
Acquiescing, Gawain turned back and stepped closer, so they were now standing quite close together.
“Why, sir knight, your face is as red as your armour,” he teased, carefully enunciating, and with some effort keeping an even tone, so as not to betray himself.
“Please answer me, truly, what did you mean by- well, by what you said?”
That was what Lancelot asked. What he meant was this: how much of that was a joke or a trick and how much was an earnest offer?
And Gawain did not know what to say, which was unusual for him. Things he hadn’t spoken of, or even thought of, for a great while, came to his mind quite unbidden.
“If God were to grant me my health, I’d immediately wish to be the most beautiful maiden in the world, happy and healthy, on condition that Lancelot would love me above all others, all his life and mine.”**
Bizarre confessions of love made before the High King and Queen didn’t count, he’d decided, if one was trashed on theriac when said sentiments were professed.***
And yet he’d meant what he’d said then, or the gist of it at least- and, even years later and sober, his feelings hadn’t changed.
“A jest, I swear, and a poor one. I meant nothin’ by it.”
There were more people, maidens and fellow knights both, angling for poor Lancelot’s bed than there were damsels in need of rescue and magic items one wasn’t to meddle with, and the numbers of both of these were prodigious. With the exception of Guenivere who he loved from afar, though perhaps not quite afar enough, these hounding suitors did nothing but make him uncomfortable. Gawain did not want to be yet another unwanted admirer that made his friend unhappy.
“Oh, a joke. Of course.” He didn’t look relieved, though.
“Pure, don’t think of it again- it was just that I’d gart a bet with Kay, and if I tint he’d get to keep my axe, you know, the green one-?” stop talking, stop talking, stop talking, he begged himself desperately, to no avail, “well, I just thought, I’d ne’er beat you by playin’ fair, and you’re so uptigh- well it disnae matter.” Gawain frowned. His mouth didn’t usually betray him like this, but usually, he wouldn’t be standing so close to what was surely the handsomest man from Dublin to Rome, who was looking at him like- well.
“So that’s- that’s all this is about? Next time you make a bet with Kay, please, leave me out of it. I’d rather not have you making some cruel sport of me.”
Gawain stood silent, stood a long time,
So burdened with grief that his heart shuddered:
His blood ran like fire in his face,
He winced for shame at The Green Man’s words.
And finally he found words of his own:
“A curse on cowardice and a curse on greed!
They shatter chivalry, their vice destroys
Virtue.” Then he loosened the belt, unfastened it,
And grimly threw it to The Green Man.****
“Ach, amadan na croiche!” *****He swore. “Er, me, not you.”
He’d sort of hoped that fake-seducing his best friend to win a bet would be the dumbest thing he did that day, but life was full of disappointments. He studied the little leather ties on Lancelot’s collar because he couldn’t bring himself to look up at his face.
“I’m sorry, I wasnae joking, or, I was- I’d have been as serious as the dead if it pleases you,”
Well that's coming on a bit strong, he noted, and then abruptly lost all train of thought as Lancelot roughly grabbed him and brought their lips together. For a moment he stood completely still in shock, then began to kiss him back, pressing forward against him and tangling his hands in the soft curls of Lancelot’s hair with desperate and frenetic intensity.
Gasping, Gawain suddenly jerked away, and took several shaky steps back.
“Fuck! Public courtyard!”
“Oh, God-”
“Amadan na croiche! Not me this time, you!”
He winced, “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
Gawain sighed and glanced around. The courtyard was empty. The few windows that overlooked it were shuttered. He looked Lancelot up and down appraisingly.
“You can make it up to me right now in my bedroom?”
“...it’s the middle of the afternoon.”
Gawain gave him an incredulous look. After a few seconds he laughed, sheepishly, nervously.
“Right, nevermind. Yes, yes let's do that, right now.”
“I still can’t believe you beat him,” Kay groused from his seat next to Bedivere.
They were sitting by the hearth in the main hall late that evening, drinking. Gawain was, as courtesy demanded, trying not to be smug, but he wasn’t trying particularly hard.
“Well, I did nevertheless. You’ll have to be satisfied with my word, since you didn’t bother to show up,” thank all the gods that Kay didn’t show up, he thought, “So Percival-”
“Yeah, yeah, he’s your problem now. He’ll be goddamn elated.”
Bedivere looked thoughtful. “It must have been a rather close fight.”
“Oh?” Gawain asked, only half paying attention.
“Well, it seems as if you’re rather sore, from the way you’re walking-”
Gawain almost choked on a sip of wine. He did not speak for several moments, then:
“Yes, I suppose it was quite close,” he answered weakly.
Kay was oblivious to this exchange, still upset over having come so close to axe ownership, only to fail. He gestured morosely at the grisly artefact, hanging as it always did on the wall.
“What a waste…”
“You know what, Kay?” Gawain said, feeling magnanimous, “Go ahead and take my axe and play with it to your heart's content.”
“I hate everything about the way you phrased that, but thank you!” Kay sprung from his seat and strode across the hall, calling for servants to help him get the axe down.
Bedivere chuckled, “you’re in a good mood, Gawain.”
Across the hall, the door swung open and Lancelot entered, right in the middle of the throng of servants and squires both helping with and getting in the way of the axes taking down, in equal parts. After several seconds of awkwardly milling about, trying not to run into or be run into by any of the gathered press, he caught sight of them and, relieved, began to make his way towards the hearth.
“I’ve had a good day, is all.”