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Just a bit drunk

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Mordred lounged on the throne, a grin spread slyly across his face. He was incredibly content at the moment. Full after the welcome feast, he was now sitting across his father's throne and toying with a goblet. It was full of mostly dry cider, although after his sixth glass, he was beginning to feel the affects. He laughed, mirth spilling out as he fingered the arm of the throne.

"Something funny?" a voice asked, its owner stepping down from the staircase.

"Actually yes. I have a faulty countdown. It said I was supposed to meet my match today. And I didn't. No little twinge, no time running out, no nothing." Mordred snorted, derision all over his face.

"Well that's not a laughing matter. Nor is it an excuse to get drunk."

"Why the hell do you care! Go away. Do you know who I am?" Mordred asked lazily, staring at the staircase with enough venom to kill, if looks could do such things.Despite what anyone else might think, he was actually depressed in the extreme. All he wanted was someone to love him. It seemed as if Mordred couldn't even have that.

"I care," The stranger sneered "Because the same thing happened to me. And I know who you are, Mordred Le Fay." The mysterious person trailed down the last few steps and into the light. He was young, around Mordred's age and was heartbreakingly beautiful. "So, don't you dare even try to tell me to go away."  This boy was so vehement, so forceful about his views that Mordred didn't think about arguing. He was so shocked that he didn't even feel the twinging in his arm, or the green flash of his zeros.

The boy however, did. He threw his head back and laughed. "Oh of course. It's you. It just HAD TO BE YOU." The boy stalked up to him, hands on his hips.

"Hey lad, I didn't ask for this." Mordred growled, looking up at his soul mate with a mixture of horror and distaste and grudging admiration.

"Well you've got me now. So come on. Off your ass. Now. We are going back to my rooms and I am putting you to bed." The stranger muttered, tugging Mordred up out of the chair.

"Could you at least tell me your name?" Mordred asked pleadingly as he was led up the staircase.

“I’m Galahad.”

"Fuck" Mordred spat, and stared at Galahad in disbelief. "You're Lancelot's son."                                 

"And you are unobservant and drunk. Now come on."

Ten minutes later, Galahad hauled him into bed. Mordred's head was still spinning, and his mind was still foggy. Even through haze, he managed to ask the question that had been brewing in his head. "Why are you doing this?"

Galahad laughed  lightly and pulled Mordred against himself. "You're mine, I am yours. If anyone should be doing this, it should be me. The rest will work itself out later. Sleep now, I'll hold you safe until morning comes."

For once in his life, Mordred obeyed and he did not regret it.