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“It's barely a scratch.”

“Your eyes work, do they not?”

Tristan’s lips twitch, barely a smile, but Galahad still sees it. It calms him, slightly.

“You're too dramatic,” Tristan tells him, but he still places a cloth against the shoulder wound, watching as blood colours the fabric. Perhaps more than a scratch, he thinks.

“Coming from you? Funny.”

Tristan smiles, presses against Galahad's uninjured shoulder to make him lie back.

“You're supposed to duck.”

“And you're not supposed to actually hit me.”

“Training should be realistic.”

“Bastard,” Galahad mumbles, sighing quietly. “Stay?”

Tristan leans down to kiss him softly. “Always.”