Work Text:
Tristan etches his mark in many things both breathing and dead. The carvings are in wood and in places that will bear this nick from a knife for years to come, whittling themselves into legend and myth. He picks his marks perfectly, a notch in everything he chooses, only what he selects.
He plays in the tavern with the boys.
“Tristan…”
Knife in his hand, sharp and lethal – but safe is Tristan trusts the person opposite him – heavy weight by the hilt, something reliable and safe. Something Tristan knows. He narrows his eyes, focuses on the goal, and throws.
“Tristan, it’s…”
His knife hits the centre of Galahad’s. He always does. He never misses this important mark, he never misses the mark with Galahad. ‘I aim for the middle,’ he’ll say. ‘You’ll learn one day,’ he’ll tell Galahad, a whisper in his ear, a soothing word to calm him. ‘Make your mark,’ he advises, because until Galahad realizes that Tristan is continuously marking him, he’s never going to make his mark in anything.
“Tristan, it’s your…”
Galahad gasps as Tristan pushes into him, slick and smooth and wet, warm and wonderful heat as Tristan marks the middle of Galahad, marks the spot that makes Galahad cry out in absolute ecstasy. Tristan etches his legend in Galahad’s skin with his knife, with his teeth, with his words, and his body. Tristan knows the middle of Galahad’s being and while breathing, if dead, Galahad will be something that Tristan has affected.
“Tristan, it’s your turn.”
Tristan comes back to himself and throws the knife.
He marks the middle.