He finds his fingers itch for it after Dinidan's death, ache to close over things that aren't his since that which was is gone.
There is a place in the chamber they used to share, a cache he's dug under a loose stone, where he stashes his prizes. He wraps each thing as if scraps of cloth could deter the inevitable, when either catastrophe or disinterest will rip it from Tristan's possession, leaving him empty-handed again.
His hand only ever closes on pretty things: a necklace left behind by a bar maiden; a carved dagger taken from a fallen enemy's carcass; a gold goblet made by Romans, for Romans. Not his but not stolen either, just taken when they were put in his path. He's owed, so he collects.
But Galahad he wraps in furs and firelight and biting, frantic kisses, rough fingers skidding off sweat-slicked skin and wriggling limbs. He burns most for this, the pretty thing he can't have, and Tristan makes sure he's looking away when Galahad laughs his way out of his bed and into Gawain's.