(For the record, there really are only 100 words in this drabble! For reasons unbeknownst to me, this site counts hyphens as words.)
Mordred laughs, and where it should be bitter is only tired, worn. Galahad worries, and knows Mordred sees it – Mordred always read him like a book, with an easiness that once was frightening – but Mordred looks up with no hint of reproach in his eyes, no disdain.
He reaches out, but Mordred is not so unlike himself that he doesn't shift away. The familiar grace of his movements reassures Galahad, the faux haughtiness in Mordred's vicious smirk.
Mordred stands, paces, finally sits in folded angles on the bed. Galahad begins to speak, but Mordred quells him with a look.