He's been tired, so tired, but the feeling of tiredness never touched him, not feeling his heavying brows, or the soft ache of being awake and always tensed for a danger he can't see. Galahad has had to pull him into bed, and pulled the sheets over them. Claudius's last thought, as his eyes drift closed and sleep steals over him, is that Galahad really would like a weighted blanket. He might also like a little flag, so they can celebrate the sweet sin of shared pride. Some scrap of common identity to still hold onto, when everything is so uncertain.