Lancelot can't sleep. He tosses and turns, but his eyes refuse to close and his mind refuses to quieten. The room so readily loaned to him by Merlin is pitch-black, with only slivers of moonlight filtering through the window. It should have been a peaceful night; these are much better lodgings than Lancelot's had for months, but still he can't give in to his exhaustion.
He gets out of bed as softly as he can and walks over to the window, looking out. The view of Camelot that the window affords him is glorious, though not many homes have lit hearths at this time of night. Pangs of envy trouble his chest as he thinks about what he must do the following morning. How lucky Merlin is, that he lives here. How can Lancelot leave this one true dream of his life behind?
"What's wrong?" comes a sleep-hoarse voice from the floor. Merlin sits up and peers at him, pale in the starlight. Lancelot's breath catches in his throat. Merlin looks ethereal, otherworldly; his loose nightshirt, fallen wide open at the collar, bares skin that almost glows.
"Just thinking," Lance says helplessly. "I'm sorry I woke you."
"It's all right," Merlin answers, pushing messy locks of dark hair up his forehead. "I wasn't having the best of dreams anyway. Do you need water?"
"I don't want to trouble you."
"It's no trouble, my friend." Merlin pushes himself up and quietly exits the room, leaving a spellbound Lancelot in his wake.
Lancelot swallows. Guinevere's lovely smile flashes through his mind, erased by the creak of the door reopening to admit Merlin holding a cup and pitcher.
"Here."
"Thank you, Merlin."
Lancelot drinks his fill before he returns to the bed Merlin gave up for him.
"What were you dreaming about?" he whispers after a while, hoping Merlin hasn't fallen back asleep yet.
"Arthur," Merlin says with a sigh.
"Thought you said it wasn't a good dream."
Merlin snickers, in turn making Lancelot smile. "Not this one."
Lance waits, staring at the ceiling, the scent of Gaius's herbs pungent in his nostrils.
"I dreamt that the griffin killed him," Merlin says eventually. "That he died in my arms and I couldn't save him."
Words of consolation jump to Lancelot's tongue and die on his lips. Merlin doesn't notice as he continues.
"He's… I've only known him for a few short months but he's my life, you know?"
Lance shivers under the weight of those words. "He should know of your devotion," he says, aching.
"More than anything, I want to tell him. A million times I've had the words in my mouth. You've seen for yourself what kind of man he is, you know how brilliant and brave he can be! Imagine what he could achieve if I could use my magic to help him."
"You already do help him," Lance says, aware of the lengths Merlin has gone to for Arthur, aware that that's not why Merlin wants to tell Arthur at all.
"Openly," sighs Merlin. "Gaius knows about me, too, but he just repeatedly cautions me against using it. But you, Lance, when you caught me at it, the way you just accepted it, accepted me—"
Lance inhales sharply, wondering at the wistful tone of Merlin's voice.
"It was as if I could breathe again," Merlin whispers. "I want that with Arthur… so badly."
"Arthur isn't his father. You could try."
"I saw a magic user beheaded my first day in Camelot." Merlin says, quiet, sour. "A sorcerer tried to kill Arthur in a tournament, another poisoned Camelot's water. I don't think I could try at all."
Lancelot rolls onto his side to better gaze over the edge of the bed at Merlin. Merlin catches his eye and flushes. His lips are full, pretty. They shine pale pink in the moonlight. Lancelot blinks hard and catches himself mourning.
"You cherish Arthur," he tries again.
"He's my entire world," Merlin says, voice breaking as if he doesn't know how to say anything else. His eyes glimmer gold and Lancelot gasps as an image of Arthur appears before them, proud in his battle armour and Pendragon-red cloak. Merlin's adoration is blatant in every pinprick of light that makes up Arthur's hair and face and eyes.
"He's a complete arse to me but I love him. What if he'd died?"
Lancelot turns from the echo of Arthur to see Merlin biting his lip and quivering.
"You wouldn't have let him."
"He saved me. He defied the king and risked everything to bring me back from the brink of death. I'm meant to protect him. And still, he…"
What can Lancelot say to that? He watches mutely as the image of Arthur fades to be replaced by the night sky, showers of stars cascading down to the edge of the bed and kissing Lance's skin—each a wish that won't be fulfilled.
"Have you ever kissed anyone?" he asks despite himself.
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"Just curious," Lance says, shrugging even though Merlin can't see.
"Couple of boys back in Ealdor. Gwen."
"Guinevere!"
Merlin laughs, a carefree sound that Lance secrets away in his heart. "Yeah, but it was only a spur-of-the-moment thing. Don't worry, she's all yours to treasure."
Lancelot isn't worried at all.
"Do wish I could kiss Arthur sometimes," Merlin says, trailing off with a yawn. Would he have admitted this if exhaustion hadn't dulled his senses? "But he'd probably banish me or something."
"It's not very hard to imagine you're as important to him as he is to you," Lance says, choking on each word. You're important to me, too. You've done things for me no one else ever would. You gave me a chance at fulfilling the purpose of my life. I owe you so, so much.
"Right, when every other word out of his mouth is him calling me an idiot."
Lancelot doesn't reply.
"The sun," Merlin mutters sleepily. "Light of my life." His magic conjures up another image of Arthur gleaming brightly, this time easy and relaxed without his armour. Lancelot gazes at Merlin until he's sure Merlin's lost in his dreams again. He reaches out with trembling fingertips to brush gently through Merlin's feathery hair. The illusion of Arthur bores holes into Lancelot with its gaze as he indulges himself in this searing, insignificant desire; it doesn't disappear or take its eyes off him until the first rays of dawn pierce it through.
"You don't look like you got any rest," is the first thing Lancelot hears when he opens his eyes. Merlin, kneeling beside the bed, makes a silly face at him. "How're you going to ride for hours like this?"
"I've faced much worse than a day without sleep, Merlin," Lance mumbles, turning onto his side and cupping Merlin's jaw. Merlin leans into it with a friendly, trusting smile.
"If you ever tire of Arthur," Lance begins. The door bangs open.
"Late again, Merlin," calls Arthur Pendragon, and stops short as he takes in the sight of the two of them so intimate in their nightclothes. Lancelot isn't imagining the shock on Arthur's face, nor the angry jealousy that replaces it. If only Merlin had whipped his head around in time to see.
"Sorry, sire," Merlin says sheepishly, rising and going to the small basin of water. "I'll be just a second." Lancelot hurries to his feet and bows to his prince.
"Lancelot," Arthur says stiffly. "I didn't know you were residing here."
"Merlin generously lent me his bed."
"You're leaving today." No, Lancelot isn't imagining the relief either. He nods.
"Well, it was an honour to have fought with you," Arthur says, extending an arm to him. Lancelot gratefully clasps it. Neither of them looks towards Merlin who is hastily exchanging his nightshirt for trousers and a clean tunic. "I do wish things had been different. Perhaps when I am king, they will be… Come on, Merlin, you lazy clod, don't think your face can get any cleaner than that."
"Yes, all right!" Merlin pats his face dry with a corner of his shirt and rushes over to Arthur's side. "D'you have all you need?" he asks Lance.
"Indeed," says Lance. "Thank you, my friend."
Merlin blushes. Arthur's eyes narrow, and he gives a jerk of a nod in Lancelot's direction before winding an arm (possessively, Lancelot thinks) around Merlin's shoulders and dragging him off for the day's adventures. Lancelot changes his clothes, packs all his belongings, and leaves Merlin's room after a long moment.
"Don't go just yet," says Gaius, stopping him with a bowl of porridge before he darts out of the infirmary. As Lancelot digs into his meal, Gaius places an avuncular hand on his back. "I'm sorry about everything, my boy. You're more noble than half of Camelot's knights combined."
Lancelot smiles up at Gaius. "I hope to be back someday," he says, and means it.
As he mounts the horse gifted to him by Arthur in the courtyard, he glances up at the castle one last time—he can't deny the longing of his heart—and spots the unmistakable figure of Guinevere gazing down at him from one of the windows, her elbows resting on the sill.
He raises a hand in farewell, promising to remember the sweetness of the sunlight striking her face. He tries not to think about Merlin.
Months later, a brute called Hengist gives him a leering once-over and sets him to work.