Authors note: Pre movie/during movie/post movie probably. Two friends. One relationship. Complicated? You bet.
Warning: Slash content. A/L
Rated R
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. All stories are written for fun and for me to drool over Lancelot/Arthur. J
Part one of ?
A blustery night, full of stars. The heavens seemed open to any soul who chose to search out their secrets, and the air was perfect for a lover's tryst or an evening on the green.
Bleh.
Lancelot twirled his double blades, one in each hand, experimenting with a new move that had sprained his left wrist painfully the week before. He was still trying to get it right, and thank the gods he was moving a little more fluidly now.
The area just outside the outpost, south of the wall of course, was empty this late at night, and he welcomed the chance to be alone.
The normal Lancelot, the one who pulled tavern girls onto his lap, who whispered words in their ears til they blushed, the one who drank his friends under the table, or the one who rode evenly with Arthur into battle was absent for the moment.
This Lancelot was moody and sour. And he wasn't pleasant to be around.
He especially wasn't pleasant to the person who actually lived inside his skin.
"Blast!"
The blade fell from his left hand again, and in a moment of fury, the dark haired knight threw the other blade away from himself. It landed with a soft clang into the grass a few feet away.
"Perhaps you should try archery?"
"Leave it, Arthur. I am in no mood at present," Lancelot snapped, and flopped down onto the ground huffily. Arthur just stood there, his arms crossed and his expression neutral.
"What can I do for you, commander?" Lancelot asked finally, when he was certain Arthur wasn't going anywhere.
"Nothing for the moment. I heard the sound of movement and came to see who was out here so late in the day."
The Roman stared into the sky, marking the position of the brightest star, and Lancelot was struck again by the angularity of the man's profile.
Strong brow, solid, Roman nose, cleft chin (oh, how the fortress women loved it), prominent cheekbones.
The only thing that didn't fit the classic look were his lips.
Lancelot had ruminated many a cold night on those lips. He had been trying for the most part to ignore thoughts of that nature…and that seemed to be part of what was bothering him so.
He knew Arthur would never reciprocate. Not in the way that he wanted. So he had spent as much time away from the captain as possible.
It wasn't working out too well.
"What are you gazing so intently at?" Arthur asked, snapping Lancelot out of his reverie. The Sarmatian cleared his throat, shifting on the ground.
"Nothing, Arthur, nothing. So, you've seen me, now you can go to bed. All right?"
Arthur strode to him, and sat down on the earth next to him. Lancelot groaned internally.
"What is it?" he voiced snappishly, then softened his tone.
"What is troubling you, Arthur? I can see it in your eyes."
Which he could now that the other man was so close. Intense green eyes, surrounded by shadowy black lashes. Normally so calm and collected, they were almost a forest green, so deep in thought was their owner.
"Bishop Germanus of Rome is headed this way. Bearing some very important papers for people stationed here at the outpost. We are to meet the caravan and protect him on the rest of his journey here."
Lancelot brought his knees up, and wrapped his long arms around them.
"And this troubles you why?"
Arthur sighed. "Because. He already has a consort of guards. What's seven more? I fear there is some ulterior motive at work."
Lancelot laughed, resting his forehead on his knees, his face to the ground.
"Arthur, one day you will stop seeing the blackness behind everything. 'Twould do you a world of good, I think."
"What makes you say that?" the commander asked. He flopped onto his back, supporting his weight with his elbows. Lancelot mentally smacked himself. Leave it to Arthur to want to meditate on personal faults the night before a dangerous mission. They should all be carousing and drinking and dragging the closest willing maid…or whomever… into their quarters.
But not Arthur. He wanted to discuss things. Lancelot flung himself backward, his hair flopping into his eyes. He was all bony limbs and splayed body, the night chilled grass doing nothing to dampen his mood or his strangely growing ardor. He stirred uncomfortably. Being around Arthur lately…had been a battle in more ways than one. He shook his head, plunging ahead.
"Because, friend, when I look into your eyes nowadays, I see naught but shadows and lines," Lancelot stated plainly. If Arthur wanted to know, Lancelot was the last person who would pull any punches.
Arthur did not answer. Instead he continued to stare into the sky. The younger knight was taken aback by this reaction, but pressed on. His lips seemed to move of their own accord.
"Arthur, you are thin and pale. You don't laugh, you spend hours at a time going over battle plans and maps, and you don't drink with us any more. Your skin is sallow and you are jumpy. The only thing that hasn't changed is your propensity to kill quickly and effectively. No Woad, nor Roman for that matter, would dare offend you now for fear of being cut down before they could draw breath."
"It is my duty, Lancelot, to be prepared for any eventuality. I cannot help it if I can't find time to carouse with the rest of you," Arthur replied. His tone was like rock, and Lancelot swore he could almost see icy mist forming around the man's words. He could be a statue with that expression.
Lancelot heaved himself to his feet, and retreived his dropped weaponry. He centered his mind and body, then began to put himself through the new move again. The swords flashed and dipped, and Arthur found himself almost hypnotized by their light.
"I…do not mean to be harsh," Arthur said quietly after watching the knight practice at some length.
"You are harsh. And I am trying to concentrate – damn!"
His blade again fell from the weaker left hand.
"Gods mercy! I should have gotten this by now!" Lancelot roared, his blood boiling, the sweat coming from him now like a tide.
He rotated his left wrist experimentally, then hissed when a shot of pain lanced up his arm.
"Blast it! Damn it to hell."
Arthur was up and next to him before the younger man even saw him move.
"No," Lancelot said, and strode away a few paces. "Do not come so near me…for you may be sorry afterwards." He panted as he spoke, his anger at himself and his general moodiness boiling over. The Roman cocked an eyebrow, and crossed his arms.
Lancelot unconciously licked his lips, still cradling his hand. He was a demon with those blades, he knew it. Just a few moves more, and he would be a god. But here was the one man who could break his concentration enough to make it impossible for him to do anything but dream and lust and sweat. And he was not in the mood for that at the present.
His body, however, was not obeying his mind.
"Lancelot," Arthur said, in a pleading tone that the other man was sure he had never heard from the captain before, "What has stirred your anger?"
A barked laugh came from the other man's throat, rough as sandpaper. Arthur started at the sound.
"Are you sure you wish to know, commander?"
Arthur stalked to Lancelot, who took an unexpected step backward at the look on Arthur's face.
"You ask me that?" he said, in a voice that belied the attitude behind the murderous look.
Something cracked in Lancelot's heart at those words, and his body took control, leaning forward. He grabbed Arthur's face between his hot hands, and kissed him. Hard.
The older man's eyes popped wide open. Lancelot could swear he saw the sky reflected in their irises before he shut his own.
He pulled away quickly, breathing like a man just finishing a race, and dropped to a squat, his arms on his knees, his face in his hands.
Arthur made no move, merely raised a trembling hand to his lips, touching them lightly.
"You are what is wrong, Arthur," Lancelot replied after a time, his words barely audible through his hands. "I cannot breathe without you. I am a slave at your feet. I am at your beck and call. I would walk through hell to be by your side. And yet, I have to watch you, sleep beside you, drink with you every day and every night, and cannot have what I wish. It is like living a nightmare."
He stood quickly, the uncanny resemblance to a child's boxed toy forcing a hysterical laugh out of Arthur. He realized that was the wrong reaction; the Sarmatian man's eyebrows drew together like thunderheads and his already dark eyes grew almost black.
He bent to retrieve his blades, sliding them through the sheaths on his back. At the quiet zinging metal sound they made, Arthur's eyes squeezed shut, his hands clenched at his sides.
The two men faced each other, one desperate for an answer, the other wishing he could come up with one that was true to his friend and his own heart.
"I…I do not know how to answer you, my friend," Arthur whispered at last. "I love you like no other, but this…this is too much. It's too deep, too real. I cannot imagine my life without you in it – but…"
Lancelot smiled, and Arthur sighed inwardly. He didn't have the right words. Lancelot was going to be hurt.
"I understand, commander. I'll be bedding down now, tis a late night, after all. Too late for this knight," he joked, but the pain was plainly evidenced on his slender face.
He crossed his right hand to his left shoulder, made a short bow, and turned on his heel.
"Lancelot," Arthur started, but the Sarmatian was already halfway to the fortress. Arthur winced to see the stiffness of his gait.
The Roman stood still, staring at the sky. Its beauty did not move him.
How in the hell were they to get past this? And did he want to?
"Damn it," he whispered to no one, and turned to follow his friend.
End of part one.