It was the first time in months that Arthur was not kicked awake by a frantic mental alarm. For a while, he was caught in a semi-conscious limbo. He was awake, but he was not. The very basic functions of his mind were beginning to buzz with life and one by one his senses returned to him behind his eyelids.
He first became aware of a dull throbbing in the back of his skull – he could hear his blood pulsing in his ears and he felt his face contort in discomfort. Next, as he tried to shift his muscles and speed up his awakening, he realized just how heavy his body felt. He was stiff and sore and his first attempt to move earned him a lance of pain up his spine.
At the very least the pain helped to jolt him back into consciousness and he opened his eyes.
The first thing that came to his conscious mind was just how furious Alistair would be that Arthur overslept.
And then, in time with the steady pulsing of his aching brain, the memories began to trickle back and he registered that he was not staring at a dull wall as he usually did first thing in the morning. He stared instead into the bare chest of another man.
Of a Scot.
Of Alistair.
Arthur couldn't summon words, so he settled for a strained squawk as he shoved himself away with probably more force than necessary. Alistair grunted as he was shoved and Arthur rolled, fully intent on scrambling off of the grand mattress and diving to the safety of the floor.
But a bruising grip clamped down on his hips and pulled him back until he was pressed into the Scot's chest. He made a strangled series of noises as he squirmed, but the man was as immovable as a bear and wrapped the youth in his arms, keeping him close.
"G'morn' t'ye tae," he mumbled, barely intelligible.
"Good- Good morning?!"
The Scot grunted again, and Arthur couldn't wrap his head around his nonchalance. He began to squirm again, and Alistair answered by tightening his hold around the boy's waist and resting his chin atop his head.
"'S still early, stop wigglin'."
Arthur did stop, but not because he was told to. He was at a loss for words, his brain having fizzed out and leaving him with his mouth working silently. Alistair must've fallen asleep again in the time it took for the boy to reboot, because when the blonde began to squirm again the Scot was slower to respond.
But no less firm when he pulled the youth back into his chest.
Flustered and confused and in more pain than Arthur cared to think about, the Englishman furrowed his brow and moped.
"I hate you," he grumbled, irritated.
"That's fine, but could ye do it quieter?"
Arthur planted his hands against the arms that held his waist and tried to push them off.
"'N with less squirmin', please."
With a frustrated huff, the blonde blew some strands of messy hair away from his eyes. The warmth that rushed to his face didn't help the fact that he felt like he was overheating, trapped in the arms of a brute of a Scot and forced to be quiet and endure.
But the quiet brought back embarrassing memories – breathless moans and whispered words of endearment – and only made him flush more. He felt like he was about to catch fire, an unease churning in his stomach and he wished he was one of those drunks who woke up completely oblivious to the night's events.
He went more and more red as the night came back with increasing clarity.
What have you done, Arthur? He wanted to curl up into a ball and shut his brain off, but the strong arms of the dozing Scot prevented even that. He would be disowned by his family, that was for sure. He'd be discovered for his sins and labelled a proud satanist, paraded through the cities to be beheaded or burned; whatever suited the folk more. Of all the things...and of all the people.
Alistair? Really? He couldn't have picked a worse person to condemn his eternal soul for. He was irritable and lazy, vengeful and probably insane. It would kill his mother to know that her son, the prince, had been bedded by a sinful Scottish lord after a few drinks and some emotional confessions.
I have come to love ye, lad, and it's ruining me.
He could still hear Alistair's voice, clear as anything, in his head. How sincere he'd sounded – how sober. Arthur almost wanted to believe it had been more genuine than what it was, and no matter his later punishments, he would hold onto those words and the feelings they had brought him.
The feeling of warmth. The feeling that he was special for some reason other than his title and lineage. The feeling that he was wanted, not as a placeholder for an ornate chair and a fancy crown, but as a human being. The feeling that Alistair cared for him enough to forsake a chance at that crown.
"I kin practically hear yer brain burnin' up in that head o' yers, lad," Alistair's voice cut calmly through Arthur's frantic thoughts. "Relax."
"Relax? Really? Relax?!" Arthur was shaking. "Oh lord forgive us...what have we done..."
He yelped as he was turned suddenly and the Scot rolled on top of him. Arthur stared wide-eyed up at the Scottish lord, who regarded the youth with chagrin. He was caged by the hands that held the man up, pressing into the pillow on either side of his head.
"What do ye think, boy?"
Arthur didn't want to vocalize what he thought, so he just stared blankly and when he realized he wasn't getting a response, Alistair rolled his eyes.
"Honestly, Arthur, tae think ye may've one day ruled England."
The young man huffed indignantly, narrowing his eyes.
"Certainly not anymore. I'd be surprised if God didn't strike me down by week's end."
"God, lad?"
"Yes! Please don't tell me you're a heretic. I don't think my heart can take it."
"The good lord knows to not meddle in th' lives and loves of his people. He judges not who ye love, but how ye come tae love them."
There was a beat of silence, and Arthur looked lost.
"Love?" he echoed.
"Ye deaf, lad?"
Alistair sighed, irritated, then collapsed into the mattress beside the blonde. He turned his back to Arthur, pulling his covers back up to his shoulder. That would've been the ideal time to make his escape, but now the Brit was curious.
"You keep throwing that word around a lot," he observed quietly, sitting up and looking over to where Alistair lay facing away.
"It's bin a long time comin'."
"Really?"
"Ye have nae idea, boy."
Arthur made a face, then propped his elbow against his knee and rested his chin in the palm of his hand.
"Yes well, if you're not careful, someone may start to believe you when you say it."
At this, Alistair rolled back over. He did not rise, but merely regarded the young man with an unreadable expression from below.
"Ye donnae believe me?"
In hindsight, Alistair sounded somewhere between angry and annoyed, but in that moment Arthur could hear nothing.
"We were drunk."
"Aye."
"Drunk people do stupid things."
"And I'm not denyin' that."
"They say things they don't mean."
"An' oft' they share a lot o' hard-kept secrets, too."
"Alistair," Arthur shut his eyes to hide whatever emotion they may have been betraying. "You can't be serious."
"I can, lad. But I'm not th' real problem here, am I?"
Arthur turned his head away and furrowed his brows without opening his eyes. In his silence, the lord found something to chuckle at.
"You're a hypocrite, Arthur."
And the boy did not indulge him with a response. He simply sat, silent, refusing to open his eyes or turn back in any way. So Alistair set his lips into a hard line and swung his legs up, planting his feet against the boy's side and pushed quite suddenly. The swift action shoved the boy off the end of the bed and sent him clattering to the floor in a heap of white sheets.
"Make yerself useful 'n go fetch us some breakfast, boy."
Arthur cursed from the floor, disentangling himself from the linen.
"I should have smothered you in your sleep," he growled as he rose. He stomped around to the end of the bed where his clothes had been thrown messily over the post. He dressed with the Scot watching him, wearing that infuriating knowing smile.
"'N I donnae suppose yer gonna tell me why ye dinn't?"
Arthur flushed at the challenge, but refused to be goaded into another stupid, emotional conversation he didn't have the patience for. He jammed his buttons through each slit of fabric and tried to straighten out his appearance: he smoothed the wrinkles from his pants and fixed his collar, then flattened down his hair as much as he could.
It took a great deal amount of focus to walk normally and banish any lingering soreness from his expression. He left the room composed, though he felt those mocking eyes on his back until he'd shut the door behind him.
It was on his way back from the kitchen with a tray that he ran into Cait.
He had to tell Bella that the Laird Alistair was feeling a little under the weather and that he would be eating his morning meal in bed today. The girl tittered at something he didn't understand, then quickly condensed the meal she and her cooks had been preparing and sent Arthur away.
He was just passing the study when the Irish girl came pelting down the hall, her face red and her eyes wide with alarm.
"Arthur! There you are!"
The blonde blinked a few times, willing his brain to work through his confusion.
"...Yes?"
"We were worried! Nobody saw you doin' your rounds this morning, and you weren't in your quarters at sunrise." She lowered her voice to a hushed whisper. "Some people were sayin' you'd tried to run again."
The attendant laughed sheepishly and tried to banish the urge to blush.
"Haha, no, not quite. I just overslept today. Thankfully Alistair-" he stopped himself quickly, not quite comfortable with sharing the real reason for their lord's lethargy, "-Alistair hadn't noticed. He isn't feeling well."
Cait nodded, looking relieved. It was as she was about to speak again that she suddenly froze, her entire being still as her eyes zeroed in on Arthur's neck.
She moved too quickly for the youth to react and startled him into dropping the tray. The noise echoed down the hall, but neither of the duo really noticed it. Caitlin had her hands on the blonde's collar, pulling back the fabric to reveal the skin it covered. Arthur blanched when he realized that the Irish woman was pressing her fingers into a colourful love bite, her eyes wide. He had completely forgotten the amount of marks Alistair had left.
"Cait, I can explain."
She ignored him and pulled apart his vest with deft fingers. Arthur wanted to protest, but part of him decided if he was condemned, why hide it? It may count for something in the end.
He did mumble a complaint when she pulled his shirt up and covered his face with it as she studied his torso. He was littered with red blemishes and marks where Alistair's grip had been so strong it had bruised his flesh. He heard the young woman gasp softly, letting his shirt fall back down to cover his shame.
"Caitlin, I-"
"Did he do this?" She demanded. Her tone was no-nonsense and her eyes were furious.
"I- Well, y-yes, but-"
"Did he force himself on you?"
Arthur considered lying – considered placing all the blame on Alistair and then trying to convince himself of the like. It would make it all easier to deal with. After all, he had been quite drunk and they both learned pretty quickly Arthur was not very good at handling his liquor while Alistair would be the champion were it a sport. And while it wasn't entirely unwanted, there had been a lot of physical force involved.
The youth scolded himself internally and banished those thoughts from his mind.
He had learned the hard way what sort of things came from lying just to save his own skin – especially in personal matters like these, and to friends he cared about like Caitlin.
But his indecision had been showing on his face the entire time and the little Irish woman did not have the patience to wait for a response. In her mind, the conflicted expression had been enough of an answer and she turned, stomping back towards Alistair's quarters.
"Wait!" The Brit reacted before his brain had really processed what was going on. He stepped over the tray and caught the girl by the wrist. She turned back, mid step, surprised. She stared expectantly, eyebrows arched upwards as she waited for Arthur's explanation. "I-it's not like that."
Arthur rallied the rest of his composure and banished the stutter from his voice. He was raised as royalty, and besides that he was raised to carry a little more pride in himself than this.
"It's not like that," he repeated firmly. "It's not entirely his fault. I am as much to blame. We were drunk, and things got out of hand."
The woman turned completely and Arthur let her go. She studied his expression carefully for quite some time, and the youth was sure that she was reading into it and learning more than his words could ever coherently share. It was one of the things about Cait that made her such a valuable friend: she could tell just by looking at you what sort of things were on your mind.
But her reaction to this startled Arthur out of his pride and he felt himself falter.
She smiled, sighed and said,
"Ah, alright. Then it's about time."
The young man's efforts to reign himself in were for nothing, because this made him crumble a second time.
"I beg your pardon?"
Cait kept smiling at him as if it were obvious.
"The two o' you have had this coming for a while."
What?
"B-but-" Arthur was stuttering again out of shock. It was one of the things he hated about himself, and rushed to correct once again. "What are you talking about?"
His confusion was what tipped Cait off to the true state of affairs between the two and her smile only brightened.
"Oh, Arthur, you're a wee emotionally stifled, aren't you?"
"Please explain."
Caitlin laughed.
"I have been here for years, Arthur, and never have I seen our Laird come to care for someone as much as he has you." While Arthur stood there with his mouth hanging open, at a loss for words, the woman smoothed out her skirts and continued. "Maybe you can't see it because you're involved, but from the outside, it's fairly clear. He's patient with you, he tolerates your insults and your insubordination, he's happy when you're happy and he worries when you're gone."
Arthur shut his mouth with a click and frowned.
"I know no one told you, but that first time you ran away, he didn't say a word. He got on his horse and took off after you without speaking to anyone. It was Steven who rallied soldiers to chase after our Laird to assist." The woman turned and took both of the young man's hands in her own. "He cares dearly for you, even if he has a funny way of showing it."
"I'd hardly call running after an escaped slave an act of caring."
"I told you, you probably can't see it because you're involved, or you just don't know Alistair well enough to tell."
"I'd like to think-"
But Cait interrupted.
"Did he ever tell you about his last attendant?"
With a sigh, Arthur relented.
"Only that he had the poor man burned for treason."
"So, no, then? He didn't?"
The blonde frowned, and Cait pressed on.
"It's hard to be around someone so much and not come to care for them. Alistair's last attendant wasn't as much a servant as he was a dear friend. They were very close, and they knew each other from a time before Alistair became Laird of Forfarshire. But James hated this war, and he blamed the state o' Scotland for it."
"What did he do?"
The woman's smile faltered and she looked sad as she continued.
"He believed that a united Scotland would work best under English rule. He believed there would be less petty squabbles for power and less continued threats of invasion from England if we were just part of their kingdom."
Arthur could already tell this story was not a happy one, and he wasn't sure he was ready to hear it all, but he did not interrupt.
"Alistair had quite a hand in the commandin' o' the Scottish rebels, and James was leaking information to the Disinherited in Fife. Eventually, James was given an order to kill Laird Graham in his sleep."
A heavy silence followed these words and Arthur regretted his earlier threat to the man – even if only briefly.
"Laird Graham awoke before he got the chance to, but he couldn't kill the lad. He had him thrown in the dungeon until he could figure out how to deal with the betrayal while the guilt drove James to take his own life."
The woman finally let Arthur's hands fall lifelessly to his side.
"Alistair was furious and had the body burnt, and he sort of collapsed in on himself after that. He was angrier and quick to discipline, he saw traitors everywhere and began to fear for his position. He slept fitfully and with a dagger under his pillow. It only really changed a while after you arrived. We would theorize that he just needed someone with the courage to yell back when he got angry, or to point out when he was being an idiot or unnecessarily cruel, and you had no reservations about doing any of those things."
"I suppose you could say you helped to steady him."
As the girl's voice faded out and the silence returned, Arthur felt so many things begin to fall into place. It was as if this entire situation was a puzzle and this new information helped him find pieces that he'd been missing for months. Questions what had gone unanswered didn't need to be answered any more – why did Alistair not scold him more for his sharp tongue? Why was the Brit kept around in the first place, if the Scotsman pretty well always knew who he really was? Why had he been pinned under a frantic Alistair at knife point just for trying to wake him up? A lot of it made at least some sense now.
Except for one thing.
There was an inexplicable weight on his heart and the nagging feeling that something was missing.
"My breakfast!"
Arthur looked beyond Caitlin's shoulder and the girl turned to face where Alistair stood, dressed to the nines for battle – that ridiculous kilt, the blue beret and the plethora of weapons tucked into his belt. His eyes, however, were on the mess of breakfast on the ground and he looked decidedly sad.
"Ach, ye good fer nothin'..." He approached the pair and Caitlin wisely shuffled aside, unsurprised when the man smacked the blonde upside the head. "I was hungry!"
Arthur swore at the strike.
"Then you should have gotten something yourself or just plain gotten out of bed, you lazy git!" He huffed, the crouched down to angrily throw plates and bread and foodstuffs back on the tray. When he stood, it clicked that Alistair was dressed for war. "What's going on?"
The Scotsman grinned.
"A messenger came by while ye were slackin' tae tell me tha' I once again have British loyalists on my land at th' Perthshire border. 'M off tae tell 'em they aren't welcome."
Arthur stared up at the Scot and kept his expression blank, because he knew that the man was looking for a reaction. When he got none, the fire-haired lord rolled his eyes with an amused smile. His hand shot out and grabbed the blonde by the back of the neck and pulled him close. Arthur's entire face went deep red when he was forced into a kiss right in front of Caitlin, and he grunted in protest, trying to shove at the man's torso with his tray. His halfhearted attempts were ignored and when he was released, the lord paused only to peck a much gentler kiss on the youth's forehead.
"Now donnae ye run off while 'm gone, or I'll have ye bound to my bed when I drag ye back again." The man chuckled and stepped around the Brit. Arthur had once again shut down in shock, feeling as if his entire body was on fire and burned with shame. As Alistair sauntered merrily away, the lad cast a nervous look to where Caitlin stood aside.
But the woman was smiling somewhat scandalously behind a hand and her eyes glittered with mischief.
"How far is the Perthshire border from here?"
Arthur wondered aloud, meticulously sorting through the documents on Alistair's desk while Michelle dusted around the study. He pushed a neat stack of papers to the corner.
"Ah...if it's also pretty close to Fife, not too far. On a healthy horse one could make it there within the hour."
Arthur grunted, then quietly resumed sorting. Out of his peripheries he could see Michelle slowly stop her dusting and turn towards him.
"They would be there by now, if that's what you were wondering."
The Brit said nothing, but tucked away that information in the back of his mind.
By noon, Alistair and his soldiers had still not returned.
Arthur had spent a good fifteen minutes pacing behind the estate gates, and during that time the gatekeeper leaned out of his watchtower and called down to the boy, sounding a little uncertain.
"Did ye...did ye want me tae open th' gate, sairr?"
He lifted his head, his expression blank, and stared up at the guard.
It was easy to remember a time when the very same gatekeeper would warn him away, a time where no one within the estate walls would have ever addressed the bitter attendant as 'sir.' But Arthur had already proved himself a source of leadership in a trying time for the staff and servants and soldiers alike. When Alistair was not around, it was him who they looked to for direction, but Arthur had never quite adjusted to hearing that honorific from the Scottish folk.
The blonde bit his cheek, then shook his head.
"No, thank you," he responded, "sorry for troubling you."
The man only grunted, watching with sympathy as the attendant turned away from the gates and strode back to the castle doors without another word.
Halfway through the afternoon, Arthur was anxious. He puttered around the estate looking for any menial task to keep him busy. Alfred sat on a stool and watched the young man dust the same bookshelf three times.
"Are you worried?" he asked, curious.
Arthur stopped abruptly, made a noise akin to a scoff, then turned to dust at a shelf that Michelle had already cleaned.
"It's okay, he'll come back," Alfred smiled, "he did before, right?"
The child didn't understand why the Brit only grunted and continued his pointless work. Alfred tilted his head to one side and made a puzzled face. He thought things through until he believed he knew what the problem was and had selected the best words of comfort.
"Hey!"
Arthur turned and raised a thick eyebrow.
"It's like you said," the boy leaned forward in his stool, "Alistair had to leave you behind 'cause he needed you here! He needed someone to make sure that..." he pouted as he struggled to remember the exact words. "...That someone would keep an eye on things and make sure everyone did their chores!"
The Englishman felt a small smile tug at his lips. It wasn't because he felt better, but because the boy was doing his best to comfort someone obviously agitated.
"Nothing has gone wrong here yet, right?"
Arthur laughed softly.
"No, it hasn't."
The little scamp threw his arms up in celebration.
"See? You're doing a great job!"
Warmed by the child's attempts to spread good cheer, Arthur crossed the room to where the boy sat. He hoisted Alfred up and rested the boy's weight on his hip.
"Alright, you got me."
"Good, 'cause I'm hungry and Bella wouldn't feed me."
Arthur laughed again. He should've known the boy had an ulterior motive to worming his way into Arthur's good favour. But he'd succeeded, and the Brit was still welcoming any and all distractions.
"Well let's you and I go have a word with Bella, and see if we can't get her to bend some rules."
Snack time with Alfred came and went.
But Alistair had still not returned.
Arthur had distracted himself in every possible way. He'd washed Alistair's sheets and blankets, his own clothes, and then even took some time to bathe. The laundry dried in the light of the evening sun and the laird was still missing.
There had not even been a breathless messenger by to bring them news of the Scotsman's conquest.
He was standing at the window overlooking the gates when Cait passed behind him.
"Figure it out yet?" she asked softly, pausing beside him.
"What?"
She laughed that melodious laugh of hers and patted the blonde gently on the hand before leaving him to his thoughts.
"I guess not."
It was just after sunset that the gates finally opened and in rode a lone horseman. The gatekeeper heralded his arrival and Arthur strode out into the torchlight.
He was still as he watched the man dismount his horse. His uniform was soaked in blood and his beret was missing, but he approached the young attendant with confidence.
Arthur narrowed his eyes, studying the battered soldier and the bloodstained clothes.
"I thought you said you were going to talk to them."
Alistair grinned roguishly.
"I've terrible manners, boy."
Then the laird realized he was being studied. He followed the blonde's stare to the blood soaking into his shirt.
"None o' it's mine," he said, pulling his shirt off over his head to prove it. He wasn't lying – his torso was unscathed, though a little darkened with dried blood and bruises and there was a pale scar where he'd been stabbed some weeks ago. "They took th' first shot, 'n we retaliated. They were actually bona fide English this time, so naturally they lost horribly."
Arthur frowned, but Alistair did not apologize for his off hand insult. The youth couldn't bring himself to be mad, however. He was just relieved that the Scot was more or less unharmed – that he had returned alive and well.
Satisfied now with that information, Arthur turned and walked away.
"Ach, now just where do ye think you're goin'?" Alistair called, frowning. The young man paused by the door, flicked a look that was both irritated and concerned back to the fire-haired Scot, then entered the estate without answering.
The lord let him go, smiling despite his dismissal, because he knew what Arthur did not.
It was late when there was a soft knocking at his door. Alistair had changed out of his bloodstained uniform and washed, dressing in loose pants and preparing to turn in for the night.
Alone, he noted bitterly, wondering where the little blonde had slunk off to.
But his bitterness evaporated when he called for the visitor to enter and Arthur stepped into the room. He leaned against the door to close it and kept his eyes on the floor off to his right.
"Welcome back, lad," the lord purred, an amorous smile pulling at his lips. "Did ye get lonesome?"
"Shut up."
Alistair chuckled at the snap, running a hand through his hair out of habit.
"Then what is it ye want, Arthur?"
As expected, the boy flushed at the sound of his name. Alistair had always hesitated to use it before, afraid that something may carry over in his tone that he didn't want the young man to hear or understand. But now that the proverbial cat was out of the bag, he used it freely – especially since discovering that his use of it flustered the Brit.
Without immediately answering, Arthur kept his back against the door and slid down into a sitting position. Alistair watched, still smiling, as the blonde buried his head in his hands. A familiar silence stretched between them for a few long minutes, broken when Arthur found the courage to speak.
"I was scared," he admitted at last, "that you wouldn't come back."
The lord's smile widened.
"I've been scared before by that though – after we got news that you'd been wounded in battle. But then, I was worried because the people I had come to care about here were so dependant on your survival. If you died, their lives would be torn apart."
Alistair took a few steps into the middle of the room, and he was still when he faced Arthur with his hands resting lazily in his pockets. He stared down at the boy who refused to lift his head and gazed into the floor instead.
"This time, I got scared again, but I wasn't worried about their lives." Arthur sounded self-loathing. "I was worried for an entirely selfish reason."
"I told ye, lad," mocked Alistair, "you're a hypocrite."
"Shut up!"
It was the subtle break in the boy's tone that told Alistair that he was fighting back tears. He noticed how tightly the blonde gripped at his hair, how he steadily seemed to be curling in on himself.
"I should hate you," he hissed, repeating it desperately, "I should hate you."
He raised his eyes and Alistair could see that he had lost his own battle. Silent tears had begun to spill over from the jade colours.
"I should hate you," he said again, "but I don't. I really don't."
"You're a sorry mess then, aren't ye?"
Alistair had suppressed the worst of his brogue, but he couldn't keep the taunt out of his tone and the boy could only answer it with a broken nod before he buried his face in his hands again. He stood patiently, listening as at last the youth broke completely. Part of him sympathized – and it was the part that motivated him to step forward and crouch to level with the Brit.
"Is it truly so bad?" he asked softly, and Arthur curled in on himself more. Alistair let out a long sigh. "Arthur, don't be a child."
"I love you."
The words were nothing more than a quiet breath, but the lord heard them nevertheless. He shifted to kneel on the floor in front of the younger man.
"I love you," Arthur repeated without moving. "I shouldn't. I know it's wrong and I know I shouldn't. I should hate you." He shook his head. "I should hate you and I don't."
Alistair reached forward, tilting the boy's chin up and then going to brush away the tears with his knuckles, frowning as he did so.
"I can't stand it when ye cry," he said simply, "ye sound like such a woman."
At this, Arthur narrowed his eyes with annoyance and set his lips into a hard line. He realized all too late that the comment was Alistair's backwards, somewhat cruel way to get the lad to stop crying. It worked, but it didn't make the Brit think any better of his lord.
"You're insufferable and I hate that I care about you."
"Love ye too," Alistair cooed, cupping the boy's face and leaning in to press an innocent kiss to the youth's forehead. He helped pull the boy to his feet, then pressed him back into the door to take his lips and kiss him deeply. It wasn't anything like the harsh and frantic kisses from the previous night. This exchange was softer and kinder, and were either man the type to speak such a word it could even be called romantic.
The elder man's hands ghosted down Arthur's sides until they gripped firmly at his waist. He pulled the youth away from the door, retreating slowly back to his bed with the blonde in tow. They tumbled together onto the mattress, and it was Alistair who lay beneath Arthur, though it was still very clear who led.
But when Alistair's hands travelled further down and made a lecherous grab at the younger's rear, Arthur suddenly pulled away and scowled.
"No," he hissed, and Alistair sulked. "No," he repeated, firmer. "I'm sore as all hell, you can just fuck right off."
Glad to hear the blonde's fire and foul language had returned, Alistair nipped playfully up at his neck, grinning wildly.
"You're ruinin' the moment, lad,"
"No, you ruined the moment with your perverseness. Don't you dare try and blame me."
But Alistair kept on grinning, and Arthur huffed. All at once he rolled off the taller man and went to leave, stopped when the Scot snatched his wrist and held tight.
"Fair enough, Arthur, but stay here."
It was more of an order than a request.
Still, Arthur made a face as if deliberating it, ignoring how his lord watched him coldly, practically daring him to refuse.
"On one condition."
Alistair made no promises and raised an eyebrow.
"You must let me do one thing."
"And what is that?"
The young man spun quickly, climbing back atop the Scot and straddling his waist. Alistair smirked, thinking of all the wrong things when the younger leaned down, his hands on the lord's pillow, framing his head.
Cleverly, Arthur distracted the elder man with a sweet kiss while he slipped a hand under the pillow and felt for a solid object. Alistair stiffened quite suddenly when he felt something shift under his head, his heart seizing when the boy pulled his dagger out into the open.
Acting on instinct, he reached up and snatched the blonde's wrists, holding tightly as his face twisted into a snarl.
Arthur held his composure and did not react to the hostility.
"Relax," he said flatly, "if I intended to kill you, I would have done so by now."
"I doubt you could've," Alistair grumbled, "even if ye had wanted to." He held firm for a few long minutes, during which Arthur only stared and waited. Eventually, his grip began to slacken and the youth pulled his wrists free. He rose from the bed and set the thin dagger on the dresser, returning to ease the Scot's uncertainty with novice kisses and a warm embrace.
Alistair was obviously conflicted for a while, stealing glances at the dagger on the dresser when he thought Arthur was not watching. It wasn't long before Arthur settled, letting the larger man curl around him with only a small grumble of protest. Naturally he was ignored, but he fell asleep within minutes despite his wordless complaint.
When the boy was snoring softly in his arms, Alistair turned to glance back at the weapon on the dresser and momentarily considered retrieving it. With just marginal reluctance, the Scot shut his eyes and ignored the absence of steel. Instead he turned his attention on the sleeping Brit, who was no longer conscious to feel the way Alistair tightened his grip, affectionate and possessive and grateful all the same.
Happy Wednesday, everyone!
And here's your update, as promised. Eleven chapters and I'm still going strong. Who knew?
Thanks so much to those of you who reviewed. I think I responded to most of them, but if I missed you it's because I'm an idiot (or you are a guest), so don't feel bad! Honestly, you lovely people are the reason I keep a steady update schedule, and the reason I get so excited to write. I just wish I could make it up to all of you.
Thank you for reading this far, please don't hesitate to review, they are the reasons I do what I do. I look forward to hearing from each and every one of you (:
Until next time,
Ami~
