Hunger Chapter 23, a merlin fanfic

Title: Hunger
Author: EachPeachPearPlum
Rating: T
Warnings: And we have swearing again, although not a massive amount. A good deal of stupidity, too. Also, I must beseech you, don't get your hopes up just yet.
Disclaimer: I neither own nor control the characters. They do what they want, and I just roll my eyes and keep writing.
Notes: Next one won't be quite so prompt, I don't think, for three reasons. One, Lancelot has buggered up half my plans for it, and the other half of my plans are seeming somewhat less coherent than when I first wrote them. Two, it's now three weeks since I last updated my other WIP, and since then I have written less than a thousand words. And three, life has decided to assault me with several large folders of work I have been neglecting for far too long. So, yeah, expect an update soonish, but probably not within a week of this one, and, as I said, please don't get your hopes up too high. Review, pretty please. Peach.

Hunger - Chapter Twenty-Three

Merlin is rescued from having to respond to Gwaine's question – remark, really, since he isn't entirely sure that Gwaine wants an answer to it – by Lancelot, who stands and instructs Gwaine to help him bring in another round of drinks. Gwaine obeys, and Merlin relaxes slightly as the others laugh uneasily and Leon begins an explanation of the food situation and Gwaine's part in it for Gareth.

Gwen slips her hand into Merlin's under the table, squeezing gently. "He didn't mean anything, I don't think," she whispers softly, sitting up as straight as she can in order to reach his ear.

"I know," Merlin answers, slumping in his seat and trying to move his lips as little as he can. "I was just hoping our first conversation might actually pass for conversation, you know."

She squeezes his hand again, then says, "he hasn't taken his eyes off you yet. Not that you're doing a whole lot better. If you want to know how he looks at you when you're not looking, you're going to have to actually stop looking at some point."

Merlin winces a little, because he knows full well that for all Gwaine is staring at him, he's staring back just as hard. But staring doesn't mean anything, not really, not when Gwaine's seat is between Lance's empty one and Gareth and it isn't going to be Merlin sleeping in his bedroom tonight. "What about Gareth?" he asks. "What is he to him?"

"You could just try asking him, you know," she suggests, quite clearly trying not to smile.

"And say what?" he challenges, because it's an option that's already crossed his mind. "'Hey, Gwaine, long time no see. Are you shagging the boy you brought back here with you, or am I still in with a chance?'" Merlin realises how much attention their whispered conversation is getting, although he's sure they're being quiet enough that even Elyan on Gwen's right and Leon on his left can't hear. And even if they aren't, it's not like either of them has said anything that isn't pretty much public knowledge by this point.

Gwen glances around the group, gaze hovering on Gareth, then moving to Gwaine and Lancelot at the bar, and finally fixing on Montague. She smiles, and there's something a little disconcerting to it, like she has a plan that Merlin won't like. "Flirt with Montague," she instructs.

"What?" Merlin squeaks, much too loudly, because as far as plans go that beats an awful lot of Arthur's in the running for the prize of Thing Merlin Least Wants To Do.

"Not seriously," she amends, even softer than before, as if to remind Merlin that they don't want to be overheard. "Just enough that Gwaine notices. If doesn't still want you, he won't react."

Merlin thinks that this is a very bad idea, not least because it's completely unfair to Montague. Gwen looks so very determined, though, and she is in a strong, committed relationship with Arthur, so Merlin figures she probably knows a bit more than he does. After all, the heart of the King of Camelot is no small prize, and certainly a lot harder to come by (without magical assistance) than a place in the bed of Camelot's most incorrigible knight.

Gwen gives him an encouraging smile, a quick pat on the hand, and then lets him go. He stands and makes his way around the table, stealing Lance's seat and steeling himself to do this.

"That was tactless," Lance says, as soon as they're out of hearing range of the others.

"I know," Gwaine answers, glancing back at the table. Merlin and Gwen are sharing a very intense conversation and that's weird, isn't it? He's sure it's odd (Gwen just being here is pretty odd, but the fervour with which she and Merlin seem to be speaking is even more suspect), but he can't exactly ask Lance because Gwen is kind of a non-topic with him. "I didn't mean to say it. Just sort of came out. You didn't tell me how thin he'd got."

Lance bumps his arm, then – in a display of his impressively powerful empathic powers – says, "you did the right thing, Gwaine. Arthur needed to know."

"I know," Gwaine repeats. "Doesn't mean I feel good about it." He leans his back against the bar, ducking his head slightly when Bonnie glances in their direction – he vaguely recalls her slapping him the last time he was in here – and watching avidly as Merlin moves from his whispering with Gwen to an equally intense conversation with Montague.

Merlin puts his hand on Montague's arm and leans in to him, smiling. Quietly, he tells Montague that the first evening he knew him, he thought his hair looked like the sunset. As lines go, it's not a great one, but then this is hardly Merlin's forte.

Montague looks back at him, leans in just as much, and says, very softly, "I know what you're doing, Merlin. Stop it." Merlin considers, just for a second, pretending not to know what he's talking about, pretending to be serious long enough for Gwaine to work out what he's doing, and Montague bobs his head once, slowly. "Right. I figured this was how it was going to be when he got back. I don't expect you to associate with me if you don't want to, but don't make me some piece in your games, Merlin."

He holds Merlin's gaze until he flinches and has to look away. It stings, not just Montague's assumption that Merlin would only want to be friends with him in Gwaine's absence, but the accusation, entirely merited, that Merlin is playing with him for his own selfish reasons. "I'm sorry," he says under the rumbles of the others' conversation, taking his hand from Montague's arm. "I am your friend," he promises. "I shouldn't be...I just thought..."

"I know," Montague murmurs, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. "But trust me, please. This isn't something you want to do. Now go back to your seat before they return to the table, and I would strongly suggest you talk to him before you end up doing something you'll both regret."

"Thank you," Merlin tells him, then stands and returns to his place next to Gwen. "I can't," he whispers to her, and then, maybe because it's more honest and he's lied to her enough, "I don't want to."

She looks back at him, mildly bewildered, and Merlin realises that in telling her absolutely everything, he now has another person wondering why he befriended Montague. He could explain – at least to a certain extent, because even to himself his explanation sounds weak – that for all he accepted that it wasn't Montague's fault, he still couldn't stand to be near him, not really. Ultimately, he could tell her, it was the fact that Arthur and Lancelot were so unapologetically unpleasant to Montague because of what happened between he and Gwaine, and that Montague did nothing about it, barely even reacted, that made Merlin be his friend. He could, quietly and easily, but he won't, because while he could get away with criticising either Arthur or Lance to her for defending him, both would probably be going too far.

"Okay," Gwen agrees, accepting his decision to leave unanswered her unasked question. "There's other options, I just thought he'd be the easiest."

Merlin wonders why she thought that the easiest plan involved him attempting to flirt, and just how bad her other plans are. Except she didn't say it'd be the easiest, she said he'd, and this whole thing is just going from bad to worse. Gwen doesn't have a different idea in mind, just a different person for him to make a fool of himself with, and Merlin doesn't even want to know who. He wants to go home, now, and he'll find some opportunity to actually speak to Gwaine tomorrow, when they aren't surrounded by their friends. "No," he says. "No, Gwen."

Merlin is weak-willed. He would never have thought it in the past – he stays in a city where his very existence is against the law in order to keep Arthur alive, which pretty much defines determination in his eyes – but it's really the only explanation for this. He has somehow gone from telling Gwen that there's no way he's doing this, at all, ever, to walking through the slightly crowded taverns towards a guy – Roger, Gwen says – about Merlin's age, one of the pages who runs messages from the council to the various inhabitants of the city, all in the time than it takes Gwaine and Lancelot to return from the bar. Gwen says she's seen his eyes lingering on Merlin when they've both been in attendance at meetings of Arthur's advisory council. Gwen says he likes Merlin, which will make it easier. Gwen says if Merlin just goes up to him, smiles, offers him a compliment and tries to look like he's interested in someone other than Gwaine, Roger will do the rest. Gwen says, Gwen says, Gwen says.

But, for reasons unknown, Merlin listens.

He walks over to Roger, smiles, and murmurs, "I love your shirt. The colour really brings out your eyes." Given that it's a uniform shirt, the compliment far exceeds the one he offered Montague in terms of terribleness, but Roger smiles back and pushes out the chair next to him.

Merlin allows himself a single glance back at the table, in time to see Gwaine slide back into his seat and pass another tankard to Gareth, then sits himself, his face really starting to hurt from all the insincere smiling he's got going on.

Gwaine helps Lance carry the drinks back to the table with heavy feet and an even heavier heart. Merlin's conversation with Montague turned out to be very brief, followed by another whispering match with Gwen before he stood again. Gwaine wonders if he's going to leave, wonders if he should go after him and say...something, but no, Merlin isn't leaving. Merlin is darting carefully through tavern patrons to get to a guy Gwaine doesn't recognise, brown-haired, dressed as some sort of castle employee. He must have something work-related to talk to him about, Gwaine figures, except Merlin sits down next to him, far closer than is proper.

Gwaine can't see what Merlin's face looks like, but he can see him nodding at what the man says, can see the man's face brighten impossibly much, can see him put a hand on Merlin's leg, can see Merlin make no effort whatsoever to remove it.

And sure, Merlin can flirt with whoever the hell he wants, can make a spectacle of himself, can go somewhere with that man and let him put his hands all over him, let him undress him, let him discover all the touches that make Merlin moan and whimper and beg, let him pin him to a mattress and fuck him silly. Merlin may well have spent the entire time he was away doing just that, Gwaine tells himself, but he can't believe it because for one thing it's Merlin and for another Lance would have told him, warned him, before bringing him back here. But whether he has or not, Gwaine has no right to stop him, particularly seeing as he's now sitting only one seat away from someone he's slept with himself.

Gwaine can't stop him, isn't going to stop him, but that doesn't mean he has to sit here and watch.

"Alright," he says abruptly, standing. "I'm going to head off."

He feels everyone's eyes on him almost immediately, which, okay, is fair, because he's been acting oddly pretty much the entire evening. He contemplates avoiding eye contact and thus the need to explain and endure Lancelot's look of concern as Merlin finds someone else's bed to warm (without even having said a word to Gwaine yet, either, and that stings almost as much, even if Merlin has no real way of knowing how long and how hard Gwaine has searched for him over the course of the afternoon, even if Gwaine's only sentence to Merlin was a whole lot less than stellar). That would be even more uncharacteristic, though, and Gwaine can't tolerate anyone asking him what's wrong; he stares down Leon, Elyan and Percival's looks of surprise, Lancelot's sympathy, Gwen's triumph (what the fuck is that about, and has the whole place gone mad since he left?) and Montague's exasperation (and he echoes his thought of madness when Montague stands without warning and leaves them all without a word). "You can find your own way back, can't you, 'Reth?" he adds, because Gareth's expression is a perfect picture of do we have to go already?

The surprised looks become quite a lot more frowny with that sentence, and Gwen's delight lessens slightly as Gareth nods. "Yeah, I'm sure I can manage. See you later."

Gwaine stays just long enough for the others to also say goodnight, and to wave away Lancelot's offer of an accompaniment back to the castle and then he's gone, forbidding himself to look back, because he doesn't need to see.

"I have to say, I'm a little surprised you even know who I am," Roger says, laughing softly.

"Of course I do," Merlin lies, hating this plan even more now that he's enacting it than he did when Gwen suggested it. Pretending to put the moves on Montague was cruel, but at least he has no interest in Merlin. This is worse, though, and Merlin can't even turn to see if it's having any effect on Gwaine because Gwen told him he couldn't keep looking back at the knights' table. It has to look genuine in order to work, she told him, and if Merlin keeps turning to see how Gwaine is reacting it won't.

Roger's reply is interrupted by the appearance of two silver coins on the table, and Montague leans in over Merlin's shoulder. "Right," he says, and Merlin doesn't think he's ever actually heard him sound angry before today. "You, go get another drink. Now." He nods at Roger, fixing him with a look that somehow forces obedience, and Roger takes the coins and goes, quickly.

Montague takes his vacated seat, and Merlin flinches when the look is turned on him, understands immediately why Roger obeyed without question. "Whatever you think you're doing, you can stop it now, Merlin."

Merlin blinks, so unused to being looked at with genuine anger after months of everyone treating him like glass, and finds himself horrifically, unexpectedly close to tears. "Why, Montague? Why? He told me that he loved me, that he was mine, and then two days later he fucked you. That could have been nothing, because I hurt him and I know it and that-that's just him, Gwaine, and it's what he does. But this? He comes back to the city, a place he only came to in the first place because I was here, and he has this-this boy sleeping in his room. Why shouldn't I do this?" And that is so, so much worse, isn't it, because Merlin isn't just flirting with this poor guy to find out what Gwaine thinks of him but because he's seriously and sincerely hoping to hurt Gwaine with it, just as Gwaine has hurt him, even thought Merlin deserves it and pretty much asked for it.

"Why shouldn't you do this?" Montague echoes. "How about because 'this boy' of whom you are so jealous is Gwaine's brother, which you would know if you'd bothered to listen to me when I told you to talk to him. Now stop being such a bloody fucking child and go the fuck after him."

Merlin turns back to their table, seeing that the seat between Gareth and Lancelot is empty. He's succeeded in something, at least, because it's not just anyone who can make Gwaine run. All for nothing, too, because he's being a stupid, selfish, scared idiot, hurting the man he loves rather than being brave enough to speak to him. Merlin stares at Montague – wanting confirmation, a promise that yes, brother, and, no, Gwaine isn't Gareth's, not like he's Merlin's, isn't anyone's like he's Merlin's – until the other man nods at him, and then he's up and running, tripping over his own feet in his hurry to leave the tavern.

It is in the courtyard when Gwaine hears the echo of running footsteps bouncing off the walls around him, and then his name. He stops instinctively, because even without having heard Merlin's voice in months, that's what he does when Merlin calls him.

"I'm sorry," Merlin gasps, pure and direct, hunched over at the waist as he tries to get his breath back.

Gwaine doesn't really know what to say, what it is Merlin thinks he ought to apologise for, and so just waits, trying not to think of all the other times he's seen Merlin breathless, in situations much more pleasant than this.

Merlin straightens after a minute, gazing up at Gwaine standing a few steps higher than him, and repeats it. "I'm sorry. That was...I shouldn't have done that."

There is genuine guilt in Merlin's voice, heavy and thick, and Gwaine thinks that maybe he hates it more than the sight of Merlin trying to romance someone else. "No," he says. "It's fine. We're over, you can do what you want." And then, because that doesn't make Merlin look any less remorseful, he forces himself to grin and add, "Heaven knows I have."

Merlin winces, then smiles shakily; Gwaine wonders if it's as fake as his own, or if that's just wishful thinking, and doesn't it make him feel sick that he's wishing for Merlin to be unhappy. "Who is he?" he asks, because he deserves whatever Merlin's reply is going to be.

"No one," Merlin says, looking down at his feet. "Just some guy. Gwen said he liked me." Gwaine nods, not sure what that's supposed to mean, and Merlin continues. "I wasn't going to do anything," he tells his toes, and Gwaine frowns. "It wasn't real."

"Looked pretty real to me," Gwaine mutters before he can stop himself, yanking his eyes up and away, staring at the buildings beyond Merlin's head when Merlin looks at him rather than his boots. Yeah, he's jealous, and yeah, Merlin is blind if he doesn't know it, but Gwaine doesn't care what he thinks about it. Or he doesn't want to care, anyway, which is almost the same, and not knowing is just so much easier.

"Gwen said it had to," Merlin says, then shuts up too quickly for it to have been a planned sentence. Gwaine lowers his eyes cautiously, the moonlight highlighting the way Merlin's lips press tightly together to keep anything else in.

Against his will (and isn't that how this conversation seem to be going?), Gwaine asks, "and what does Gwen have to do with anything? Are you telling people now?" He hadn't realised that was something he was bitter about, but his tone kind of suggests it is, hidden in amongst everything else he's feeling. "What, you needed advice about how to hurt my feelings? Just breaking up with me wasn't enough for you?"

Merlin blinks rapidly, but Gwaine can tell it isn't working because his cheeks are glistening wetly. "Don't," Gwaine tells him, trying to match the tone he used just moments ago, but he can't. It's softer instead, kinder, and he wishes he could have kept up his anger because without it he feels unspeakably awful. "Please don't, Merlin."

It is a simple matter to step down, first one step, then a second, and wrap his arms around Merlin, holding him close to his chest, Merlin's arms trapped between their bodies. It isn't comfortable, really, but Merlin twists his arms in what little space he has to do so, knotting his hands in the front of Gwaine's shirt, and just clings. "Don't cry," Gwaine murmurs, face pressed against Merlin's neck, left hand stroking his back, right running gently through his hair, trying not to inhale too much, to breathe in the smell of the tavern – smoke and ale, clinging to everyone that goes there, no matter how long they stay or whether or not they drink – and flowers – Gwen's perfume, probably – and something that is just Merlin – the air before a thunderstorm, the breeze blowing in across the sea, the first taste of springtime.

He feels Merlin shake, some combination of almost silent sobs and the cold, feels Merlin's tears land on his shoulder, slowly seeping through the layers of clothing to burn their way under his skin.

"I'm sorry," Merlin mumbles, and it feels like he's trying to move even closer to Gwaine, impossibly closer, holding on so very hard. Gwaine lets him, because these tears are his fault, his for shouting, for coming back, for leaving, for loving, for ever being stupid enough to be with Merlin in the first place. "I'm sorry, Gwaine. I'm sorry."

Lancelot flinches when Gwaine stands with enough force to almost knock his chair over, although he has no doubt as to why Gwaine is leaving. Montague, too, but he does so less violently, and Lancelot – unlike Gwaine – notices where he is going and approves unquestioningly. He wonders if he should insist on going with Gwaine, argue him into telling everyone that he and Gareth are siblings, but he leaves – flees, Lancelot thinks, then feels guilty for it, because Gwaine has every right to want to be elsewhere – before he can, leaving Gareth behind, and Lancelot feels a little responsible for him. He also thinks about crossing the room to where Montague is leaning over Merlin's shoulder, because he has yet to see the other man lose his temper, ever, and he rather thinks Merlin's behaviour right now merits a little anger, but given how quickly the page departs Lancelot surmises his assistance is unnecessary.

"You're staying with Gwaine?" Percival asks Gareth, and Lancelot winces at the reminder of yet another problem. He had hoped that that assumption could have been Arthur and Merlin's alone, at least until Gwaine has the good sense to tell everyone the truth, but the information that Gareth is sleeping in Gwaine's room is enough to lead everyone else to draw the same incorrect conclusion.

"Yeah," Gareth answers. "It's not like I have any place else to stay, at least until I earn my own room here."

Lancelot genuinely thinks about repeatedly smacking his head on the table in the hope that someone realises the cause of his despair, and tries to work out why the hell he is not enlightening everyone himself in order to save what few vestiges of Gwaine's reputation are still redeemable. Gwaine would not want him to, he knows, and that is really the only reason he can think of to stay quiet. He tells himself firmly that that is reason enough, after the last time he shared a secret of Gwaine's that he wanted to stay secret.

He feels more than observes the others' sharp glances, having decided his attention is better off fixed on Merlin and Montague's hurried conversation, but he is still listening. "You're welcome to sleep on any of our floors," Elyan says, his fervent hope that Gareth accepts practically audible.

"Or," Leon adds, with equal optimism, "I'm sure Arthur could be persuaded to locate a room for you temporarily, given who your parents are."

Gwen (he has tried not to notice her, to ignore the fluttery thing that takes up residence in his chest whenever she is close, to focus on Gwaine and Merlin's problems, but she is right there, almost directly across from him, stubbornly in his line of sight) is half-turned in her seat in order to observe what Lancelot hopes is Montague's severe dressing down of Merlin, but glances back to see what Gareth's response to this is.

"I'm not sure what my parents have to do with anything," Gareth tells them, and Lancelot wonders how no one recognises that stubbornness as the same as Gwaine's own. "Our-my father died before I was born, and my mother has barely stepped foot out of our village since then. Any room I get here should be earned on my own merits, not because of relatives no one knows. Besides, it's not like I haven't shared with Gwaine before. Apart from the snoring, it's not so bad."

At this point, Lancelot thinks smacking his head on the table is really the only appropriate reaction, particularly when Gwen asks, in a very gentle, very careful voice, "just how old are you, Gareth?"

"No," Lancelot says, because enough is enough. It does not matter that Gwaine wants his lineage to remain a secret, not really; Gwaine may be ignorant to everyone's assumption, or possibly just uncaring, and Gareth quite clearly has no idea what all these massively leading questions are the result of, but Lancelot is not, which rather makes this his responsibility to sort out. "No," he repeats. "Stop with the questions, now, please, before he works out why you are asking them and tells Gwaine."

"What?" Gareth interrupts before Lancelot can explain the crucial part. "Why can't they ask questions, Sir Lancelot? I don't mind answering them." He frowns at Lancelot in confusion, then looks back at Gwen. "I'm-"

"Gwaine's brother," Lancelot cuts in, hoping that in averting the mention of an age he has succeeded in averting Gwaine coming into prolonged and particularly painful contact with someone's sword because he is too stubborn to tell the truth.

"I'm pretty sure he didn't want people to know that, Sir Lancelot," Gareth says, frowning harder, even as he sounds a little guilty for implicitly questioning Lancelot's decision to tell everyone.

"No, I know he did not," Lancelot agrees, "but I am pretty sure he would prefer for everyone to know that you two are siblings than allow them to continue thinking what they are thinking for as long as it takes him to work it out and correct them." It is hardly the most coherent of sentences, but it certainly seems to have conveyed the necessary facts to Leon, Elyan, Percival and Gwen, all of whom have expressions of comprehension dawning on their faces. Furthermore, he has, with any luck, succeeded in keeping from Gareth the assumption that Gwaine is sleeping with him, thus, all being well, preventing Gwaine from being severely offended by learning of it.

The comprehension seems to be followed by relief, although Lancelot does not know if it is because they are deeply pleased that Gwaine is not having relations with someone inappropriately young for him, or if it is because they will never have to deal with Gwaine's reaction to them thinking that. Either way, he now feels safe to turn his full attention to the conversation Montague is...not having with Merlin. Merlin is gone, and Montague is making his way back over to them, smiling like the proverbial cat that got the cream.

He settles back into his seat as the questions resume, this time a whole lot more innocuous, barely glancing at Lancelot. "Told Merlin," he says quietly, eyes on the table in front of him. "He's gone after him."

"I told everyone else," Lancelot answers with no more volume. "I thought Gwaine would prefer that to being stabbed in his sleep by Gareth's rescues party." And then, registering the fact that Montague has managed to push Merlin into running after Gwaine, a feat Lancelot is not entirely sure he would have been able to manage himself, feels compelled to add, "good job with Merlin."

"That may well be the nicest thing you've said to me, Sir Lancelot," Montague murmurs, looking up with a soft, startled laugh, then stops, sobers. "Are you going to talk to Guinevere, or shall I?"

Merlin shivers a single, massive shiver, definitely distinct from his sobbing, and Gwaine pulls back a little, loosening his arms, resisting when Merlin tries to tug him in again. "Don't," Merlin murmurs, and something in Gwaine's brain muses humourlessly that it is now Merlin's turn to say that. "Don't let me go."

"I'm not," Gwaine tells him, even though technically he is. He tugs the laces of his cloak free, then shrugs it off, wrapping it around Merlin's shoulders. "You're cold," he says, allowing Merlin to tug him back in, sliding his arms into place around him again. "You shouldn't be cold." It sounds ridiculous, and Gwaine couldn't explain what he means by it if he tried, so he doesn't try.

But, he thinks, given the way Merlin presses his head back against his shoulder and moves his arms from their hold on the front of Gwaine's shirt to curl around his back, it maybe isn't necessary.

"What does Gwen have to do with anything?" Lancelot asks, and knows that he sounds a lot more like he is defending her than he should. Montague arches a single, sarcastic eyebrow at him, the words oh really? very visibly on his mind even though he does not say them. "She told him to," Lancelot realises, less a question than a statement.

"Yeah, I reckon so. I was the first mark, anyway. Really quite glad Gwaine didn't work out what Merlin was doing with that one."

"Hmm," Lancelot says, privately wondering how Gwaine would have reacted to that knowledge. He would not have been happy about it, certainly, but Lancelot is fairly sure that Gwaine's distaste for hypocrisy is enough that he would not interfere, perhaps even enough that he would not have stalked out as he did. Lancelot imagines Gwaine would probably consider it a suitable punishment, actually, to sit and watch as Merlin flirted with Montague, to pretend it was not crippling him to see it. Then again, perhaps that is just Lancelot projecting his emotions on to others, promises and duty not weighing half as much on the list of considerations that will have him sitting through Arthur and Guinevere's wedding as the need to punish himself in order to assuage the guilt he feels over almost ruining their happiness with one another, over wishing that, in the time between this day and the wedding day, only weeks away now, she will change her mind. She will not, and Lancelot will not try persuade her to, but just wishing that she will is sin enough.

"I will talk to Gwen," Lancelot tells Montague, setting his shoulders, and fibs a little about his reasoning. "I have known about them for longest; it is probably my responsibility."

Montague narrows his eyes a little and Lancelot tries not to cringe, tries not to think back to every conversation he's ever had with him, tries not to think of every single interaction he has had with Gwen that Montague may have witnessed. "Well," Montague murmurs, seemingly oblivious to Lancelot's furious wishing that he knows nothing of his feelings for Gwen, or his past transgressions with her. "Good luck, then."

Lancelot smiles hesitantly at him – it is Montague, after all, and he still has no real desire to be friends with him, even if both Gwaine and Merlin seem okay with it – and begins searching for a suitable opportunity to speak to Guinevere, since leaving with her alone would be deeply inappropriate. Involving any of the others would be foolish, though, and Lancelot would rather not do anything else tonight that Gwaine will be displeased with him for.

It is the better part of half an hour before Gwen begins to show signs of being ready to leave, and Lancelot still has no real reason for running after her. When she tugs her shawl around her shoulders and stands, Lancelot throws caution to the wind and rises as well. "Gareth," he says, "I believe Gwaine forgot to show you where Elyan's forge is. Would you care to accompany me in escorting Gwen home, and we can rectify that mistake?"

"Sure," Gareth answers, standing as well, seemingly oblivious to anything in the way of ulterior motives. "If Lady Guinevere does not object, of course."

Gwen giggles, and Lancelot feels his heart skitter a little. He does not step forwards, allowing Gareth to walk around to Gwen and offer her his arm rather than doing so himself. Gwen presses a kiss to Elyan's cheek, then nods her farewell to the others.

"Thank you for your hospitality," Gareth says to the knights, most of whom look rather surprised; Lancelot suspects that by informing them of Gareth's relation to Gwaine, they no longer expect him to demonstrate any manners.

"You're welcome, kid," Montague grins, clearly knowing better as a result of their days travelling with him. "Hurry off, now. You don't want to be waking Gwaine up too late." He gives Lancelot a very pointed look, completely unnecessary, because Lancelot had hardly been planning on allowing Gareth to just barge into the room without warning. He suspects there's something equally pointed about the nod with which Leon responds to his farewell, a careful blend of compassion and warning; the former, Lancelot feels, is undeserved, while the latter is only deeply unwarranted. Lancelot has no desire to repeat his sins, when the guilt from the first time is burden enough.

Merlin clings to Gwaine far longer than it takes for his tears to dry up and his apologies to halt, mostly just because he is so very grateful that Gwaine is still willing to let him. Gwaine doesn't let him go, not beyond the few seconds it takes for him to wrap Merlin in his cloak, and really the only way Merlin can think of to describe the long, long moments he spends with Gwaine's arms around him is home.

It doesn't matter that it's cold outside, so cold that if their faces weren't buried firmly in each other's necks their breath would be clearly visible. It doesn't matter that they're standing where anyone and everyone can see them, visible from half the castle and most people entering or leaving it. It doesn't matter that they've barely spoken, that they still have so very much to say before they can curl up safe and warm and together.

Merlin pulls back, lifting his head from Gwaine's shoulder, and waits until Gwaine looks at him before rising onto his toes – how peculiar that is, and the way Gwaine leans down a little to meet him, too – and pressing his lips to Gwaine's. His eyes flutter closed as Gwaine's hand slips from the back of his head to cradle his jaw so very gently, and Merlin presses closer, tilting his head into Gwaine's hand and deepening the kiss, feeling Gwaine shudder against him, just a little.

Nothing matters, because Gwaine is back.

Lancelot waits until they are a decent way outside of the tavern before stepping up alongside Gwen, standing close enough to speak quietly to her without allowing himself physical contact. "That was an interesting suggestion you made," he says, half-hoping to hear her deny it, as Gareth babbles about how nice the city seems, and how friendly everyone is.

Gwen glances at him just briefly, then nods in a way that suggests she has just realised that this was Lancelot's motivation for offering to accompany her home. "Gareth, could you let me talk to Sir Lancelot for a minute, please?" she says, when Gareth pauses for breath.

Gareth nods, unlinks his arm from hers, and drops back a couple of paces, all without question. It really is a little disturbing, Lancelot thinks, and tries not to laugh when Gwen murmurs, "he's not much like his brother, is he?"

He pushes down his amusement and does his best to smother anything resembling fondness for her (it does not work, but he was not truly expecting it to, having attempted it many a time in the past). "Did you tell Merlin to do that?" he asks, pushing for a frosty tone.

"I'm not sure you're one to complain about meddling, Lancelot," Gwen replies, and it saddens him for reasons beyond her words; up until that moment, Lancelot had still had hope that Montague was mistaken. "Merlin told me everything," she continues, "and it sounds to me like a lot of what's happened is your fault."

"I told Merlin that Gwaine loves him," Lancelot hisses, glancing back over his shoulder at Gareth, ambling along quite happily behind them without any signs that he can overhear their conversation. "You told him to flirt with one of his friends and then with a complete stranger, right under Gwaine's nose. It is hardly comparable."

With that sentence, Lancelot discovers proudly that he has finally managed to find a suitable level of anger to colour his tone. It stings him to see how cowed she looks, maybe, but he refuses to show it when she more than deserves it. "What were you thinking, Gwen? Why would you tell Merlin to do something that you had to know would hurt Gwaine?"

"I didn't make Merlin do anything," Gwen argues, and Lancelot does not bother to protest it. Merlin does what he wants, always, but he tends to follow advice that is not necessarily wise, just because he trusts the person giving it. "I was trying to help," she states firmly in response to his silence. "That's more than you've done this evening."

"Ah, yes," Lancelot spits, "because giving Gwaine the impression that the man he is in love with is no longer interested in him is such a helpful thing to do."

Gwen stops walking in the middle of the street. "I was trying to help," she repeats with even more determination as Gareth catches up to them, apparently taking their stillness as permission to do so.

"I hope for your sake that Merlin manages to explain that," Lancelot answers, not breaking eye contact. "Rest assured, I will be pointing Arthur in your direction if this makes Merlin any unhappier than he already is."

"You're hardly perfect yourself, Lancelot," she tells him, before he can turn away in exasperation at her unwillingness to accept his argument.

"No," he agrees, because this is a fact he understands well, even though almost everyone else he knows denies it. He reaches a hand out to her almost involuntarily, sweeping a curl back from her face then letting the hand linger on her hair, and he leans in closer than he should allow himself to. She does not step back, does not push his hand away, just holds his gaze, and his control shakes a little. He wants to step even closer, crush her body up against his, put his mouth to hers and never, ever let her go, regardless of their audience and location, of her marriage only weeks away and the knowledge that Merlin will destroy them both if he does. He wants to follow her into her house, only yards away from them, take off her clothing and his own and lie with her in her thin, uncomfortable bed. He wants to throw away vows and disregard oaths, put his mouth on each and every inch of her skin, hear her cry his name as he moves within her, wipe away her every memory of Arthur with thoughts of him and him alone. He wants.

"I am far from perfect," he tells her, noticing vaguely that Gareth has turned his back and the hunch of his shoulders suggests he is only seconds away from putting his fingers in his ears and humming. Lancelot steps away rather than towards her, and is certain, for once, that he would have done so with or without another's presence. "But you forget, Guinevere. All my sins are yours as well."

She stares at him still, eyes soft and wide and something, even as he removes his hand from her hair and takes a second step back, and a third, then turns away from her. "Guinevere's house is that one," he says to Gareth, pointing. "The smithy is next door to it. I am sure she can make it without us from here."