A/N: This fic was first posted to AO3 on 7th June as part of a Merlin fandom challenge. The fic takes place between seasons 4 and 5, with the change that Lancelot is still alive.
The days are starting to turn to blossoms and golden warmth when Lancelot asks the question.
He's just completed training for the day with Arthur and the knights, wiping the sweat from his brow as he makes his way over to Merlin. Merlin is supposed to be polishing shields, after a morning spent scrubbing them clean, but really it's no surprise to find that his devotion to the job is dwindling when there are more interesting things to look at. He grins shamelessly at Lancelot's approach, and the expression is a balm on Lancelot's aching muscles.
He leans over the small fence that closes off the training ground. "Enjoying yourself?" he asks.
Merlin's eyes flicker between the pile of shields at his feet, and Lancelot before him. His smile turns rueful. "Could be better," he replies. "How's training?"
Lancelot chuckles. "You tell me. You've been watching." He shoots a curious look at Merlin. "How did I do?"
Merlin hums, shaking his head. "Why do you assume I was looking at you? I could have been watching anyone. Like Leon."
"Leon?" Lancelot glances back, eyebrows raised. He turns back to Merlin. "Leon?"
Merlin's eyes settle over Lancelot's shoulder, his voice cool even as his lips tug at a smirk. "He's… charming. Dashing. A knight." He shrugs. "He's very popular with some of the ladies in the lower town, you know."
"Yes, I noticed Sarah Thomas gave him violets last week." Sarah Thomas is the oldest woman in the citadel. Quite possibly the entire kingdom. "They seemed very close. Does Arthur know of their courtship?"
That's enough to break Merlin's efforts at composure. He laughs, head tipped back into the sunlight, and the sight sends a surge of affection through Lancelot's heart, more love than he knows what to do with. He doesn't even think about it, just lets the words fall.
"May I paint you?"
Merlin is startled right out of his amusement. He looks up at Lancelot with wide, bewildered eyes, as if Lancelot has just proposed the strangest idea he's ever heard. "Me?" He laughs again, though this time it's a nervous sound. "Why?"
Why not? For a moment, Lancelot considers Merlin there in the sunlight. There's oil on his hands from the polishing, and streaks of it down his forearms where he's rolled his sleeves up. His eyes are underlined by a persistent need for more sleep than he's getting, and he's missed a couple of burrs in his hair from a fall during the earlier patrol.
Lancelot is quite certain that Merlin is the most beautiful person he's ever known. But he's rather less certain about how to actually express that. He knows there are some who would call him eloquent with expressing his feelings, like Guinevere. But he looks at Merlin, and somehow, words don't feel adequate.
But art, in a way, feels more capable of delivering such a message. He hardly feels able to call himself a real artist; he has only been painting for a number of months, having begun shortly before he met Percival. And there is the chance, however small, that Merlin won't like what art Lancelot makes of him. But he cannot deny to himself that this is something he's thought of for some time.
Meanwhile, in the absence of any immediate response from Lancelot, Merlin had turned to rambling.
"You know who you should paint? I bet Gwaine would love one, he's always complaining about how the royal painters never have his hair looking silky enough. Or Gwen! She and Arthur were so happy with the wedding portrait you did, they'd be thrilled for another-"
"I want to paint you," Lancelot says. His voice softens. "If you would let me."
For a moment, Merlin doesn't speak. Lancelot wonders if he might be uncomfortable with the proposition; Merlin has never outright expressed any disinterest in appearing in art, but then, servants are never given such opportunities.
Lancelot checks his surroundings, though he already knows that none of the knights are paying attention to this conversation before he lowers his voice. "If you would prefer that I didn't, then it is no trouble. I would not seek to pressure you on this." He takes a step away from the fence, hoping that the distance might ease Merlin's discomfort. "Please accept my apology."
"No," Merlin blurts out, just as Lancelot makes to turn away. He flushes right up to his ears when Lancelot looks back at him, before he runs a careless hand through his hair with a sigh, dislodging one of the burrs. "It's not that I don't want you to," he says. "I'm just sure you could find many more sensible subjects for a painting."
Lancelot's eyebrows quirk. "Sensible?" he echoes. "Are you and I sensible men now?"
"Well, of course you are!" Merlin argues. "All of your honour, and your principles. The only time you broke a rule in Camelot was when I encouraged you to do it."
"And if you hadn't encouraged me, where would I be now?" Lancelot smiles. "There is no rule that says a man cannot paint the one he loves." Merlin cannot argue with that. Lancelot goes on, more gently, "As I said, I will not pressure you. But I must be truthful – you would make an excellent painting."
He says it with no expectation. And perhaps Merlin can see that, because after only a moment's hesitation, he sighs, with a good-natured smile.
"I can't promise you'll get anything good out of me," he warns, "but you're welcome to try."
Lancelot chuckles, more gratitude than anything else. "Are you doubting my skills?" he asks.
"Of course not!" Merlin's returning smile seems more genuine now, tension seeping out of his shoulders. "If anything, you should be doubting my skills as a model."
"I'm sure you'll be fine." Lancelot runs an assessing eye over Merlin's figure, letting the gaze linger when Merlin starts to squirm. "You've got the build for it."
Lancelot takes that moment to depart, smiling to himself at the surprise on Merlin's face, just before Arthur calls the knights together for evaluations.
Later, when the knights are putting away their armour, Gwaine makes his way over to Lancelot.
"So, you and Merlin…" he drawls, a grin already forming, "what's happening there? You looked far too pleased with yourself earlier, considering I had you down in that last bout."
Lancelot shoots a smile over his shoulder. "I have a new painting to do," he replies. "Merlin."
"Merlin!" Gwaine sounds as triumphant about it as if he's personally responsible for the news. "Fantastic! I keep trying to get him into these knight portraits that Gwen's been commissioning, but he never sticks around for them. What'll your painting be, then? Something majestic for the best manservant in the five kingdoms, or maybe something just for the two of you?" He nudges Lancelot with a knowing gleam in his eye, and Lancelot laughs.
"Something for all to see," he replies - though, admittedly, Gwaine's suggestion does sound more than a little tempting. Perhaps next time.
For a few moments, the armoury is quiet, save for the light sounds of metal shifting and swords being put away. A few of the other knights make ready to leave, some chattering about where to find a good meal while others make an early start for the taverns. Elyan waves for Gwaine to join him and Percival, and Gwaine waves back, though he doesn't step away from Lancelot just yet.
"You know," he says, low enough for only Lancelot to hear him, "stealing away the king's manservant for a day won't be easy. Do you want me to talk to Arthur?"
"And tell him what?"
Gwaine shrugs. "I don't know. Arthur's always complaining about Merlin spending days in the tavern – never says which tavern, and I've never seen Merlin at any of mine unless I've dragged him to it, but… Arthur will buy it. What do you think?"
Lancelot considers. "I think Merlin would kill us both if I said yes to that." Lancelot has heard Merlin ranting enough times about Gaius using the tavern excuse to know that it would not end well for him to utilise that same lie now.
Gwaine makes a reluctantly agreeable sound, and slaps Lancelot on the shoulder. "I'll think of something," he says, before he makes his way over to Elyan and Percival. Lancelot watches him go, and wonders with some mild regret at what he might be getting himself into.
But he'll accept any excuse, he thinks, if it means getting some of the day alone with Merlin and his paints.
The next morning, Lancelot is ready. Gwaine's assurance from yesterday, however questionable it might be, resounds in his ears, and he gets through his morning preparations with ease. He meets Merlin halfway to Gaius' chambers, where Merlin is himself on his way back from Arthur's chambers.
"Thought I'd see to everything early," is Merlin's explanation. "Before Arthur decides there are sixteen more things for me to do before noon."
It's perhaps a bit more plausible than Lancelot would actually like to admit, so Lancelot just offers a smile and his arm for Merlin to take, shifting today's supplies more securely under his other arm.
Merlin takes in the weight Lancelot is carrying, and his eyes widen. "Wow." He laughs, with only a small wobble to it. "All this for me?"
Lancelot's smile widens as Merlin's arm tucks around his, and he leads Merlin through the castle. "One mustn't take shortcuts with a masterpiece, you know," he remarks, and the snicker in Merlin's next breath is the loveliest sound Lancelot has ever heard.
He cuts a path through the castle, out of the main square and along the outskirts of the riverbank. From here, the citadel rises up against the clouds, filling the horizon with its might. The sun still sits a little low, early morning, but the sky is bright and blue, the air filled with light and warmth. A perfect spot, in Lancelot's estimation, to capture Merlin's own beauty. He puts down his supplies, separating the canvas from the rest of his tools, and gestures for Merlin to sit.
On the grass, Merlin tries to find a comfortable position. Spring is in the air, but it's still early days, and without one of his usual scarves around his neck, he's shivering a little. Lancelot feels a pang of guilt at it, but he's chosen this location well, trusting in the sun's steady path to warm them both as the morning stretches into early afternoon. Merlin won't be cold for long.
In any case, he already looks on the road to warming up, if the self-conscious flush on his cheeks is any indication. His head is turned partially away, but his eyes flicker again and again to Lancelot's canvas, as if he doesn't want the looks to be noticed. As if Lancelot doesn't notice everything about him.
For a moment, Lancelot is tempted to point it out. But not yet, he decides. There's plenty of time to tease Merlin later. Right now, Lancelot just wants this painting – and he wants Merlin to be comfortable with it.
So, instead, Lancelot sets out his supplies. Percival has helped him find the best sources for his inks; despite the knight's own unfamiliarity with the citadel, he has a keen eye for matters such as these. Now, surveying the array of colours, the first real thrill of anticipation sets his heart thumping. If he is to be entirely honest with himself, he's rather nervous of getting Merlin's features perfect with his limited skills, of crafting an image that might lay bare the full depth of his emotions. He trusts himself to wield a sword, but a paintbrush is a very different thing.
But looking at the paints now, Lancelot nods to himself and smiles. He can do this.
They begin with settling on a pose. Usually, the knights in their new portraits simply stand, while Arthur and Gwen take position on their thrones. Lancelot would like for Merlin to feel relaxed, and sitting seems to be the best for that. It's just a matter of finding the best way of sitting. Merlin and Lancelot are able to agree, at least, that Merlin's face must be visible, but where Lancelot would be happy to paint Merlin in any position, Merlin can't decide on one that's good enough.
"I can make this look better," he says, or "my legs look far too long like this," or "my hip feels like it's about to break in half, is this how Gaius feels every day?"
Eventually, Lancelot darts away from the canvas to drop down onto the grass in front of Merlin, cupping his face in both hands.
"Merlin," he says, gently, "what feels good for you? What feels natural? That's all you need." He watches Merlin untangle his limbs, not moving away until he hears Merlin's sigh of relief, finally settled. And even then, he doesn't move away. Instead, he leans in, capturing Merlin's next breath in a kiss.
If he had thought Merlin still uncertain about this, all of that lingering tension drains away, lost at once as Merlin rises up to keep him close. He can feel the race of Merlin's pulse, their hearts thumping against each other, and sometimes he could swear he can feel Merlin's magic, too, when they kiss. Like a thrumming all along Merlin's skin, an energy that pulls Lancelot in endlessly closer.
He's tempted to abandon this painting endeavour entirely, to use up their handful of hours like this, instead. It's hardly the worst idea Lancelot's ever had. In fact, it might be the best.
But he breaks away for some much-needed air, and in the beat between the separation and reuniting, Lancelot looks at Merlin.
He's flushed from his neck up to his cheekbones, lips full and pink and parted for heaving breath. His eyes are half-wild, as dark as storm-tossed seas. He looks ravenous. Beautiful.
And also, as it turns out, like all the inspiration Lancelot needs to finally get on with painting him.
He disentangles himself from Merlin's embrace, moving away quickly before Merlin can haul him back into another kiss. There'll be plenty of time for more of those later, and Lancelot says as much, grinning in the face of Merlin's mutinous expression.
"It won't take too long," he promises, settling down in front of his makeshift easel. "But it will take as long as it needs."
One hour passes. Then another. Merlin takes slow shape on Lancelot's canvas, filled in by ruddy browns and rich purples. Lancelot has asked Merlin about the purple shirt, an unusual shade for a servant, even for one of his standing. Only before on Guinevere has Lancelot seen the colour on one who isn't a noble.
Whatever the origins of Merlin's attire, it turns heads wherever he wears it. Lancelot wonders sometimes that Merlin doesn't even seem to notice how many people look at him, admire him. Or maybe he just doesn't care for such attention. That Merlin makes an exception, then, for Lancelot, fills him with a heady sense of satisfaction.
The sun continues its journey through the sky, and Lancelot's brush makes its own repeated journeys. It's easier than he expected, to be truthful - but then, he's spent a great deal of time studying Merlin. More time than he really knows. So many small moments, gathering together now to form one unified picture, one joint effort guiding each stroke of colour. He could probably paint Merlin in his sleep, he thinks, except he rather likes getting to look at Merlin so much. Better to stay awake for it.
"How long did you say this would take, again?" Merlin asks, just as Lancelot starts on the arches of his ears. "I'm not… I don't want to rush you. But…"
It's strange, seeing Merlin made so uncertain by something so little as Lancelot's undivided attention. Sometimes Lancelot marvels at it, that just one smile from him can transform Merlin from the strongest sorcerer alive to this. In many ways, Merlin is unlike any man Lancelot has ever known – more powerful than any king or queen, more courageous than any knight, more selfless than anyone should be. But beneath it all, Merlin is a person like any other, with his desires and insecurities. And there is something strangely intimate about getting to witness Merlin like this.
Lancelot smiles. "Perhaps an hour more?" he replies. He lets the words hang like a question, even though he knows exactly how long this painting will take. He's thought about it enough times to know. It shouldn't need longer than half the time he's just suggested.
But he wants to indulge in this moment, this one afternoon where Merlin needn't worry about his duties, and Lancelot is free from his own responsibilities. Even sharing their nights, it isn't often that they get to spend time in the day together like this. They both have so much else to do. It makes hours such as these feel precious.
And perhaps Lancelot simply likes to see Merlin squirm a little longer, not knowing what to do with all of Lancelot's attention on him.
Ears done, Lancelot moves his attention to Merlin's face. He's got the rough curve of Merlin's nose, the delicate pink of his lips. He considers Merlin's eyes. There is the temptation to ring his irises in gold, a sight that never fails to send shivers down Lancelot's spine, awestruck in the face of such incredible power.
Of course, anyone else who happens upon this painting would note the golden eyes in an instant. Even without any actual evidence of Merlin's abilities, it could be enough to cast suspicion in someone's heart. It is not a risk that Lancelot is willing to take.
But it's no loss to the painting. Lancelot carefully fills each space with the most vibrant blue he has been able to find, a startling splash of colour against the quiet pale of his skin and the earthy tones of his jacket. He dabs a touch of more pink to Merlin's lips, until their last kiss looks just mere moments ago, and feathers down a tousled head of dark hair.
For a moment, Lancelot considers finishing there. But then he looks at Merlin again, with the castle and the rolling hills behind him, and takes up his purple inks, blending a new shade.
The violet tucks behind Merlin's ear, with two or three of its petals coming down to fall upon the soft line of his collarbone. It's a good touch, Lancelot thinks, finally sitting back. It brings to mind something Merlin told him once, a summer night where the words found a space hidden against Lancelot's skin, as if Merlin didn't know how to face him when making such a confession.
"It's like I'm connected to everything," he'd said that night. "When I use my magic. Suddenly it's like I can feel everything that's alive, every part of the world, all of it inside me."
That night, Lancelot hadn't thought he'd entirely understood what Merlin meant. But when he looks at Merlin now, he can feel it. A world inside him, all the world around him narrowed down to this, his love.
He sets the paintbrush down. He gestures for Merlin to come over, taking the opportunity to stretch his arms over his head as he does so, and Merlin groans as he rises slowly to his feet, shaking out some of the stiffness that's begun to creep into his limbs.
Merlin crosses the brief distance between them, and Lancelot stands to step neatly out of his way. He stays close, lingering at Merlin's back as Merlin takes his first look at the painting. He can't quite bring himself to look at Merlin's expression just yet.
It's quiet, at first. Merlin looks at the painting, and looks at it some more, while Lancelot waits with bated breath for his response.
Merlin hums and furrows his brow, head tilting this way and that as he studies the painting. He doesn't speak.
Lancelot tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut, the flaws all over the painting that his eyes can't stop picking out now that he's stepped away from it. A part of him wants to wrestle the thing out of Merlin's sight before he has to hear any of Merlin's disappointment – but then Merlin finally opens his mouth.
"Is it… big-headed of me… to say that this looks beautiful?" His gaze moves uncertainly over his shoulder to meet Lancelot's. "Considering the subject?"
The surge of joy in Lancelot's chest acts quicker than his brain does. "I'd say the piece reflects its subject perfectly, if what you say is true."
Merlin looks rather inclined to roll his eyes, but there's no missing his happiness at Lancelot's words, the grin tugging at his lips. "Well, I can hardly deny the words of a knight, can I?" he remarks. "After all, you live for your honour, and your principles…"
Lancelot hooks an arm around Merlin's waist and tugs him in close, the suggestion of a kiss hovering at Merlin's neck. "That I do," he agrees, "except, of course, for when sorcerers see fit to give me forged documents."
Merlin laughs, sinking back against Lancelot's chest. When he tips his head up to find Lancelot's gaze, his amusement lingers, but there's something more to it now.
"So, this is how you see me?" he asks, nodding at the canvas.
"It's the truth of my heart," Lancelot replies, and it's strange, but now that the painting is complete, the words seem to come more easily, too. "If you'll accept it."
This time Merlin very nearly does roll his eyes, turning in Lancelot's embrace to face him fully. "Does it really need asking?"
One of Merlin's hands comes up to touch his face, skimming past his temples. Those eyes flicker gold, and though Lancelot feels no added weight, he knows the spell by its sudden scent. Violets.
He plucks one carefully from where they nestle behind his ear. A handful of petals rain down his neck at the movement, scattering between their feet. He skirts the violet along the line of Merlin's jaw, down his throat to where his pulse flutters.
Then, unexpectedly, Merlin steps back. He presses one hand against Lancelot's chest when Lancelot makes to follow, and his eyes gleam. "Paint me again," he says.
Arthur will wonder where they've been all day. Surely not even one of Gwaine's tall tales can last for longer than they've already been away from the citadel.
But right now, the responsibilities they both have couldn't be further from Lancelot's mind. He nods and nudges Merlin onward, back to the grass bathed in sunlight where every colour seems so much more vibrant than before. And seeing Merlin there, Lancelot can't help but remember something, a fleeting thought from yesterday.
"Merlin," he says, feeling bold, "I've got an idea…"