Part two.
Arthur was fairly pleased with the way things had gone with retrieving the Bishop. Granted, people had been hurt, and plenty of men had died, but they were lucky and had remained unscathed for the most part.
After seeing the man to his quarters, Arthur made his way to the 'war room' as Lancelot jokingly called it. The brazier was lit and warming the place softly, the way he liked it. He blew out a breath, and grabbed up a small cup of spiced wine before seating himself to look over the maps he was revising for the garrison.
He tried bravely to concentrate on the task at hand, but in annoyance finally pushed the papers away, and tipped his head back. The fifteen years were almost up. One day left. One day with his friends.
One day to figure out a way to talk to Lancelot. The man had been all business and hilarity on the ride to find the Bishop; when Arthur had tried to press him, he had made a joke or changed the subject quickly.
"Damn it, man, you're the one who started it," he muttered, running a hand through his curly, disheveled hair.
"Started what?"
Arthur jumped, then sighed. "Why must you sneak up on me like that?"
"Because I like to see your reaction," Lancelot snarked, and threw himself down in a chair near to Arthur. He put his booted feet on the table, and crossed his arms over his chest.
"Have you spoken to the Bishop?" he asked. Arthur nodded.
"He will speak with us tonight…I would assume to give you your papers of safe conduct." He grinned at his friend. "Fifteen years…a long time in coming. Drink with me?"
Lancelot jumped up from his seat, and came around to take the proffered cup from the other man's hands.
They stood closely, Arthur's mind at war with his body. They touched their goblets together, and drank. Arthur could almost feel the heat rising from Lancelot's skin, and a small shiver passed through him. He could not deny it was a feeling he found pleasurable.
"Cold, my lord?" Lancelot asked, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Why have you not spoken with me?" Arthur burst out.
Lancelot frowned at him, drinking more wine. "I have spoken with you every day, Arthur. What do you mean?"
"You damn well know what I mean," the Roman said, his face coloring. He slugged back some more of his drink, then faced the other man.
"Oh, the other night? It meant nothing, Arthur, I promise you," Lancelot said, speaking rapidly and turning to stare at the maps on the table.
"Truly? I was under a different impression," Arthur said, his voice lowering. "I am a slave at your feet? God, Lancelot. How can I respond to that?"
"I was drinking. My head was not clear," Lancelot said shortly. He was studiously avoiding Arthur's gaze.
Arthur laughed harshly. "Lancelot, you hold your drink better than any man I know. What are you afraid of…" he trailed off as the other man set down his cup, his eyes hooded dangerously.
"I? Afraid? Surely you are joking, Arthur." The knight stood a centimeter away from his commander, could feel his warm breath caress the skin of his face.
Neither man spoke. They stared at each other, the air thick and humid around them. Arthur set his cup down, not breaking his gaze with Lancelot.
"What do I mean to you, Arthur?" the Sarmatian said, his voice as quiet and serious as Arthur had ever heard it. "Our service to Rome is done. What will you do tomorrow?"
"…I wish I knew," Arthur replied softly.
Lancelot felt as if he were on fire, then coated in ice. He couldn't let it end like this…as much as he was afraid of pushing Arthur too far.
His hand rose of its own accord, brushing an errant hair out of Arthur's face. The older man took a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut.
Lancelot took a chance, and let his hand linger on the nape of Arthur's neck. When it wasn't pushed away, he ran a light fingertip over the ridge of jutting collarbone that peeked out of Arthur's tunic.
He felt Arthur's skin tighten, and waited. Nothing. He ran his hand across the other man's throat, touching the other collar bone as he had done its brother. Arthur gasped once, and Lancelot pulled his hand away.
"Don't," the Roman whispered, and pressed his palm over Lancelot's hand, which he brought to hover over his heart.
Lancelot felt a joy so blinding he didn't know what it was at first. By the gods, was he getting a chance at this?
He stepped in closer, and traced the same fingertip over Arthur's features, his brow, his eyelids, his cheekbones. He traced them over and over, as if memorizing their feel. He knew that come the morning, this might be only a concocted dream of his, but at the moment he didn't care.
At last he grazed the full lips, and trembled slightly himself. He leaned in, dropped his hand, and brushed his lips against Arthur's.
He tasted the droplets of wine still there, and was almost driven insane by the headiness of it. The blood rushed through his body, zinging through every limb and making his hair stand on end. When Arthur reached out and caught him by the back of the head, he knew he was imagining things, for this couldn't be happening. Not to him. And not with Arthur.
He was gentle. Not like he had been the few nights before.
Arthur's mind was swimming; what the hell was he doing? He couldn't stop touching Lancelot any more than he could stop breathing. The touch felt like home. It felt like something that had been missing his whole life, only he hadn't known it wasn't there.
He sunk his hand into the other man's curly hair, and dragged him closer, so close that their bodies were flush with one another. He turned his head, deepening their contact, and swallowed the moan that erupted from Lancelot's mouth.
Lancelot's arms snaked around Arthur's body, he held onto him as if he would be lost without the other man to anchor him to the present.
When Arthur tentatively responded by wrapping one hand around his bicep, he threw caution to the wind, and increased the pressure on Arthur's lips, begging for entrance.
Arthur's eyes opened wide for a moment, then slammed shut at the intensity on Lancelot's face.
He was falling too deep to stop now.
Opening his mouth, he made a garbled sound when Lancelot's tongue met his.
So good, too soon, too fast.
"Stop, Lancelot, wait," he panted, pushing the other knight away hard enough to make him crash into the edge of the table.
Lancelot wiped a shaking hand across his eyes, the longish hair coated in sweat hanging in his face.
"It meant nothing," Arthur whispered, dazedly.
"I understate my feelings sometimes," Lancelot said, his voice cracking.
Arthur collapsed into his chair weakly, his knees no longer able to support him. Lancelot slid down a leg of the table, ending up on the floor.
"Why did you wait so long?" Arthur finally asked. Lancelot just shook his head.
"I could not bear to tell you and have you not love me," he answered simply. "It would have been too much."
"You have the most wreched timing, my brother," Arthur stated, the other man merely sighing.
"Tell me something I do not know, Arthur."
End part two.