Seven.

Three in the morning, and Arthur hadn't slept yet.

He thought he would be able to distract himself by going over Marcus' ledgers again, but the numbers wouldn't stop swimming. He wiped his streaming eyes, and shut the books with a large trembling sigh.

He wanted to go to Lancelot. So desperately that his body ached with the effort of not moving, but he just couldn't find the right words. His self loathing was so strong he felt he might vomit. He had never deserved the love the other man had shown him; God only knew why Lancelot had felt that way in the first place. Arthur had never quite understood the devotion.

He had merely taken it, joyfully and humbly. That had been the one bright spot in an otherwise dark and trying career. At the end, when Lancelot had left, Arthur had been sure he would never feel another thing without the other man there. His soul had gone with him.

He picked absently at the scratches on his arm from the last time he had scrubbed too hard. The baths would be ready for him; they always were, but he wasn't sure he wanted to go there.

"Bah," he breathed out, and slammed the books back on his desk. Things were different. His life was different. I apologize for intruding upon your life.

That clenched it. He stood, throwing a black high necked tunic on over his bare torso and left his rooms, the door slamming behind him.

He stood outside the room he had provided for Lancelot, his hand raised hesitantly. The room was dark and quiet, but he knew the other man was inside. He could feel him, could hear the crackle of the fire lit in the grate.

He bit his lip and cursed, then pushed on the door, praying it was open. The wooden barrier swung open on oiled hinges, and Arthur slipped in. Lancelot was on his side, facing the wall, trying to sleep in the bed that took up most of the room. His dark hair was barely visible under the fur coverings that Arthur had brought back from Britain.

Arthur leant against the door for a moment, not daring to move, just listening to the fire, and watching his closest friend sleep.

"Come in, Arthur," the man's voice came from the bed, and Arthur shut his eyes briefly. He approached the bed, sitting on it awkwardly. He fidgeted with his hands, and Lancelot turned, sitting up under the covers, his face creased from the pillows and his hair in disaray. He proped himself up against the headboard, and Arthur found himself smitten again. His gaze roved over the other man, memorizing everything. His face, normally so calm even when in distress, was grooved by lines now, and he had a few scars on his chest and arms that Arthur couldn't remember him having before.

"I have been thinking," Arthur started, then automatically stopped, waiting for the cutting comment or interruption he knew was coming.

None came, so he continued, dropping his eyes to his fingers, which were busy playing cat's cradle with each other. He forced himself to stop, and to look up again at Lancelot.

"I have been thinking on things, and I have to tell you – seeing you again, like this, out of the blue," he continued, as Lancelot merely listened and wrapped his arms around his raised knees, "was not easy for me. As I know it was not easy for you to come here. I owe a lot to your courage – a weaker man wouldn't have done it."

He sighed, and kept going. You must do this, Arthur. No lies, now.

"My life has been particularly … vacant since I left Britain, but I stayed here nonetheless. I couldn't stay where I had been, and I couldn't have followed you men to your homes. It would have been wrong to impose myself upon you like that." He fingered the fur on the bed, remembering the animal he had taken it from. That hunt had been one of the most invigorating and yet tranquil events of his life. First animal kill, first kiss.

Lancelot watched Arthur toy with the fur, and wondered if Arthur remembered the day they had gotten it. And he wondered if Arthur remembered the kiss and the other things that had followed. Lancelot knew he always would, and he shivered slightly. He focused on Arthur, who was quietly forcing himself to talk.

"I have been – living on empty, I guess, since I came home. I met Ligeia the first month after I arrived," he said, and Lancelot decided he didn't want to make Arthur explain that, so he held up his hand. Arthur marched on anyway.

"She pestered me at first; I thought she was just another annoying matron trying to marry me for my title, or money, or out of boredom. Turned out she was nothing like that. She's smart, and funny, and very capable. She's educated, and very kind to me," he continued, and Lancelot thought he would break Arthur's skull in twain if he had to listen to the man go on about his lady. "Arthur," he interrupted finally, "enough. She seems very kind. She will make a good match for you."

His still injured heart shrivled further at saying those words, but Lancelot knew he had to do it. Arthur had spent the last fifteen years sacrificing himself and his happiness for Lancelot and the others; if this is what Arthur wanted, Lancelot could let him go.

In theory, at any rate.

"But that's the thing," Arthur said quietly, looking up, his green eyes intense and wide. He bored a hole into Lancelot's skull; the other man couldn't tear his gaze away if he wanted to.

"I enjoy her company, and yes, I think in some other life we could be happy together," he continued, "but … I don't love her. I couldn't."

Finish it, fool. Just tell him.

"You've got my soul in your hand, and I don't want it back unless you're tired of caring for it." Arthur said quietly, allowing himself to clench his hands together at last as Lancelot simply stared at him.

"Arthur … for fuck's sake, man," Lancelot murmured finally. "You have a strange way of showing love."

Arthur laughed bitterly, and scooted a little closer to Lancelot unconsciously. "Believe me, friend, I am well aware of it."

Lancelot took in a deep breath, staring first at the fire, then back at Arthur. He ran a hand through his bed tousled hair, and tugged his knees closer to his body. "Arthur," he started softly, unsure of what he should say. "I'm not tired of your soul. You have mine as well. But…and some god or whomever must have a really horrid sense of humor… no matter the amount of devotion between us - we tend to hurt each other. A lot. And all the time."

His eyes watched Arthur until the other man's face crumpled slightly, and he had to tear his gaze away, staring instead into the jumping flames that reminded him so much of winter in Britain, and many days spent holed up in Arthur's rooms.

"I understand," Arthur answered, and Lancelot had to bite his lip from crying out at the tone in his voice. "Let me finish," he chided softly. "I'm not saying 'forget it, Arthur, I don't want you.' I merely think that, after all this time and the many, many years we spent together, we should think this through. I don't want to be hurt again. And I don't want you to do this out of some sense of duty or obligation."

Arthur shook his head. "Duty has nothing to do with it, Lancelot. It never did. I gave myself willingly to you, which was not something I would offer many. You were the only thing that ever made me feel like I deserved some sort of happiness or life outside our jobs – our obligations." Arthur started at his own words – and had to ignore the blush that rose.

What was it about this man that could turn him into a gushing lovestruck barmaid, willing to admit to anything? He didn't know, and wasn't sure if he truly cared at this point. Being a soldier, a son, a friend had taught him how to hide things in order to not hurt others; being those same things had taught him to value his feelings and actions. Life was short, as he knew all too well. When you had the courage to finally admit something – do it.

"Gods, Arthur," Lancelot sighed, his body straightening, his hands flapping about in frustration like trapped birds, "What do I have to do to make you see the truth? I'm no fool," he said, sliding forward so he was inches from the other man, "I wouldn't've wasted time with someone I didn't think was worth it. There's something about the two of us," he continued, staring into Arthur's face, "something that each one of us has, or possesses, that finishes the other. You said it yourself. I'm stupidly wrong without you. We may never understand it, or figure out why, but I'm damned if I'm going to leave here without making you know that. It's your choice, my friend. I. Love you," he accented his words with a sharp fingertip to Arthur's chest, "but I will not be tossed aside like some offal if I'm not wanted. I'm not going to spend the rest of my life chasing after you like a dog after meat."

Oh, my. Was that a smart admission, Lancelot?

Arthur sighed, a long shaky affair that made him lightheaded.

I love you. But I'm not your dog.

"You are wanted," he said simply. "I – there are things about me, about my past, that have been difficult for me to reconcile with. Our break was one of those. And now that I have a chance to fix it – I can't promise it'll be all roses and beauty," Arthur answered, "but if you want me, you have me. I've done nothing but miss you since I left. The hole you left in me isn't quite so angry anymore, now that I've seen you again."

The corner of Lancelot's mouth curled slightly. Two halves of the same coin. I finally understand that ridiculous saying. And only Arthur could make me admit it.

"Then, Arthur, you have to promise me something. You have to tell me the truth, from now on. I want no secrets, no 'protective' gestures. We aren't in Britain anymore, and you have no reason to guard yourself. We are free men, and we do as we chose. Do you understand that?"

Lancelot's tapered fingers gripped Arthur's knee, as they had earlier. This time, he hoped things would go better. He had to stifle a wild laugh at that thought, and forced a serious expression on his face, which wasn't hard after looking into Arthur's solemn countenance.

"Do you?" he whispered.

Why do you always talk to God, and not to me?

Arthur – this is not Rome's fight. This is not your fight.

You be my friend now, and do not dissuade me…I now know that all the lives I have taken, all the blood I have shed, has led me to this moment.

Look at me! Does it all count for nothing?

Lancelot's skin felt as if it were breaking apart, chink by tiny, crushed chink as he waited for Arthur to say something.

Gods, no, make him answer, make him say something, anything –

Arthur leant toward him, touching their foreheads together, nodding.

"No secrets. I will never hide anything from you again, I swear it. Please, stay," he finished, his voice tiny. Lancelot imagined he could rend the sound of Arthur's words as if they were as insubstantial as down.

He would also be a rich man if he had a coin for everytime Arthur had told him he wouldn't try to 'protect' him anymore.

At this point, however, Lancelot was too desperate and too far gone to care. He lurched forward, and sealed his lips over Arthur's, the kiss heated and full of want and loneliness and everything Lancelot had felt on the 365 plus days he had been without Arthur.

Edited for content per rules.

Arthur's hand squeezed his, and he raised his eyes, to meet the half lidded gaze directed at him. "We should fight more often," Arthur said softly, a lazy smile breaking the seriousness of his expression. Lancelot rolled his eyes, and kissed the other man's lips chastely.

"No, we shouldn't. It's not fun." He rose off Arthur, wincing a bit at the loss of fullness and at the slight pain. Curling up next to the other man, he allowed Arthur to envelop him in a loose embrace. They were both still panting, still hot. Sweat rolled down Lancelot's spine, and he shivered. Arthur tucked him closer, and rested his cheek on Lancelot's head.

"Yes, but this part is," Arthur smirked, and Lancelot's eyebrows rose. "I'm the sarcastic one, Castus. Don't forget it," he smiled, and traced a tired finger over Arthur's cheekbone.

"Well, I think we've seen that you can take on different roles," Arthur answered, and laughed as Lancelot squirmed.

"You enjoyed it as much as I did, so leave off," Lancelot griped, and bit Arthur's earlobe, where he had been using his mouth to tickle the other man. Arthur raised his hands in acquiesence. "All right, all right. No more fighting."

He rose on one elbow, which forced Lancelot to sit up. Arthur's eyes captured his; he couldn't look away if he had to.

"I don't think we're finished, here," Arthur said quietly, "but I'm willing to continue whenever you wish. Ask, and I shall answer. You have my word on that."

Oh, Arthur. May the gods prove my past experience wrong.

Lancelot nodded once, not trusting his voice. No more lies? No more protection for my 'own good?'

"I will hold you to it."

Arthur lay back down, tugging Lancelot with him. "Sleep," he said, some of the command tone echoing in his words, "we have things to do in the morning. If you still care to help me, that is."

Lancelot kissed Arthur again, this time lingeringly and with much love. "You could try to get rid of me, but that would prove a waste of time and arms."

Arthur laughed, and clutched Lancelot to him, a little too tight – as if he was afraid the other man would up and disappear into the night.

Morning would come too soon, and with it, the lady Ligeia and her problems. Lancelot's face twisted into a frown, but he shut his eyes obediently. Things were different now.

He hoped.

end seven.

If you would like to read this chapter in it's entirety, it's posted at livejournal. My user name there is sashab. Thanks!