"I swear, I sensed someone Cú," Diarmuid insisted, toweling off his hair as he came out from washing himself of salt.
"Suuuuuuure," Cú teased, shouting over the roar of his hair dryer. He spun around from his position on the couch. "You know, we're both men. You don't have to lie and say you weren't appreciating her ass-oof!"
The red-eyed spearmen toppled to the ground, silenced by Diarmuid's hair towel. The Fenian knight's eyebrow twitched, Diarmuid was no titillated adolescent, he was beyond such callous perusal of the female body, especially when it concerned the King of Knights, which he had nothing but respect for.
"Come on, Diar," Cú pouted, pelting the man with the weaponized piece of cotton wool. Diarmuid glared at him and wondered if inviting Cú to be his roommate was a good idea. After all, he was now the butt of many jokes and the man's exclusive victim for teasing. Oh, and apart from barbeque and outdoor cooking they both seemed to be quite hopeless in the kitchen. In the end, Diarmuid won their little staring game and the hound of Culann threw his hands up in surrender.
"Fine. Don't admit it. Live in that little world of denial you've got going for yourself," Cú declared, running a comb through the longer part of his hairstyle. I, on the other hand, am not afraid to say that never in my life have I beheld such a finer. An absolute ride, I tell ya," he said, winking as Diarmuid blushed red as beet.
"Who's a finer?"
The object of their affections strode out into the room in one of Diarmuid's green shirts, drying out her hair with a mint colored towel. The garment was loose, dwarfing Arturia to the point that she'd decided against wearing the shorts Diarmuid had lent her and had come out with legs bare from the lower thigh down.
It uselessly occurred to Diarmuid that he had never seen Saber quite so...exposed in all the time he'd known her, and that her legs were proportionally long for her height (was it hot in here?) and, well, he supposed he'd never had a foot fetish but her little toes (oh my god) were seriously, seriously daring him to fall into that hell hole and that her natural scent mixed in with his favorite brand of soap, and it felt so domestic that it made blood rush to places they really, really shouldn't be going.
But the real killer was the sound of the dryer running in the background, the dreaded reminder that Arturia was, in fact, not wearing any of the fitted black pieces she had on during their sparring match. The tiny little peaks on her chest confirmed it, Cú noticed, as his mouth dropped open and he willed himself not to stare. Unfortunately, for them, their eyes weren't the only parts of them bulging out of their sockets
And maybe Diarmuid was building up a sweat and maybe Cú had forgotten how to breathe, and maybe the both of them were burning a hot pink and were so doggedly disarmed their brains were nothing but soft, creamy thighs and dainty collarbones. For the first time in his life, Cú was out of witty, flirty remarks and Diarmuid was a clumsy, bumbling fool.
For once a stroke of luck befell the two spearmen, for the King of Knights was so preoccupied in drying her hair she didn't notice the two lances stubbornly poking up against their owners' pants.
"I-I'M TAKING A SHOWER!" Diarmuid managed, staggering awkwardly to the bathroom before his little problem could possibly get any worse. Even Cú's I'm-going-to-fucking-kill-you-if-you-leave-don't-you-fucking-dare eyes didn't deter his escape in the least, and he slammed the door shut without much hesitation. For a second, he felt himself calm under the battery of the cold water, then he was hit with the staggering realization just where on Arturia's body his bar of soap had been. And maybe, just maybe, he would admit to Cú later that it was not, in fact, the neighbor's cat, but him who had let out that little whine.
Arturia tilted her head to the side and turned to face Cú. "Didn't he just take one- Cú, you're bleeding!" She rushed to find some tissue to give him, instructing him not to tilt his head backward. It must have been the sudden change of temperature that caused the nosebleed, but as for how to stop it, she was clueless. The cause, however, was not the weather, but the dangerously high shirt hem that had lifted past her mid-thigh when she leaned to the other side to dry her hair.
"I'M FINE," he insisted, shuffling backward on the couch as he shooed her away with one hand and covered his nose with the other. Oh nonono, this couldn't be happening.
Diarmuid, you bastard! How dare you leave me out here!?
He cursed at the sound of the running water from the bathroom and seemingly unceasing torrents of blood coming from his nose as Arturia came closer. For the first time in years, he prayed to all the gods he could think of, begging them that she not look down while he grappled around desperately for a towel, a pillow, anything. He could feel his adrenaline spike as she pressed the tissue to his nose, and he willed himself to look anywhere but the drooping collar of her shirt lest his vision turn just a little bit nippy.
Please, please, gods if you're really there just please? Please? PLEASE!
Alas, the only being that heard his call was a clairvoyant half-incubus magus, laughing till he cried tears in the middle of the RTK office.
A few days had passed since the three-way spar at the beach, with Cú leading in the tally between the three of them. However, keeping score was perhaps the least memorable thing about that morning, especially when what followed might have been the single most enticing memory of a woman the two men had ever seen. Was she always that...curvy? They would ask themselves that, night after night. When Cú would catch his roommate staring into space with wide eyes and a blush, he knew exactly what he was thinking about.
In fact, the guy was so spaced out this morning, it took a couch pillow straight to his face to get his attention.
"We've got work, mate. I thought you wanted to get some breakfast from the restaurant. We have to go now, if you don't wanna be late," he said, getting up and slipping into his waiter's uniform. Diarmuid groaned into the little pillow as his work alarm blared from his phone.
"I can't. She might be there. Can't do it," the man complained.
Cú was honestly considering leaving him be after the bloke abandoned him to deal with hiding his persistent spear by himself while Arturia walked around in just an oversized shirt, but decided that maybe sending him to work was a more fitting punishment. So, he grabbed him by the neck of his tank and dragged him to the bathroom, unceremoniously dumping him onto the bathroom tiles.
When at last he heard the water running, Cú decided that maybe he'd let Diarmuid off too easy, and thought maybe teasing him just a little bit further would feel just right.
"Try not to think about the fact that she'd look like that the morning after," he called, snickering at the long, irritated groan that echoed into the hall.
It was subtle, but he felt it, the same lingering presence he detected watching them at the beach. He knew he wasn't imagining it. Orange eyes scaled the gray concrete of the nearby buildings as he searched for the culprit. The corners were all empty, the alleys quiet save for the occasional scuffle from the cats and, that fact put Diarmuid even more on edge.
"Hey, is that...Arturia's knight? The one with the long hair?" Cú asked, noticing the unfamiliar man a few streets down from the one they were walking to get to Ahnenerbe.
Diarmuid's eyes landed on the taller man, recognizing him from their brief meeting in the Throne of Heroes over a month ago. He still couldn't believe that this composed person was the raging armored monster who'd been a bloody pestilence in the Fourth Holy Grail War.
"Oi! Saber's knight!"
Cú ran off to greet the man before Diarmuid could stop him. He reluctantly followed, remembering their few encounters in the Grail War. He hadn't told Cú about that just yet, had he? Teaming up against Saber due to Kayneth's command seal, how Berserker terrorized Arturia during the fight against Caster… He didn't know enough about Lancelot to want to actively engage in conversation with him.
"Cú Chulainn. Pleasure to make your acquaintance," Cu introduced himself, holding out a hand for the serious-looking knight to shake. Lancelot looked down at his hand for a moment with a creased brow.
"Lancelot du Lac."
The stiff movements of his arm told Cú of his hesitation, but Lancelot gave in, gripping the Irish knight's palm firmly.
"I'm Diarmu-"
"We've met," Lancelot interrupted, the stiff expression on his face turning into a full frown.
The air shifted, cold despite the scorching summer heat as midnight eyes met sunset-colored ones. Seconds passed in silence, the air unbearably stagnant. The world was far too still, the static ringing through Lancer's ears almost maddening. Diarmuid had felt this same dread before, felt the adrenaline rushing through him as blood pumped in his veins. Skin prickled. The hair on his nape stood on end. He could just about taste the bloodthirst in the air when he breathed.
The flexing of Lancelot's fingers should have been enough of a warning to draw their weapons, but there were too many civilians. If Lancelot was as powerful as he remembered, it didn't matter how fast Diarmuid could move, there would be casualties. But...why? They had no quarrel, as far as the Grail War was concerned, nothing that would merit such hate.
Cú looked between the two men, his throat suddenly feeling so tight it was difficult to breathe. He stifled the urge to swallow as he looked at Lancelot. The man's dark, dead eyes were two menacing black holes, he felt his soul start to leave him as he stared into them. But this perilous gaze wasn't for him...it was for Diarmuid.
"You'd do well to stay away from her, libertine," the man grumbled, the low bass of his tone enough to send subtle tremors through his chest.
Cú had never seen Diarmuid angry, but he witnessed the knight's calm demeanor crack the moment the insult left Lancelot's lips, the broken pieces of tranquility shattering on the dark pavement. Flames of rage erupted from his eyes, spreading like wildfire till his entire being shook with the need to strike the man dead where he stood.
Who gave him the right to judge the outcome of his life? HIM, of all people. How dare he, when Lancelot himself seduced the queen, no geis or love spot involved? How dare he, when he set in motion his own king's downfall, when Lancelot left Arturia's side when he too was once First Knight?
How could this traitor render judgment on his plight, when he, himself, was the same?
No, he couldn't stand for it. He wouldn't. A furious en garde left his lips as he let his rage overcome him. He was dimly aware of Cú frantically telling him to stop, but before he knew it, he could feel the staff of Gae Dearg materialize in his palm.
"Diarmuid?"
In an instant, he felt the anger leave his system, the burning rage doused by the cool water that was her voice. The yellow spear hid itself away before it could fully form, guilty in the palm Lancer hid behind his back. In seconds, he built a calm facade and smiled, praying she could not sense the ache in his heart as she greeted them.
"Lance and I were about to have breakfast. Would you two like to join us?" she asked, a beautiful smile making its way onto her face.
Half of him begged to tell Arturia of Lancelot's insult. The other half noticed the nickname, noticed how her arm slightly brushed against her knight's as she swayed toward him. It was the kind of accidental touch that only occurs between those close enough they'd share personal space. Between those who considered each other more than just comrades, but...friends.
And so, he was at a complete standstill. Tarnish the friendship Arturia must have salvaged since their resurrection, or allow Lancelot to walk away after the bastard dragged his name through the mud?
It was unfortunate, truly, how Arturia was turned away. For had she looked, she would have seen Lancelot's face turn murderous, as if daring Diarmuid to speak up; daring him to test his friendship with the King of Knights. Who would she choose? Her knight, or a stranger she met once in a war long ago?
But he wasn't just as stranger was he? He opened his mouth to speak and-
"Nah, sorry Arturia. Diar and I gotta stop by somewhere else first. Next time?" Cú suddenly spoke, a placating hand grabbing his wrist and dragging him backward in the direction of the restaurant they were headed to.
He saw Arturia's lips mouth his name, but she stopped, sighed, waved the two Lancers off silently and turned back to Lancelot. It was comical really, how fast the mad Servant's face morphed from seething fury to a gentle smile, once Arturia's eyes landed on him.
Every nerve in Diarmuid's body told him to run to them, to wrestle his arm away from Cú and force Lancelot to take his words back, but...Arturia…
"What the hell was that?" Cú questioned, as they rounded the corner. He peeked out from the fence to see Lancelot still glaring in their direction as he escorted Saber away, while the woman remained unaware.
Diarmuid honestly didn't know how to answer. "Is it really I who should explain my actions, Cú?" he at last, replied, folding his arms in front of him.
A long breath escaped from Cú's lips as his hands ran through his hair. He bit his lip, sending hesitant glances as the Fenian knight began impatiently tapping his feet.
"You looked like you were going to kill him, Diar," he said, recalling the suffocating killer intent between the two nights not even a minute ago.
"Shouldn't he answer for his words?" he retorted, his fingers flexing as they ached for his two spears. He was a proud knight, and by the gods, he'd had enough of being called a tempter when he'd never done anything wrong.
"Of course," Cú assured, leaning on the wall behind him as the two British knights disappeared from sight. "The bastard's dishonored you."
"Then why?"
Cú looked straight at his friend, eyes softening.
"Arturia."
His shoulders sank as he heard her name. In the end, what mattered more? Defending his pride, or her happiness? In the end, Diarmuid was thankful that Cú made the decision for him. Another second of Lancelot's taunting glare and he would have perhaps given in to a proper fight.
Sensing the anger leave his raven-haired friend, Cú let out a sigh of relief.
"Diarmuid, I apologize for not believing you about the presence you sensed on the beach," he said, folding his arms and shaking his head. "It was Lancelot, wasn't it?"
The knight nodded. He wasn't sure at first, but the menacing aura he felt just then was unmistakable. Another heavy breath escaped his lips, but he turned and led the way to Ahnenerbe.
Cú fell in step beside him, his borrowed sneakers kicking up dust as the two contemplated the situation. "What happened between you two in your war?"
Diarmuid's expression soured. "Nothing that would merit such callous behavior."
Cú opened the doors of the restaurant for his friend, and they both slinked into their usual booth. There was no one around yet, the staff were just coming in. The manager brought them two coffees. It suited them. It gave them time to think.
As he nursed the cup of coffee in his rough hands, Diarmuid tried not to think about the fresh welts his fingernails dug into his palms. It had been happening too many times. He'd never had issues with anger before, but now...it was almost like a stranger took over whenever he was provoked.
His senses would shut down one by one. Birds would stop mid-flight as the world slowed to a halt. Every inch of his body would ignite, curdling his blood. His surroundings would blur, leaving only the object of his ire and the burning desire to rip their throat from their neck with his bare hands.
Something would take the reins from him, shoving Diarmuid's consciousness to the back of his mind as he took control of his body. He would fight, push against the shadowy figure, willing it to go away, but even with all his strength they were perfectly matched. Desperately, he'd grapple for his hold, a weapon, anything. And then his vision would go black.
He'd blink and he was back, only the crescent-shaped wounds in his hands as proof of the demons he was fighting.
But he could deal with that alone.
"Why would he tell you to stay away from the King of Knights? She's never been affected by that mole of yours," Cú commented, sipping on his cup of coffee.
"It doesn't matter," Diarmuid decided. He wouldn't stay away. He couldn't.