Ficlet: Fall
Author: Ashley
Fall
warnings: slash, language
disclaimer: not my version
summary: the first cold snap of the season.
author's notes: I am participating in NaNo and I'm afraid of it, so I'm trying to write as it comes.
Feedback would be love.
Opening the door from his small quarters out into the hallway, Lancelot squinted his eyes and scrubbed a hand through his hair, must and sweat and leather and sex wafting from him. A night he should remember...but the drink he'd been plied with had been too good and too rare to ignore. Fucking Tristan and his fucking bets. Lancelot knew the other knights wouldn't deal with the scout for the very reason he was the only one who did - it was rare anyone beat him. But Lancelot was nothing if not incautious and brash -
"Fuck," he sighed and raised his arm, leaning against the brick of the wall next to him, laying his head against his bicep. He removed it rather quickly, his face pinching at the smell that oozed from his dirty skin.
"Baths," he muttered, hoping this early he would find them empty. No direct assignments today, but Arthur had a way of finding him and roping him into things he really didn't like to do, especially on a day he could spend riding and whoring instead. Then again, if it was Arthur that found him and forced him into assignments, Lancelot could always exact his revenge on the other man easily with one teasing phrase and a touch to Arthur's mouth or hair.
Smiling darkly, Lancelot grabbed a clean tunic and slid on the pair of leathers he'd worn the night previous. The knights didn't have much, so he'd have to make due. Shutting his door, he passed Tristan's, banging on it with his fist as loudly as possible, hoping to wake the asshole scout and whatever bed companion he'd chosen. "Get up!" the words in their native tongue more annoying with the volume he chose to employ. Something crashed against the door and Lancelot smirked grimly, head throbbing but satisfied with the reaction he'd gotten.
The smoke from the guttering torches made his lungs burn, and he coughed weakly into his hand as he rounded the corner and stepped out into the courtyard, the sun just peaking over the horizon, the blackness of the garrison lit by a natural fire that could only be seen if you rose when the dawn came. Lancelot naturally tried to avoid that, but today -
he cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. The streets of Badon were empty; it was early, but -
"Ah!" he said loudly, slinging his tunic to change into over his left shoulder, raising his arms, the cold air that assaulted him welcome and long absent and he smiled and stretched, every muscle in his body shouting at him, but fuck it it was Fall at last! He could almost taste the cider Vanora would surely be making later tonight, and he could smell the sizzling beef for the stew and he could hear the crackling of leaves under his boots, and best of all, best of all -
he sprinted toward the stables, bath forgotten, smile plastered on his darkly handsome face, the air chilling his body and forcing his blood to pump harder, hair flopping as he ran, the birds that nested on the tops of the buildings screaming at his intrusion as he passed.
Fuck everything but he slipped the other tunic on over his dirty one, not having brought a jacket - being used to the heat - and he saddled a surprised Ras, the horse whickering with delight at the sight of his crazy Sarmatian master. The horse didn't care that it was early; Lancelot mounted up in the stable, the boys that fed the animals scattering as he raced out of the squat, well loved building, blasting past a simply clad Arthur, the other man's mouth gaping open as Lancelot rode past him, hair blowing at the speed of knight and horse.
*
Fat black clouds had begun to gather in the late afternoon; Lancelot rubbed down Ras until the horse's coat gleamed and presented him with a withered apple he'd pilfered from Tristan's hidden stash. He'd get the scout back for his trickery the previous night eventually, and if it took stealing apples to begin with, so be it.
Lancelot shut the door on Ras' stall and swung his arms at his sides as he made his way - finally - to the bath he'd originally been planning on going to that morning. The sun was setting and again it lit the garrison with a glow that was only seen if you paid attention, and Lancelot, for once in this miserable existence, stopped and watched it, leaping to stand on top of an overturned barrel, hand resting on one of the struts that held up the armory, hair red and gold and yellow and orange and crazy and he closed his eyes, the cool of the wind contrasting with the warmth of the dying sun on his face - he smiled at the sound of boots stopping behind him.
"I would assume you enjoyed yourself today."
"Intensely, commander. And your day?" Lancelot did not open his eyes, but stayed stock still, feeling the fading sun on his skin for as long as it would last. He breathed gently, ignoring the stink that was worse than it had been earlier.
"It would have been better had I been able to get the help I needed. Did you not remember our inventory of - "
"Arthur," Lancelot interrupted, opening his eyes and jumping down from the barrel. "There are days when even the thought of inventory of anything is a complete and utter travesty. There are days when all you should do is live, breathe in the air, and ride until you can't feel your seat anymore," he stopped at Arthur's side, rubbing his ass and smiling. He clapped his left hand on Arthur's shoulder, the other man's face not hiding his thought on how his lieutenant smelled and his ideas on responsibility.
Lancelot twisted his lips and shoved his other hand through his hair, the sun gone at last. He shivered tiredly, and took a few steps. Stars began to dot the sky above their heads, and Lancelot raised his face to the darkening openness that surrounded them - guttering torches flaring to life as folk cared for Badon as they always had. He crossed his arms over his chest and listened to the sounds of the garrison, including the one he knew the best - the overloud sound of Arthur's brain, thinking.
"Come on, Artos," he sighed, but it was only tinged with melancholia. "Both of us deserve a bath on the first day of Fall." He marched off smartly, his body aching fiercely and the happiness he'd found riding all day fading with the death of the sun. It was truly cold now, and he didn't own enough clothing or have enough food or get enough free time or have a life he could truly call his own. His face sharpened, a quill ready to spill ink or blood, dependent upon what task Arthur set him to upon the morrow.
"I'd agree, Lancelot," Arthur walked with him, calling him by his first name instead of lieutenant, and Lancelot smiled, remembering the day and the sun and the cool and the times when Arthur did have a heart and feeling beyond his duty and the loyalty the other man held to Rome and the machine of war. In the five years that Arthur had been their commander, Lancelot had moved from not caring to wanting to slit Arthur's throat to something else entirely that made him furious and sad all at once.
They reached the baths - empty, thank the gods - and undressed in comfortable silence, the drifting warmth brilliant after the chill of the day.
"Next time," Arthur murmured some time later, his skin warm and his hands reaching for Lancelot, the Sarmatian gladly accepting the touch, "warn me where you're going before you run me down."
Lancelot licked his dry lips and shrugged as Arthur's heat enveloped him, the other man a bit too obsessed with the curls at Lancelot's nape and the skin there. "The day called me," he answered, "and no man could stand in my way." He smiled, an aching thing that had him thinking of oceans of grass unexpectedly and unwontedly. "Not even you, Rome."
Arthur merely grunted as he busied himself with the flesh of Lancelot's throat.
A wisp of cold ghosted into the bathhouse and Lancelot prayed for the summer heat to return, for he didn't think he could stand any more days like the one he'd experienced today. Too much hope, too much distraction, too much happy and he closed his eyes, arms encircling Arthur's shoulders, skin goose pimpling with the memory of freedom - so far, so false, so much a dream he did not believe in any more than he did the love this man in his arms seemed to want to show him sometimes.
His eyes fluttered open and he tilted his head back and he shoved the thoughts out of his head and he'd do what Arthur assigned him the next day, no matter the weather.
~
Fall
warnings: slash, language
disclaimer: not my version
summary: the first cold snap of the season.
author's notes: I am participating in NaNo and I'm afraid of it, so I'm trying to write as it comes.
Feedback would be love.
Opening the door from his small quarters out into the hallway, Lancelot squinted his eyes and scrubbed a hand through his hair, must and sweat and leather and sex wafting from him. A night he should remember...but the drink he'd been plied with had been too good and too rare to ignore. Fucking Tristan and his fucking bets. Lancelot knew the other knights wouldn't deal with the scout for the very reason he was the only one who did - it was rare anyone beat him. But Lancelot was nothing if not incautious and brash -
"Fuck," he sighed and raised his arm, leaning against the brick of the wall next to him, laying his head against his bicep. He removed it rather quickly, his face pinching at the smell that oozed from his dirty skin.
"Baths," he muttered, hoping this early he would find them empty. No direct assignments today, but Arthur had a way of finding him and roping him into things he really didn't like to do, especially on a day he could spend riding and whoring instead. Then again, if it was Arthur that found him and forced him into assignments, Lancelot could always exact his revenge on the other man easily with one teasing phrase and a touch to Arthur's mouth or hair.
Smiling darkly, Lancelot grabbed a clean tunic and slid on the pair of leathers he'd worn the night previous. The knights didn't have much, so he'd have to make due. Shutting his door, he passed Tristan's, banging on it with his fist as loudly as possible, hoping to wake the asshole scout and whatever bed companion he'd chosen. "Get up!" the words in their native tongue more annoying with the volume he chose to employ. Something crashed against the door and Lancelot smirked grimly, head throbbing but satisfied with the reaction he'd gotten.
The smoke from the guttering torches made his lungs burn, and he coughed weakly into his hand as he rounded the corner and stepped out into the courtyard, the sun just peaking over the horizon, the blackness of the garrison lit by a natural fire that could only be seen if you rose when the dawn came. Lancelot naturally tried to avoid that, but today -
he cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. The streets of Badon were empty; it was early, but -
"Ah!" he said loudly, slinging his tunic to change into over his left shoulder, raising his arms, the cold air that assaulted him welcome and long absent and he smiled and stretched, every muscle in his body shouting at him, but fuck it it was Fall at last! He could almost taste the cider Vanora would surely be making later tonight, and he could smell the sizzling beef for the stew and he could hear the crackling of leaves under his boots, and best of all, best of all -
he sprinted toward the stables, bath forgotten, smile plastered on his darkly handsome face, the air chilling his body and forcing his blood to pump harder, hair flopping as he ran, the birds that nested on the tops of the buildings screaming at his intrusion as he passed.
Fuck everything but he slipped the other tunic on over his dirty one, not having brought a jacket - being used to the heat - and he saddled a surprised Ras, the horse whickering with delight at the sight of his crazy Sarmatian master. The horse didn't care that it was early; Lancelot mounted up in the stable, the boys that fed the animals scattering as he raced out of the squat, well loved building, blasting past a simply clad Arthur, the other man's mouth gaping open as Lancelot rode past him, hair blowing at the speed of knight and horse.
*
Fat black clouds had begun to gather in the late afternoon; Lancelot rubbed down Ras until the horse's coat gleamed and presented him with a withered apple he'd pilfered from Tristan's hidden stash. He'd get the scout back for his trickery the previous night eventually, and if it took stealing apples to begin with, so be it.
Lancelot shut the door on Ras' stall and swung his arms at his sides as he made his way - finally - to the bath he'd originally been planning on going to that morning. The sun was setting and again it lit the garrison with a glow that was only seen if you paid attention, and Lancelot, for once in this miserable existence, stopped and watched it, leaping to stand on top of an overturned barrel, hand resting on one of the struts that held up the armory, hair red and gold and yellow and orange and crazy and he closed his eyes, the cool of the wind contrasting with the warmth of the dying sun on his face - he smiled at the sound of boots stopping behind him.
"I would assume you enjoyed yourself today."
"Intensely, commander. And your day?" Lancelot did not open his eyes, but stayed stock still, feeling the fading sun on his skin for as long as it would last. He breathed gently, ignoring the stink that was worse than it had been earlier.
"It would have been better had I been able to get the help I needed. Did you not remember our inventory of - "
"Arthur," Lancelot interrupted, opening his eyes and jumping down from the barrel. "There are days when even the thought of inventory of anything is a complete and utter travesty. There are days when all you should do is live, breathe in the air, and ride until you can't feel your seat anymore," he stopped at Arthur's side, rubbing his ass and smiling. He clapped his left hand on Arthur's shoulder, the other man's face not hiding his thought on how his lieutenant smelled and his ideas on responsibility.
Lancelot twisted his lips and shoved his other hand through his hair, the sun gone at last. He shivered tiredly, and took a few steps. Stars began to dot the sky above their heads, and Lancelot raised his face to the darkening openness that surrounded them - guttering torches flaring to life as folk cared for Badon as they always had. He crossed his arms over his chest and listened to the sounds of the garrison, including the one he knew the best - the overloud sound of Arthur's brain, thinking.
"Come on, Artos," he sighed, but it was only tinged with melancholia. "Both of us deserve a bath on the first day of Fall." He marched off smartly, his body aching fiercely and the happiness he'd found riding all day fading with the death of the sun. It was truly cold now, and he didn't own enough clothing or have enough food or get enough free time or have a life he could truly call his own. His face sharpened, a quill ready to spill ink or blood, dependent upon what task Arthur set him to upon the morrow.
"I'd agree, Lancelot," Arthur walked with him, calling him by his first name instead of lieutenant, and Lancelot smiled, remembering the day and the sun and the cool and the times when Arthur did have a heart and feeling beyond his duty and the loyalty the other man held to Rome and the machine of war. In the five years that Arthur had been their commander, Lancelot had moved from not caring to wanting to slit Arthur's throat to something else entirely that made him furious and sad all at once.
They reached the baths - empty, thank the gods - and undressed in comfortable silence, the drifting warmth brilliant after the chill of the day.
"Next time," Arthur murmured some time later, his skin warm and his hands reaching for Lancelot, the Sarmatian gladly accepting the touch, "warn me where you're going before you run me down."
Lancelot licked his dry lips and shrugged as Arthur's heat enveloped him, the other man a bit too obsessed with the curls at Lancelot's nape and the skin there. "The day called me," he answered, "and no man could stand in my way." He smiled, an aching thing that had him thinking of oceans of grass unexpectedly and unwontedly. "Not even you, Rome."
Arthur merely grunted as he busied himself with the flesh of Lancelot's throat.
A wisp of cold ghosted into the bathhouse and Lancelot prayed for the summer heat to return, for he didn't think he could stand any more days like the one he'd experienced today. Too much hope, too much distraction, too much happy and he closed his eyes, arms encircling Arthur's shoulders, skin goose pimpling with the memory of freedom - so far, so false, so much a dream he did not believe in any more than he did the love this man in his arms seemed to want to show him sometimes.
His eyes fluttered open and he tilted his head back and he shoved the thoughts out of his head and he'd do what Arthur assigned him the next day, no matter the weather.
~