comment fic: King Arthur
Prompt: Would you lie with me and just forget the world
Lancelot never knocks. This time is no exception.
Arthur's back is to him, and Lancelot kicks the other man's door shut, hoping he'll get a reaction, anything, words, curses, obscene gestures. The oil lamps that are lit haphazardly around the room waver with the force of his movements, but the man on the bed stays on the bed, arms tightly wrapped about his middle, leathers still hiding his skin.
Lancelot twists his mouth. He's dirty and sweaty and gore speckled and his swords are heavy on his back and fuck this he crosses the room and stands at the foot of the bed. The curtains are still drawn, and he crosses his arms and looks down at Arthur's unmoving form.
He licks blood flecked dry lips and unstraps the harness that holds his double blades in place. Setting them down slowly he sighs a shaky breath and toes off his boots, dropping his studded jacket to the floor to land on top of them, mud scattering, the smell of musk and blood and something else - shadows, darkness, cliched things he laughs to think of - permeating his nostrils as he settles behind Arthur on the large bed.
Arthur still doesn't move, and although Lancelot can feel his back rising with his breath, the other man says nothing. Excalibur hangs from its traditional place on the wall, next to Arthur's suit of armor on its stand. That is clean, shining and pure and Lancelot knows Arthur's squire has been in here; he snorts as he leans his forehead against Arthur's nape, the smell that's in the room coating the inside of his throat and he coughs, right hand crawling out slowly, arm sliding over Arthur's middle.
The muscles beneath his fingers flex and bunch, power hidden by black clothing, strength belied by the painful silence that climbs its way out of Arthur and into Lancelot, stilling everything, stilling the knight's thoughts and he closes his eyes. Arthur shudders once beneath his touch, and the two men, commander and knight, are reduced to one breath, one heartbeat, one set of emotions that threaten to spin Lancelot into a tiny ball of nothing save air and blood.
The flames in the brazier crackle and rise. Coal shifts and light flickers and Arthur turns at last and catches Lancelot's hand in his own large one, the callouses left there from the heft of Excalibur scratchy and the commander's eyes are open and wide and Lancelot breathes in, once -
"I cannot save them."
"No, Arthur." Lancelot grips more tightly at the other man's fingers.
"No matter how I try."
"The gods of this land demand more than we can give sometimes, Arthur," Lancelot says. "Death and his pale horse," he smirks, bright white teeth against a background of oily, cold, dirt-streaked skin, "take who they want, when they want. We can only stand by and watch. That is our lot in life."
Arthur's eyes are dry. He watches Lancelot as Lancelot watches him, and gradually his lids close over the brilliant sparkling green - a green that never dulls, never loses its luster, no matter what they've been through.
Arthur turns his back to Lancelot again, but pulls the knight's arms with him, and Lancelot closes his own eyes as they lay wrapped together, leathers pressed to leathers, blood and gore and sweat and drying tears gluing them to one another.
They sleep, Arthur turning and twisting and frowning, Lancelot silent and still.
Their hands stay wound, inseparable, tight, the grip the thing that binds them together, always.
The moon rises full and fat and the garrison grinds to a halt for the night, flags fluttering in the wind, torches popping, birds calling, the evening shift of guards speaking quietly to one another.
Inside the commander's rooms the world that is normally full of ringing shouts and horses screaming and men dying and swords meeting is still and soft and tiny - if only for the night.
Lancelot never knocks. This time is no exception.
Arthur's back is to him, and Lancelot kicks the other man's door shut, hoping he'll get a reaction, anything, words, curses, obscene gestures. The oil lamps that are lit haphazardly around the room waver with the force of his movements, but the man on the bed stays on the bed, arms tightly wrapped about his middle, leathers still hiding his skin.
Lancelot twists his mouth. He's dirty and sweaty and gore speckled and his swords are heavy on his back and fuck this he crosses the room and stands at the foot of the bed. The curtains are still drawn, and he crosses his arms and looks down at Arthur's unmoving form.
He licks blood flecked dry lips and unstraps the harness that holds his double blades in place. Setting them down slowly he sighs a shaky breath and toes off his boots, dropping his studded jacket to the floor to land on top of them, mud scattering, the smell of musk and blood and something else - shadows, darkness, cliched things he laughs to think of - permeating his nostrils as he settles behind Arthur on the large bed.
Arthur still doesn't move, and although Lancelot can feel his back rising with his breath, the other man says nothing. Excalibur hangs from its traditional place on the wall, next to Arthur's suit of armor on its stand. That is clean, shining and pure and Lancelot knows Arthur's squire has been in here; he snorts as he leans his forehead against Arthur's nape, the smell that's in the room coating the inside of his throat and he coughs, right hand crawling out slowly, arm sliding over Arthur's middle.
The muscles beneath his fingers flex and bunch, power hidden by black clothing, strength belied by the painful silence that climbs its way out of Arthur and into Lancelot, stilling everything, stilling the knight's thoughts and he closes his eyes. Arthur shudders once beneath his touch, and the two men, commander and knight, are reduced to one breath, one heartbeat, one set of emotions that threaten to spin Lancelot into a tiny ball of nothing save air and blood.
The flames in the brazier crackle and rise. Coal shifts and light flickers and Arthur turns at last and catches Lancelot's hand in his own large one, the callouses left there from the heft of Excalibur scratchy and the commander's eyes are open and wide and Lancelot breathes in, once -
"I cannot save them."
"No, Arthur." Lancelot grips more tightly at the other man's fingers.
"No matter how I try."
"The gods of this land demand more than we can give sometimes, Arthur," Lancelot says. "Death and his pale horse," he smirks, bright white teeth against a background of oily, cold, dirt-streaked skin, "take who they want, when they want. We can only stand by and watch. That is our lot in life."
Arthur's eyes are dry. He watches Lancelot as Lancelot watches him, and gradually his lids close over the brilliant sparkling green - a green that never dulls, never loses its luster, no matter what they've been through.
Arthur turns his back to Lancelot again, but pulls the knight's arms with him, and Lancelot closes his own eyes as they lay wrapped together, leathers pressed to leathers, blood and gore and sweat and drying tears gluing them to one another.
They sleep, Arthur turning and twisting and frowning, Lancelot silent and still.
Their hands stay wound, inseparable, tight, the grip the thing that binds them together, always.
The moon rises full and fat and the garrison grinds to a halt for the night, flags fluttering in the wind, torches popping, birds calling, the evening shift of guards speaking quietly to one another.
Inside the commander's rooms the world that is normally full of ringing shouts and horses screaming and men dying and swords meeting is still and soft and tiny - if only for the night.