Ficlets: Birthday Contrast
Author: Ashley
Birthday Contrast
summary: Arthur's birthday, two different times.
warnings: slash.
author's notes: for fun, inspired by my birthday. :) Feedback is love.
THE WALL
Lancelot's eyebrow reaches for his hairline. Arthur refrains - just barely - from rolling his eyes at the other man's predicable behavior. It's quiet and the sun is long set and for once, just once, there's nothing pressing or post waiting or people expecting to see him or sick knights or shortages of supplies or
"Arthur?"
"What, for the love of God?"
"Aren't you going to drink this?" It's the third time the knight has asked.
"…take it, Lancelot. Just, please." Arthur's fingers find the bridge of his nose and pinch, hard. He ignores Lancelot's booted feet that rest on the edge of the table that fills their great hall with its dark wood and hulking presence.
Lancelot's other eyebrow joins the first as he reaches over Arthur's hands and takes up the rest of the flask of mulled wine that Arthur's apparently been saving for this particular evening. He tilts it to his lips and drinks, the flavor of the wine pleasing to his tongue and warming his innards quickly. Arthur drops his hand and watches Lancelot drink the last of his wine, his face gradually darkening, mouth a thin line, eyes narrowed and sparkling dangerously.
"Enjoying it?"
"It's excellent. Was excellent," Lancelot finishes the wine and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, lowering his feet to the ground. He stands and approaches Arthur, lips stained with the lees of the drink. He leans over Arthur and breathes into the commander's face; Arthur can smell the drink on Lancelot's tongue.
"Goodnight, Arthur," Lancelot says, his voice a low vibrating thing that makes the hair on Arthur's neck rise. He almost loses the anger that had come with Lancelot drinking the wine he'd saved for today -
"I appreciate the gift."
Lancelot smiles widely, runs a quick hand over Arthur's curls, and exits the great hall, his booted feet gradually fading from hearing distance as Arthur watches him go, helplessly. Then -
"Strange for you Romans to not care about the day of your birth. I always assumed it was an auspicious thing."
Arthur looks at the bottle of wine, now empty, that his first commander had given him five years previous on his birthday. Lancelot's seemingly innocent statement reverberates in Arthur's head - he lashes out at the bottle, sending it flying, broken glass shattered at his feet and pebbling on the stone floor of the hall, bits and shards catching the light of the torches that shudder around the room.
He rises and follows in the other man's wake, determined to get a taste of his present one way or another.
LOS ANGELES
Arthur pushes open the door of the loft with his foot, keys tangled in his fingers, jacket held in his mouth, two coffees balanced precariously in his left hand, one on top of each other. He would call for Lance to help, but then he'd drop his jacket and well -
He rounds the corner of the hallway and stops short.
The kitchen is clean and organized. The floors have been swept, the books and random studying materials put away, the blinds straightened, the plants watered and oh my god, did he dust? the furniture is gleaming and silent. A few lights are still on, but he can't see Lance anywhere. He sits the keys and coffees down and removes his jacket from his mouth, draping it over a chair at the neatened table that fills his breakfast nook. Two beers and what can best be described as huge cake almost spill off the top of the small table, and Arthur shakes his head and laughs at the inscription artfully sculpted on the top of the cake.
"Wha."
"Sorry I woke you," Arthur says softly back to Lance's hazy inquiry, still looking down at the cake and smiling. "I know it's late. I brought coffee," he adds as Lance pads sleepily toward him, his hair sleep crazy and pajama bottoms askew and pillow marks on his face. Arthur looks up and his smile broadens at the sight; he touches the creases that mar the other man's right cheek and Lance reaches a hand up and winds their fingers together. He leans forward and presses a tired kiss to Arthur's lips, light and feathery and everything that says Lance to Arthur, now.
The moon shines through the slatted blinds, dust free. Lance slips his arm around Arthur's waist and leans his head on Arthur's shoulder, kissing his neck, then blowing warm breath against the spot. "You like it?"
"I love it. But I'm not sure I'm worthy of this title."
Lance, more awake now, picks up the coffee Arthur had brought for him. He sips and makes a happy face at the taste, scrubbing his free hand through his nutty hair. It needs a cut, but Arthur likes it longish, so he hasn't bothered. "Yeah, you are."
He retrieves a knife and two plates from the clean kitchen and a lighter Arthur's afraid he uses too frequently for cigarettes still and lights the two candles on the cake, illuminating the statement whorled in yellow fondant. "Make a wish," he says, and takes another sip of the coffee, setting the lighter down, picking up the knife, ready to cut. "Happy birthday, Arthur."
"Don't you mean, happy birthday, best police captain ever?"
"Don't forget it."
Arthur blows out the candles and wishes silently. He opens his eyes and can't contain the grin that grows as Lancelot slices into the moist yellow cake and icing - his absolute favorite and his green eyes narrow with pleasure as Lance shoves a small bite into his mouth.
He swallows and sighs happily as Lance puts two big pieces on their plates and pops the beer open and clinks his bottle to Arthur's. They laugh quietly and stare at each other - the shadows under Lance's eyes dark and bruised and Arthur reaches a finger up, tracing their blackness, but Lance sets his cake down and leans forward and kisses Arthur.
"Best friend ever," Lance murmurs against Arthur's lips. "Best lover ever. Best Arthur ever."
Arthur winds arms around the other man and holds his best Lance ever to him, warm skin and musk and dark eyes filling his mind, granting the wish he'd asked for when he'd blown out his candles.
Birthday Contrast
summary: Arthur's birthday, two different times.
warnings: slash.
author's notes: for fun, inspired by my birthday. :) Feedback is love.
THE WALL
Lancelot's eyebrow reaches for his hairline. Arthur refrains - just barely - from rolling his eyes at the other man's predicable behavior. It's quiet and the sun is long set and for once, just once, there's nothing pressing or post waiting or people expecting to see him or sick knights or shortages of supplies or
"Arthur?"
"What, for the love of God?"
"Aren't you going to drink this?" It's the third time the knight has asked.
"…take it, Lancelot. Just, please." Arthur's fingers find the bridge of his nose and pinch, hard. He ignores Lancelot's booted feet that rest on the edge of the table that fills their great hall with its dark wood and hulking presence.
Lancelot's other eyebrow joins the first as he reaches over Arthur's hands and takes up the rest of the flask of mulled wine that Arthur's apparently been saving for this particular evening. He tilts it to his lips and drinks, the flavor of the wine pleasing to his tongue and warming his innards quickly. Arthur drops his hand and watches Lancelot drink the last of his wine, his face gradually darkening, mouth a thin line, eyes narrowed and sparkling dangerously.
"Enjoying it?"
"It's excellent. Was excellent," Lancelot finishes the wine and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, lowering his feet to the ground. He stands and approaches Arthur, lips stained with the lees of the drink. He leans over Arthur and breathes into the commander's face; Arthur can smell the drink on Lancelot's tongue.
"Goodnight, Arthur," Lancelot says, his voice a low vibrating thing that makes the hair on Arthur's neck rise. He almost loses the anger that had come with Lancelot drinking the wine he'd saved for today -
"I appreciate the gift."
Lancelot smiles widely, runs a quick hand over Arthur's curls, and exits the great hall, his booted feet gradually fading from hearing distance as Arthur watches him go, helplessly. Then -
"Strange for you Romans to not care about the day of your birth. I always assumed it was an auspicious thing."
Arthur looks at the bottle of wine, now empty, that his first commander had given him five years previous on his birthday. Lancelot's seemingly innocent statement reverberates in Arthur's head - he lashes out at the bottle, sending it flying, broken glass shattered at his feet and pebbling on the stone floor of the hall, bits and shards catching the light of the torches that shudder around the room.
He rises and follows in the other man's wake, determined to get a taste of his present one way or another.
LOS ANGELES
Arthur pushes open the door of the loft with his foot, keys tangled in his fingers, jacket held in his mouth, two coffees balanced precariously in his left hand, one on top of each other. He would call for Lance to help, but then he'd drop his jacket and well -
He rounds the corner of the hallway and stops short.
The kitchen is clean and organized. The floors have been swept, the books and random studying materials put away, the blinds straightened, the plants watered and oh my god, did he dust? the furniture is gleaming and silent. A few lights are still on, but he can't see Lance anywhere. He sits the keys and coffees down and removes his jacket from his mouth, draping it over a chair at the neatened table that fills his breakfast nook. Two beers and what can best be described as huge cake almost spill off the top of the small table, and Arthur shakes his head and laughs at the inscription artfully sculpted on the top of the cake.
"Wha."
"Sorry I woke you," Arthur says softly back to Lance's hazy inquiry, still looking down at the cake and smiling. "I know it's late. I brought coffee," he adds as Lance pads sleepily toward him, his hair sleep crazy and pajama bottoms askew and pillow marks on his face. Arthur looks up and his smile broadens at the sight; he touches the creases that mar the other man's right cheek and Lance reaches a hand up and winds their fingers together. He leans forward and presses a tired kiss to Arthur's lips, light and feathery and everything that says Lance to Arthur, now.
The moon shines through the slatted blinds, dust free. Lance slips his arm around Arthur's waist and leans his head on Arthur's shoulder, kissing his neck, then blowing warm breath against the spot. "You like it?"
"I love it. But I'm not sure I'm worthy of this title."
Lance, more awake now, picks up the coffee Arthur had brought for him. He sips and makes a happy face at the taste, scrubbing his free hand through his nutty hair. It needs a cut, but Arthur likes it longish, so he hasn't bothered. "Yeah, you are."
He retrieves a knife and two plates from the clean kitchen and a lighter Arthur's afraid he uses too frequently for cigarettes still and lights the two candles on the cake, illuminating the statement whorled in yellow fondant. "Make a wish," he says, and takes another sip of the coffee, setting the lighter down, picking up the knife, ready to cut. "Happy birthday, Arthur."
"Don't you mean, happy birthday, best police captain ever?"
"Don't forget it."
Arthur blows out the candles and wishes silently. He opens his eyes and can't contain the grin that grows as Lancelot slices into the moist yellow cake and icing - his absolute favorite and his green eyes narrow with pleasure as Lance shoves a small bite into his mouth.
He swallows and sighs happily as Lance puts two big pieces on their plates and pops the beer open and clinks his bottle to Arthur's. They laugh quietly and stare at each other - the shadows under Lance's eyes dark and bruised and Arthur reaches a finger up, tracing their blackness, but Lance sets his cake down and leans forward and kisses Arthur.
"Best friend ever," Lance murmurs against Arthur's lips. "Best lover ever. Best Arthur ever."
Arthur winds arms around the other man and holds his best Lance ever to him, warm skin and musk and dark eyes filling his mind, granting the wish he'd asked for when he'd blown out his candles.