Title: A Second Chance
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Will/Lancelot (also hints at other pairings: Merlin/Will, Merlin/Arthur, Lancelot/Gwen and even Gwen/Morgana if you read between the lines)
Summary: Thanks to Merlin's magic Will has survived the events in Moment of Truth. Chance presents him with a new friend.
Word Count: ~ 2000
Warnings: -
Author Notes: Originally written for
kinkme_merlin. The prompt was: Lancelot/Will, in a world where Merlin loves Arthur and Gwen loves Morgana, two boys find each other, and fuck-all to royalty and their bloody servants. Bonus points for messing with the events of "Moment of Truth".
Disclaimer: Merlin belongs to the BBC, not to me. I certainly make no profit out of this.
It happens a few years into Arthur's reign, maybe three or four.
Merlin doesn't believe his eyes at first, but there is no mistaking that gait and that shock of mousy, brown hair, so he follows the man, follows him all the way outside the castle grounds to a small thatched house hidden between hazel bushes and birches.
Once he's sure that they're alone in this spot of land, he calls out, questioning, “Will?”
The man re-emerges from the dark doorway and yes, there is no doubt now.
“Merlin,” he answers and hesitates for a short moment before he takes a step forward, and then they're both crossing the space between them quickly to envelop each other in a tight hug, laughing like the young boys they were back in Ealdor for a moment, before the weight of adulthood lasts on their shoulders once more.
“You shouldn't have come here. I told you not to,” Merlin says later, when they sit at Will's battered table sipping watered-down wine.
“I know,” Will looks down at the trodden in earth that is his floor, shifting a stray hazel leaf around with one foot, “and I'm sorry, but it's been years, Merlin, and Camelot is the one place in all of Albion everyone's drawn to nowadays.”
Merlin thinks about Arthur for a second, proud of their king, his king, and then nods his understanding.
“You're still supposed to be dead though.”
Will can't suppress a strangled laugh at that. “Don't worry, I haven't forgotten.”
It's a wonder that Merlin found him anyway, and he tells him so. He never goes into town, but the girl that collects his wares to be sold at the market once a month is sick and he was forced to make the delivery himself.
“Just be careful,” Merlin covers his hand with his own and looks at him with concern in his eyes.
“Why?” Will asks, and wants to add so that your precious king won't find out you lied to him, but he's not that bitter, not in this life.
“Just... I-,” Merlin stumbles over his words, and it's obvious he gets the unspoken meaning nevertheless.
“I'll... I'll talk to Arthur,” he finally concedes, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
They hug once more when they say goodbye and Merlin promises to come back, but his smile is not as easy and unburdened as it used to be and Will can feel that they've both changed.
*
This is what Will hasn't told Merlin (yet):
I. He hasn't told him how much it hurt as the magic stitched him back together, rebuilt flesh and arteries and filled the gaping hole in his chest that had filled his lungs with blood and stopped his heart. How painful the first tentative beats of the repaired heart were and how his lungs burned when he took his first new breaths.
II. He hasn't told him how lonely he felt, forced to leave the one place in which he'd lived his whole life, his only home, to abandon the soil in which his mother and father were buried, to walk away from everyone he knew. He relinquished his life, dead to the world, although he was alive, was still breathing and walking and laughing - the latter not as readily as before.
III. Most importantly, he hasn't told him the real reason why he came to Camelot:
For the first few months he wandered around aimlessly, lost and aching, grateful to have been given a new life, but at a complete loss as what to do with it.
He would wake up in the mornings and just breathe for a while, let the air stream through his lungs and enjoy the rise and fall of his rib cage, until his stomach roused him with an angry, demanding growl and he'd get up to search for something to content it with.
One day drifted by and another followed and another and another, and he hardly noticed the subtle changes in temperature, the different smells on the wind. He stopped wondering, stopped thinking about Ealdor and Merlin, because it hurt, stopped being angry at Arthur Pendragon, because it didn't matter any longer.
That was how Lancelot found him, curled up in a nest of moss and dry leaves on the forest's floor, sleeping the day away, wrapped up in the perfect serenity that only the carefree ever reach.
He hadn't eaten in days, hadn't washed in weeks, not shaved in months, and it was a miracle to him why that handsome warrior hadn't just clapped the spurs to his horse and ridden him into the ground - that was before he really got to know Lancelot.
Instead, noble to the bone, Lancelot dismounted and shared his kill with him, a rather meagre squirrel, but food nonetheless.
Speech was the most difficult to regain.
Merlin had been the last person he'd spoken to, a few rushed words, half drowned out by the pain and the coldness, - go away, hide, don't come back - those he remembered, those had pained him more than his injury.
He found he mistrusted them, words were treacherous, words lied, actions spoke much more clearly.
Lancelot spoke in both of them, but it were his actions, his sharing his food, his offering him fresh clothes and a knife to shave, that made him trust him, and only slowly they started talking.
They'd shared a fire and their food for three days already, when the name Merlin fell for the first time and they discovered a connection between them.
Neither of them ventured under the surface at first, Will reluctant to remember and Lancelot sensing his unease instinctively.
So they just exchanged a few anecdotes, Lancelot asked about Gwen, but all Will remembered was a pretty face and a friendly smile.
It needed a skin of wine and a pleasant, warm summer night for Will to finally open up to his new friend.
Once he'd started to talk there was no stopping him, but Lancelot just sat there, watching him closely, the flames of their fire flickering red in his dark eyes and listened, let him talk until there was nothing left to say, until he'd spilled everything he'd bottled up inside, a whole life - a whole life that had ended, but that he still lived.
And then he cried, sobbed into the rough fabric of Lancelot's tunic, until he had spilled all of his tears as well, while Lancelot gently rubbed his hands over his back in circles, holding him until he fell asleep and longer still, wrapped around him when he awoke to the cry of an owl in the night and in the morning, when he lay there, just breathing once more.
Somehow it made sense to stay together after that.
Lancelot travelled the land, searching for new quests to prove himself, until he could return to Camelot - no matter how often he tried to ensure Will (and himself) that he would be content to fight as a knight for any kingdom, they both knew that it would always just be Camelot - and Will was glad to follow him, to take care of all the tasks that didn't involve fighting.
He didn't want to fight, had had enough of it in another life, and Lancelot understood, but he still had a purpose like this - and a friend.
They both sensed that there could be more to their friendship, but there was always just Gwen for Lancelot and Will wasn't ready to let go of Merlin just yet.
The news of Uther's death changed everything.
They had travelled far, sailed on ships and ridden to the edges of the known world, so the news reached them late and it was even later that they arrived in Camelot.
Will had been shocked, felt hot and cold all over, because this had to be it, had to be the moment another life ended and he was left alone and lost once more, but Lancelot had looked at him, joy written into the lines of his face, shining in his eyes.
“Come with me, Will,” he had said, “I'm sure there'll be a place for you at Arthur's court as well.”
Arthur - the one thing they had always disagreed upon.
Lancelot trusted in him, put the same foolish hopes in him Merlin did, while Will still blamed him for everything even though he had given his life to save his, or maybe that was the reason.
In the end hope had been too enticing, the images Lancelot painted of the glorious future of Camelot under King Arthur, the fear to be alone again too big and he had followed.
It had taken them months to arrive. Arthur had been king for at least two years, and had made Merlin his Court Magician - and more if one believed the rumours.
Will had no doubt.
He had had years to imagine how he'd react to this, but he'd never, not even once, considered this: He felt nothing - maybe a bit of nostalgia, maybe a hint of regret.
It was liberating, but also incredibly anti-climactic.
He had feared his reaction, had expected more hurt, burning anger and jealousy for all of his new life, but he felt nothing of it.
Time, he decided, to really start living again, to cut the strings that bound him to his old life once and for all.
So while Lancelot presented himself at court, happy to return, Will packed his few belongings, happy to finally leave.
For their friendship's sake, for all he'd done for him, he decided to wait by their camp for Lancelot to come back, to give him a proper goodbye.
He should have known that nothing in this life or in the old one ever turned out as planned.
Lancelot returned early and Will immediately sensed that something was wrong, that maybe Arthur had denied him, but from the words sobbed into his shoulder he deduced that it was Gwen, not Arthur, who had denied him.
That night it was Will who held Lancelot, who smoothed his hand over his body, who kissed away the salty tears before covering Lancelot's mouth with his lips, and Lancelot kissed back with fervour, bit and licked, tasting salty like his tears and bitter like the ale he'd drunken.
Will held him close all through the night and when in the morning Lancelot whispered, “stay,” against his skin, he was neither surprised that he knew nor capable of refusing.
*
It is late when Lancelot comes to him, smelling of sweat and grass, like always after training with his fellow knights, and Will greets him with a kiss, before he shares the news with him.
“I saw Merlin today.”
Lancelot smiles and runs a hand through his hair down to the nape of his neck, where he plays distractedly with the short strands.
“Did you tell him?”
Will urges him to take off his chain mail, which he puts down carefully on the table, before he answers.
“No, I wanted to speak to you first.”
Lancelot is right there the second it's out of his mouth and presses open-mouthed kisses to his neck and jaw, slipping his hand under his tunic.
Will lets himself melt against his strong, muscled body, rolls his hips against him until Lancelot gasps hotly against his cheek.
“I think,” Will pants into the dark locks, “I want this just for myself just a bit longer.”
Lancelot doesn't answer, but kisses him again, sucks in his lower lip and then uses his tongue to lick into his mouth, and Will knows he agrees.
Maybe Lancelot is still a bit in love with Guinevere, and Will isn't so sure that Lancelot believes him, when he says he's not in love with Merlin any longer, but this between them, it's real and yes, it's love as well, because if there's anything Will has learned in this second life he's been given, it's that you can love more than one person if your heart is just big enough.