In Fidelity
After seeing the request for an Arthur cheating on Gwen with Lancelot fic on merlin_finders I kind of stole the idea as a prompt, because I really liked it. Yes, I should be working on other things (-cough- editing -cough-) but here it is! Title as usual is a little bit rubbish, play on the word infidelity. Since fidelity means faithfulness, and the prefix in negates that, I thought it was kind of fitting with the whole dubious meaning if you split it up. Anyway.
Title: In Fidelity
Author:
weepingwillow9
Disclaimer: I have no claim to owning Merlin whatsoever
Characters: Arthur, Lance, Gwen, Merlin
Pairings: Arthur/Gwen, Arthur/Lance
Warnings: Sex, as per usual, and cheating
Spoilers: This is set sometime after Series Four, but in a slight AU, in that Lancelot hasn't been a suicidal maniac and is still around. I like to think Merlin had a huge fight with the Cailleach and threw her into the veil instead
Rating: NC-17
Length: 5768
Summary: It started a long time ago
“This is wrong,” Lancelot tells him, breath panting out into his ear.
“And yet you’ll do it anyway.” Arthur’s certain, after all, he has Lance naked and in his arms. There’s little going back from that.
“We shouldn’t. You’re married.”
Arthur nuzzles into Lance’s neck, something he knows from the hours they’ve spent together that Lance can’t resist. He hums, deep in his chest, and Arthur chases the vibrations with his lips.
“I don’t love her, though,” Arthur murmurs into his skin, “It’s you I want.”
“I can see that.” Lance gestures to the evidence, spread between them. Arthur laughs, pressing close to Lancelot until the sound passes between them.
*
It had started two days ago in training. Well, no, it started long before then, it’s been building ever since Merlin first brought Lance to Arthur. But, superficially, the start was on the training ground.
Arthur needed a partner from the more experienced knights to show the new intake a more advanced defensive move. So Arthur had chosen Lance. He knew from the first day they had fought that Lancelot would give as good as he had, and that’s what he had needed. A real threat, that he could easily disarm.
Except that wasn’t how it went. Arthur had told Lance to attack, so he did, and he gave his all. Arthur hadn’t expected it, of course, it being only a demonstration, and had caved under the weight of the attack.
“What the fuck was that?”
“Sire? You asked me to attack.”
“I didn’t ask you to bloody assassinate me.”
Lancelot had just stood there, looking innocent and lost and beautiful, a little sweaty from the exertion perhaps. And, it seemed to Arthur that he couldn’t even comprehend not being in the wrong, not having been wrongly chastised, so repentant was his look. It had just made everything so much worse, set light to the potent mix of emotions inside Arthur. And he had taken off.
“What are you looking like that for? Why do you have to be so bloody perfect all the time? I’m in the wrong, come on, show some fucking anger!”
It was only when he stopped that Arthur realised he had been shouting. Not only were the trainees looking at him, but the rest of the knights who were not on patrol had stopped and turned to watch. Leon turned as if to ask Arthur where that had come from. Arthur gestured for him to take over and walked away, towards the castle, before he could let himself get even more out of hand.
The problem was, Arthur didn’t know what had caused the outburst any more than anyone else did. He’d had a surprisingly good morning up to that point, there were no problems weighing on his mind. And he liked Lance. He had no reason to lash out at him for doing what he was told.
There was one thing, though. A flash of something almost like betrayal, when Lance had rounded on him. Something he’d seen in Lance’s eyes, pretty and deep though they were. Something he hadn’t understood but that had resounded with him, frightened him because of the response it had drawn.
And Arthur couldn’t shake the feeling from his mind, or the thought that he’d just missed something important.
*
But of course it had started before then. Lancelot’s humility when they had first met had intrigued Arthur, though that had been because he wasn’t what he professed to be. His calm refusal to show anger towards Arthur, a sure sign of his inner peace, how he’s always been a better man than Arthur thinks he could ever be.
And when he fought. The grace with which he moved, the way he face twisted a little in concentration. The instinctual parries that set him out as a fighter destined for Arthur’s class, who could even surpass him in ability one day.
And on Lance’s part, there was Arthur. Golden, strong, brave and kind; everything a knight should be embodied in one man. A man who fought for him, against his own father’s wishes.
Yes, it started a long time ago.
*
The next day, Arthur and Lance were both on patrol. Even though he was now King, Arthur made a point of retaining his old duties, though not as often as he had before. It had been an ordinary patrol, the knights leisurely walking their horses along the sun-drenched, green leaf-stained path. Arthur pulled his horse back to ride alongside Lance.
“Look, I- I’m sorry about yesterday. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Lance had just shot Arthur a blinding smile.
“Don’t worry about it. No harm done.”
Arthur might have said something else, but then it had happened. Somehow, one of Arthur’s rivals must have heard that he would be on patrol that day. There were mercenaries everywhere, separating Arthur and Lance from the rest of the knights, a ring around the pair of them, keeping them from rescue.
Lance defended Arthur fiercely, because no one was ever allowed to take him. Arthur was everything, he had to stay alive and in Camelot, and Lancelot would give anything to ensure that that was the case. But Arthur seemed almost suicidal, not allowing Lance to keep him back, throwing himself into the fight.
Their horses were shot down, so they fought back to back on foot. Until Arthur caught sight of the archer. His crossbow was pointed towards Lance, and that couldn’t be allowed. He rolled forwards, cutting the man down, and turned.
But there was no way back to Lance.
“Sire!” Lance called, but there was no telling if Arthur could hear him, or if Arthur was still alive.
“Lancelot!” he had called back, eyes widening in blind panic. Until he channelled it through his sword, hacking a path towards the sound of Lance’s voice, sword making light work of the meagre cloth and leather the mercenaries had for protection.
Arthur pressed his back against Lance’s and breathed in relief, grounded by the heat through the layers of fabric and metal and mail that seeped into his skin. And when there were only bodies separating them from the other knights, Arthur knew he should check for casualties, but all he could think about was Lancelot and how near he had been to losing him, again, this time for good.
He dropped his sword, spun Lance to face him by his upper arm.
“Are you alright?” he asked, searching Lance’s face, “Did they hurt you?”
“No, I’m fine, Arthur.”
He was breathless, and Arthur just squeezed his arm tighter.
“I almost lost you.”
Lance took a step forward, pulled in by the strength of Arthur’s gaze, the jewel bright blue of his eyes.
“You won’t get rid of me that easily.”
More could have happened. Would have happened. Were it not for the cry of pain from the direction of the other knights. Arthur dropped Lance’s arm as if burnt, staring at him, realisation setting in.
“I almost lost you,” he whispered, “And I haven’t told you-”
“I think that was Percival,” Lance told Arthur, desperate for that conversation not to happen right then, possibly not ever. Because he had loved his King from afar for too long to have Arthur raise and later dash his hopes. “We should go.” And he had turned away, and gone to help.
*
Lancelot had always been more self-aware than Arthur. Of course, he hadn’t realised what he felt for Arthur straight away. He had been too wrapped up in what he ought to feel for Gwen, what he thought he did feel, to notice the growing something towards his prince, then King. The realisation had begun when Arthur went to save Gwen. The fact that he’d risk himself so much for one servant girl had sparked thought after thought, and by the time he was giving Gwen to Arthur he was really running from something that could surely never be.
He loved Arthur. And it wasn’t just the worship of an idol, or respect. It was love, true and strong, and there was no escaping it.
*
He couldn’t avoid Arthur forever of course. There was the meeting after the patrol with just the knights, then the council meeting to try to work out who had been attacking and how they had found out that Arthur would be there. Lancelot had to be present for both, and when they were both over, Arthur called him to stay. Lance couldn’t disobey his King.
“I nearly lost you before.”
Arthur’s barely speaking above a whisper, and Lance can’t stand it.
“It won’t happen again, Sire,” he says, head down.
Arthur’s face hardens. He needs help with this, not Lance reverting to the model knight.
“How do you plan on stopping it, then? You can’t just prevent anyone attacking. You can’t weave an enchantment to make you invulnerable, or to stop anyone taking you away. If you could, Merlin would have done it for us all.”
Lance hangs his head, sorry for ever mentioning it. Arthur steps into his space, takes hold of his shoulders.
“No. Stop shutting yourself off. I know you must be feeling something, I need you to show me.”
Lance looks up, slowly, revealing his eyes bit by bit. Arthur falls half into them and stays there, waiting.
“What do you want me to say, Arthur? I can’t tell what you’re thinking, I need to know. Do you care about me?”
The last is so tentative that Arthur reaches for him, finding his hand and holding it between them, as some sort of bridge for all he feels, all he wants, to travel along.
“I’m not sure I can put it into words yet,” he begins. And it’s true, it’s not something he can or even wants to define, not when he’s only just realised it’s there. He needs to separate out his feelings for Lancelot, now and before, from the rest of his life. Chart them, analyse them, and at least begin to understand them. Only then will he be able to explain to Lance what they are. For now, he’s left with general impressions; fleeting things, like the panic at the thought of Lance being taken from him, or the warmth that he feels just knowing that he can seek Lance out in council and he will be there, always there for him.
“For now, I just know that I love you. I don’t know how, or when, and I’m only beginning to realise why, but I’ve fallen in love with you. You’re under my skin, and I don’t think I’ll ever get you out.”
Lancelot gasps, reaches forward for Arthur. Arthur takes the plunge all the way into his eyes, loses all sense of their separate identities in them. He leaves Lance framing his jaw with his fingers, holding him as if he’s going to be snatched away, as if he’s been waiting for this moment for years. Which, to one extent or another, they both have.
Arthur tests out the feel of Lance’s almost beard with his thumb, a little hesitant until he leans in and kisses him, the nervousness melting between them, making way for tongues and teeth and devouring each other. Lance drops one of his hands to Arthur’s back, pulling him in. Arthur threads his fingers through Lance’s curls, his other arm wrapping around Lance’s waist and tugging him in close.
They moan together and pull apart, breathing to each other.
“I love you too,” Lance whispers, and attacks Arthur’s fuller lips with nips and nibbles until they’re red and swollen, and he has to kiss them better.
They can’t use Arthur’s rooms, because Gwen would find out. Thankfully, there are guest rooms scattered all over the castle, kept in readiness for visiting nobles. They choose one in the less well used part of the castle, reasoning that fewer people are likely to walk past. They lock the door behind them, and neither of them mentions the Queen.
She’s there though, almost a physical presence, standing over them and condemning them. Arthur and Lance help each other with the clasps of their armour, careful between kisses, peeling off layer after layer until it’s skin on skin, and Arthur can pull Lancelot to the bed and bar Gwen, shutting them off from the world by pulling the curtains.
He claims Lance’s mouth, lying over him so they can rock their hips together and gasp open-mouthed kisses to each other. They’ve both done this before, and they admit it to each other. Though it’s never meant anything like this for either of them.
Lance opens his legs for Arthur, and it feels natural, feels planned, for Arthur to open him with the oil he took from the armoury. Lance’s moans and the need in Arthur’s eyes prove that they’re right.
Arthur pushes into Lance, staring straight into him. There’s a bond between them, a connection between their pupils that means that neither of them can look away. Arthur sinks into Lancelot in more ways than one, and Lance lets him. Arthur can’t help but think that it’s never been like this with Gwen. Everything worked physically, most of the time, but she could never have the same intensity as Lance. Compared to right here, right now, Arthur’s relationship with his wife seems superficial. He won’t be able to stand never doing this again.
So he gives Lance all he has, angling until Lance moans with each thrust of Arthur’s hips, until his head tips back and they can no longer stare at each other, until he pulls Arthur down to kiss him and comes, body taut, between them. Arthur lets go, and they’re left panting into each other.
Arthur raises his lips to Lance’s forehead, kisses the tiny scar there.
“My knight,” he murmurs, settling in next to Lance.
Lance reaches for the covers and pulls them up, shifting a little until he’s comfortable, head on Arthur’s chest.
“My King,” he whispers, falling into sleep.
*
Gwen breezes into the council meeting, taking her seat next to Arthur. Merlin sits on his other side, and Lance tries not to be jealous.
“You wanted me here, Arthur?”
“I wanted your advice.”
Lance watches, as Arthur smiles at her, helps turn her ideas of how to reduce the sewage problem in the lower town into something achievable. He’s the perfect husband, and Gwen doesn’t suspect a thing.
He and Arthur see each other whenever they can, sometimes even daring a night together. Arthur will tell Gwen that he wants to go up to the eastern tower at night, to help him think, and he doesn’t want to wake her, so he’ll sleep in one of the guest rooms that night. And because it’s the eastern tower, it makes sense to sleep on the other side of the castle. The room that he and Lance first used, now effectively theirs. Gwen takes the lies easily, believes them with all her heart. After all, this marriage is new, there’s no drastic change.
Arthur does feel guilty for cheating on her. Of course he does. But in a way he thinks it’s better for them all. He chose Gwen because he ought to love her, not because he does. A Queen, rather than a wife. She works well with him, provides a good counterbalance to his kingship. She’s lived her life as one of the people and she knows them well. She’s kind, good, and always points out when he’s not behaving how he should. And she’s a woman, so she can bear an heir. But beyond that, Arthur has no interest. He’d bore easily, and then they would be trapped in a loveless marriage.
Better he find love where he can, and be happier for it, than be miserable and drag Gwen down with him.
Lancelot feels worse even than Arthur. Like he’s stealing something from Gwen. Something he has no right to. And it’s so wrong, because he likes her. He doesn’t want to ruin her life by taking her husband. But he can’t stop himself. He loves Arthur, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stay away.
*
It’s two months in, and Lance ends their relationship.
“We can’t do this any more,” he tells Arthur, “If Gwen found out it would kill her.”
Arthur tries to change his mind, but he just walks away. That’s when they both know that he’s being serious.
Two weeks, where they barely speak. Arthur chooses others to demonstrate with, makes sure they aren’t on patrol together. He listens to Lance in council, but only as a polite gesture. He can’t really listen, too busy thinking about what he’s missing, how he could be wrapped up in only sheets with Lance, kissing him, showing him how much he cares. And Lance can’t really come up with anything useful, his thoughts trained on Arthur, pining over what he knows he should deny himself. For Gwen, for Gwen, so that Gwen doesn’t get hurt.
Arthur sleeps in their room odd nights, because he has a fiction to maintain. Sometimes he even walks up to the tower, too haunted by ghosts of echoes to truly sleep in that room when Lancelot isn’t there. And he hopes that one day it’ll be worth it, that one day Lance will come back to him. It’s the only thing that keeps him going, the thought that maybe Lance is going through the same pain, and that maybe, one day, he’ll decide that it hurts too much to carry on apart. And then he’ll kiss Arthur again, and it will be as if they never parted.
Arthur waits, and hopes, and watches him across the council chambers. Notes every scar, every hollow and raise of muscle, and how they felt under his fingers, under his lips. He knows Lance’s body as well as his own, and wonders if it changes. Wonders if the man it hides is still the same, still feels the same. The Lance he knows will find a way to be true to himself, even if it means doing the wrong thing. He hopes the Lance that left him is the same, in a moment of mad guilt, and will return to him with apologies on his lips. Eventually.
Lancelot doesn’t concentrate when training, his eyes fixed on Arthur, on his muscles, fantasizing about what they could be doing. On his mouth when he talks in front of his counsellors. But most of all on his eyes, when they are turned away from him, wishing to see so much in them but not daring to let himself. He knows what would happen if he looked.
It’s been two weeks, and people are noticing.
*
Arthur walks straight into the guest room, because he doesn’t expect anyone to be there. But there someone is.
Lying in the bed, head buried in the pillows, is Lancelot.
He hasn’t noticed Arthur enter, so he steels himself, breathes in deep. This is his chance, probably his only one, so he must seize it. He has to succeed, he can’t be without Lance any more.
Arthur takes a few steps closer, watching him wrapped up the sheets, breathing into the pillow.
“Lancelot.”
He rolls over, instantly tense, staring up at Arthur.
“What are you doing here?”
“Gwen would think it a little odd if I suddenly stopped going up the eastern tower.”
“Oh.”
There’s quiet for a while, as they stare at each other.
“I miss you,” Arthur admits. He looks far too broken for Lance to cope with, standing there, arms useless by his sides.
“I miss you too,” Lance has to admit.
And then Arthur’s kissing him and Lance has to wonder why he ever stopped this. Surely nothing is as important as his lips on Arthur’s, their hands on each other. He’d known he missed Arthur, but hadn’t realised the extent of it.
“What were you doing here?” Arthur asks him.
“Missing you,” Lance hesitates before admitting the rest, “I wanted to do more than see you, I wanted to smell you again, and the sheets smelt of you.”
Arthur just smiles, pulling him closer.
“I love you, don’t ever leave again.”
“I won’t,” Lance promises, and he tugs off Arthur’s shirt, starved for his skin.
Arthur breaks all the laces on Lance’s shirt in his hurry to get it off, so Lance finishes the undressing, boots, breeches, all. They pull each other close, lying on their sides, and kiss each other until it would be criminal to continue without anything else. Arthur salvages the oil, opening his legs for Lance to prepare him. He lies diagonally on the bed, clutching at a bedpost while Lance brushes his prostate, crooking and scissoring his fingers until Arthur is pliable enough.
They only rarely fuck like this, Lance inside Arthur, because Gwen might notice. But it’s worth the risk, more than just the incredible feeling of it all. It’s a symbol that here they are equal, that Lance can rock into Arthur as easily as Arthur can into him.
So he does, moaning, some strange derivative of Arthur’s name. Arthur clings to the bedpost, using it as leverage to push back. And when they meet they collide in stars and sparks and dust. The muscles in Lance’s chest ripple and stretch with the exertion of loving Arthur. Arthur’s shoulders hold the weight of it, braced against them both.
They come, and sag into each other, clutching at each other. Because this is something that can’t be lost.
*
They have their time the way they both want it. A love-fuelled affair, a loveless marriage that appears anything but. And then, as these things are wont to do, it falls apart.
Arthur slides into bed with Gwen in the early hours of the morning.
“Good morning,” she murmurs.
“I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Gwen curls into him, seeks out his lips for a kiss.
“Well, now that you have…”
It’s obvious what she wants. One palm she settles over Arthur’s chest, the other resting on Arthur’s hip and tugging him over her. He goes easily, ever the dutiful husband, kneeling between her legs and trying to disguise the twinge he feels when he moves. Gwen’s hand slips down, cupping over the curve of his arse, and she hums her approval, reaching up to kiss him again.
And then she stills. She pulls her hand away, slowly.
“Arthur… why are you wet?”
Suspicion clouds her face. Gwen may be sweet, but she isn’t exactly innocent. She knows what men can do to each other. And she recognises come when she sees it, leaking out of her husband’s hole.
He should never have come back to her bed.
“Who?” she asks. Gwen deserves to know, he thinks.
“Lancelot,” he admits, pulling back to sit away from her.
“Why?” she asks, “Aren’t I enough?”
Again, she deserves the truth. There’s no point in coming up with excuses.
“I chose you as a Queen,” he tells her, “More so than I did as a wife. You have always been everything I should love, but I find I can’t. If it’s any consolation, I have never loved another woman without enchantment. Never. You are the closest I have ever come to that, and that’s why I asked you to marry me. At that point I hadn’t realised why I hadn’t found my true love, if such a thing exists. If I had, I might not have done this to you. Or I might have done.”
Gwen frowns, and gets out of bed.
“I think we should continue this conversation dressed.”
She gestures for him to turn away, and pulls on a nightdress, and a robe. Then she looks away while he pulls on a shirt and breeches.
“So. How long?”
It seems that it’s to be quickfire questions and answers, cursory details only necessary, and Arthur catches on quickly. It is, after all, what he’d want as well. Her voice is cold, processing the information without involving emotion, because that would be too much.
“We’d been married three months.”
Gwen draws in her breath through her teeth, wounded.
“Do you love him?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t put you through this if I didn’t.”
She seems almost fond at that, but not quite.
“How did you realise? How did it begin?”
“We were on patrol, and we were attacked. I thought I was going to lose, him, and the panic unlocked something, made sense of things I wasn’t even aware of. And here we are.”
“Does he love you in return?”
“Yes.”
“Bastard.”
Arthur doesn’t say anything to that for a while. What can he say? There’s nothing that will take away the knowledge that her husband is having an affair with another man. Nothing that could possibly console her to the fact. If they hadn’t married, she would have had a chance at happiness and love with someone else. Now, she can’t, because she is the King’s wife and they can’t ever officially separate.
“Don’t blame Lance,” he begs, “He tried to end it, but we found we just couldn’t.”
Gwen waves him away, not wanting to hear, stares at the hangings of the bed.
“Did you ever… in here?”
Arthur shakes his head, but she isn’t looking.
“No. Never. There was a guest bedroom.”
“The eastern tower.”
Gwen stares at him, for the first time, truly looking at her husband.
“You were supposed to love me! Both of you! How could you? How can you live with yourself, Arthur? I thought you’d changed, but no, you’re still the selfish boy you were from the start. I can’t believe you’d do this to me.”
He watches her rage, something he’d previously seen as one of her merits, and thinks that maybe she’s wrong about who’s selfish. At least partly. All he can hear is me, though there are plenty of other reasons to hate him for his decision. The ridicule it would bring Camelot were it to get out, the possibility of a lowered chance of an heir (he’s heard ridiculous tales), the compromised structure of his hierarchy of knights. Something snaps within Arthur, and he can’t understand why he ever decided it would be a good idea to marry this woman.
“I’m moving out.”
“Fine,” Arthur tells her, bitterness and sarcasm lacing his voice, “I don’t care if Camelot crumbles if I don’t have an heir. I can just fuck Lance in this bed.”
Gwen glares at him.
“Well, that’s hardly my fault, is it? I’m not the one who married the wrong person and had to have an affair.”
Arthur’s shocked by this jealous, harsh side to Gwen, and he frowns. But he lowers his voice, trying to salvage some face at least, to get her back on side.
“I don’t think the world would have taken kindly to me marrying the right person, Gwen.”
She scrutinises him for a moment, and then sighs.
“I suppose you’re right. If I can trust what you’re saying any more.”
“I swear on Camelot that I’m not lying.”
She can’t dispute that, so she just leaves.
*
“Gwen knows,” he whispers to Lance after training.
“What? How?”
“Not here.”
Arthur leads Lance up to his chambers. His alone now; Gwen moved out all her things while he was busy. It’s not uncommon for a husband and wife to have separate rooms in the ruling classes, and there’s an unspoken agreement that this is their story to the rest of the world. Neither of them could stand the mortification.
“I wasn’t careful enough,” he tells Lance, once they’re securely locked away from prying eyes and ears. “I wasn’t careful enough, and now she knows.”
Lance nods.
“What are you going to do?”
“Let her leave. I don’t love her, there’s no point in fighting it. If I did, I’d have to give you up, and I can’t do that, not ever.”
His head is held high, tense and taut and defiant.
“You’re so brave,” Lance tells him, and kisses him. The kiss turns into more, tearing off clothes while they talk.
“Just selfish,” Arthur admits.
“Brave. You’re true to yourself. And it’s not as if you’re just going to ignore her. I know you’ll try to sort something out.”
“Not brave.”
“Let me believe, Arthur, even if you don’t.”
Arthur nods, kisses over his brow, his nose, to his lips.
“I’ll try to find a way to get along with her. We need to try for an heir, but perhaps the child doesn’t have to be mine.”
Lance pulls back abruptly.
“You’d-”
“I can’t deny her an affair if I’m having one. And I’d bring him up.”
“Of course.”
Lance kisses him again, sliding off breeches.
“And his father would be sleeping with a knight,” Lance teases.
“He wouldn’t have to know.”
“Of course.”
“Not that I wouldn’t want him to know the truth.”
“Arthur,” Lance silences him with a kiss, “I know you love me, and I know there are things we can’t be, and that’s fine. I love you enough for it not to matter.”
Arthur nods and draws him in close, hips moving together, pulling him to the bed. There’s muscle oil somewhere, and Arthur finds it, pours it over his fingers, into Lance. And then he’s fucking him on his own bed, in his own Pendragon red sheets, claiming him for his own.
“Never going to let you go.”
“I know.”
*
Gwen avoids them both for weeks. Lance wants to apologise, is desperate to do so, but Arthur won’t let him.
“Give her time,” he urges, determined for it not to be an instruction, “Let her anger cool, then she might listen.”
Lance does as Arthur wishes, because he can hardly not. He watches her, waiting for some sign that she’s ready to move on, but sees nothing but disgust in the turn of her head.
Arthur looks anywhere but at her. Merlin gives him a little smile whenever he sees him, never actually saying anything, but sympathetic. It makes Arthur wonder if he’s known all along. It wouldn’t surprise him.
After a few weeks, Gwen starts participating in council again. It’s then that Arthur agrees to talk to her.
He finds her in the gardens, the ones that he’s extending for her, because he had thought it would please her.
“Gwen, hello.”
“Sire.”
“I am sorry, you know.” She’s sitting on a bench, and he stands awkwardly before her, then thinks better of it and kneels.
“I don’t doubt that. You are a good man, despite what I said.”
“I’m not,” Arthur says, “But I try. I couldn’t try hard enough this time.”
“Yes, well, we all have our failings.”
She doesn’t want to hear, but she is trying, and Arthur will give her credit where it’s due.
“I won’t insult you by asking you to move back in again.”
“Good.”
“But I will ask, though it is no longer how you expected when I first asked you, would you continue in the roles of the Queen? And would you fulfil your duty of begetting an heir, either with me, or with another man of your choosing. Just please, Gwen, don’t make the child too obviously not mine.”
“I-“ she looks outraged, and Arthur immediately begins to take it all back but she interrupts, “The heir to Camelot has to be yours, Arthur. I will visit your rooms once a month. That should be enough for one child, at least.”
“Thank you,” he tells her, and he means it entirely.
*
Over the years, they grow to be friends again. Gwen can’t hate him for too long for following his heart. And it leaves her free to a chain of short-lived affairs. None of which produce a child.
Merlin looks at him with something like admiration, now. Arthur never asks why. And an answer is never volunteered.
Arthur prefers not to think about things too hard, these days. He’s seen suffering, and death on the battlefield over and over, always looking for Lancelot after the battle, urgent, to find him not among the dead. He takes what he can now, because he could lose so easily, and he needs to cherish love before it vanishes. With a sword, with a foul air, with an arrow. Blood, and gone, which can never ever be allowed.
*
He lays Lance out in front of him on the bare grass, wet and clean after their brief swim in the river. It’s hot and they’ve escaped the castle for the day, riding out across the countryside with the pretence of hunting. No one questioned them, after all, who would speak out against the King and his highest ranking knight?
The pair of them are naked, goosebumps rising on their skin as the breeze cools them. And then Arthur leans down over Lance, kisses his lips and down over the muscles of his chest.
“I love this,” he murmurs, feelings accessible and open for sharing now they’re in an open space, like they’ve stopped hiding for the moment, “Kissing the muscles I know you use to spar with me, to protect me. They’re just pretty, now, but so powerful.”
“I love this,” Lance whispers in return, “Being worshipped by the King. I love you.”
In answer, Arthur just sucks Lance’s cock into his mouth. Lance’s fists slam into the ground, scrabbling for purchase, dirt finding holds under his nails until he gives up and clings onto Arthur’s hair. Arthur just hums and bobs and licks, the vibrations and movement coming together to make Lance moan so loud his voice echoes around them.
“Arthur, please,” he says, and Arthur sucks a little harder, cheeks hollowing. Lance tries to sit up enough to watch, but he can’t, his whole body arching as he comes.
“Arthur,” he sighs, as Arthur crawls up his body, pushing down against him to rut against him. After a while, Lance slips a hand between them, mustering the energy to stroke Arthur’s cock until he comes, a shout that sounds suspiciously like Lance’s name on his lips.
And they wipe themselves off with Arthur’s shirt, which they can wash later. And they hold each other on the grass, face pressed into chest or shoulder, arms loose around each other, as they wait to dry. Arthur presses his lips to the scar between Lance’s eyebrows, and just thinks that this is how it will always be. Him and Lance and all the love in their hearts.
Title: In Fidelity
Author:
weepingwillow9
Disclaimer: I have no claim to owning Merlin whatsoever
Characters: Arthur, Lance, Gwen, Merlin
Pairings: Arthur/Gwen, Arthur/Lance
Warnings: Sex, as per usual, and cheating
Spoilers: This is set sometime after Series Four, but in a slight AU, in that Lancelot hasn't been a suicidal maniac and is still around. I like to think Merlin had a huge fight with the Cailleach and threw her into the veil instead
Rating: NC-17
Length: 5768
Summary: It started a long time ago
“This is wrong,” Lancelot tells him, breath panting out into his ear.
“And yet you’ll do it anyway.” Arthur’s certain, after all, he has Lance naked and in his arms. There’s little going back from that.
“We shouldn’t. You’re married.”
Arthur nuzzles into Lance’s neck, something he knows from the hours they’ve spent together that Lance can’t resist. He hums, deep in his chest, and Arthur chases the vibrations with his lips.
“I don’t love her, though,” Arthur murmurs into his skin, “It’s you I want.”
“I can see that.” Lance gestures to the evidence, spread between them. Arthur laughs, pressing close to Lancelot until the sound passes between them.
*
It had started two days ago in training. Well, no, it started long before then, it’s been building ever since Merlin first brought Lance to Arthur. But, superficially, the start was on the training ground.
Arthur needed a partner from the more experienced knights to show the new intake a more advanced defensive move. So Arthur had chosen Lance. He knew from the first day they had fought that Lancelot would give as good as he had, and that’s what he had needed. A real threat, that he could easily disarm.
Except that wasn’t how it went. Arthur had told Lance to attack, so he did, and he gave his all. Arthur hadn’t expected it, of course, it being only a demonstration, and had caved under the weight of the attack.
“What the fuck was that?”
“Sire? You asked me to attack.”
“I didn’t ask you to bloody assassinate me.”
Lancelot had just stood there, looking innocent and lost and beautiful, a little sweaty from the exertion perhaps. And, it seemed to Arthur that he couldn’t even comprehend not being in the wrong, not having been wrongly chastised, so repentant was his look. It had just made everything so much worse, set light to the potent mix of emotions inside Arthur. And he had taken off.
“What are you looking like that for? Why do you have to be so bloody perfect all the time? I’m in the wrong, come on, show some fucking anger!”
It was only when he stopped that Arthur realised he had been shouting. Not only were the trainees looking at him, but the rest of the knights who were not on patrol had stopped and turned to watch. Leon turned as if to ask Arthur where that had come from. Arthur gestured for him to take over and walked away, towards the castle, before he could let himself get even more out of hand.
The problem was, Arthur didn’t know what had caused the outburst any more than anyone else did. He’d had a surprisingly good morning up to that point, there were no problems weighing on his mind. And he liked Lance. He had no reason to lash out at him for doing what he was told.
There was one thing, though. A flash of something almost like betrayal, when Lance had rounded on him. Something he’d seen in Lance’s eyes, pretty and deep though they were. Something he hadn’t understood but that had resounded with him, frightened him because of the response it had drawn.
And Arthur couldn’t shake the feeling from his mind, or the thought that he’d just missed something important.
*
But of course it had started before then. Lancelot’s humility when they had first met had intrigued Arthur, though that had been because he wasn’t what he professed to be. His calm refusal to show anger towards Arthur, a sure sign of his inner peace, how he’s always been a better man than Arthur thinks he could ever be.
And when he fought. The grace with which he moved, the way he face twisted a little in concentration. The instinctual parries that set him out as a fighter destined for Arthur’s class, who could even surpass him in ability one day.
And on Lance’s part, there was Arthur. Golden, strong, brave and kind; everything a knight should be embodied in one man. A man who fought for him, against his own father’s wishes.
Yes, it started a long time ago.
*
The next day, Arthur and Lance were both on patrol. Even though he was now King, Arthur made a point of retaining his old duties, though not as often as he had before. It had been an ordinary patrol, the knights leisurely walking their horses along the sun-drenched, green leaf-stained path. Arthur pulled his horse back to ride alongside Lance.
“Look, I- I’m sorry about yesterday. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Lance had just shot Arthur a blinding smile.
“Don’t worry about it. No harm done.”
Arthur might have said something else, but then it had happened. Somehow, one of Arthur’s rivals must have heard that he would be on patrol that day. There were mercenaries everywhere, separating Arthur and Lance from the rest of the knights, a ring around the pair of them, keeping them from rescue.
Lance defended Arthur fiercely, because no one was ever allowed to take him. Arthur was everything, he had to stay alive and in Camelot, and Lancelot would give anything to ensure that that was the case. But Arthur seemed almost suicidal, not allowing Lance to keep him back, throwing himself into the fight.
Their horses were shot down, so they fought back to back on foot. Until Arthur caught sight of the archer. His crossbow was pointed towards Lance, and that couldn’t be allowed. He rolled forwards, cutting the man down, and turned.
But there was no way back to Lance.
“Sire!” Lance called, but there was no telling if Arthur could hear him, or if Arthur was still alive.
“Lancelot!” he had called back, eyes widening in blind panic. Until he channelled it through his sword, hacking a path towards the sound of Lance’s voice, sword making light work of the meagre cloth and leather the mercenaries had for protection.
Arthur pressed his back against Lance’s and breathed in relief, grounded by the heat through the layers of fabric and metal and mail that seeped into his skin. And when there were only bodies separating them from the other knights, Arthur knew he should check for casualties, but all he could think about was Lancelot and how near he had been to losing him, again, this time for good.
He dropped his sword, spun Lance to face him by his upper arm.
“Are you alright?” he asked, searching Lance’s face, “Did they hurt you?”
“No, I’m fine, Arthur.”
He was breathless, and Arthur just squeezed his arm tighter.
“I almost lost you.”
Lance took a step forward, pulled in by the strength of Arthur’s gaze, the jewel bright blue of his eyes.
“You won’t get rid of me that easily.”
More could have happened. Would have happened. Were it not for the cry of pain from the direction of the other knights. Arthur dropped Lance’s arm as if burnt, staring at him, realisation setting in.
“I almost lost you,” he whispered, “And I haven’t told you-”
“I think that was Percival,” Lance told Arthur, desperate for that conversation not to happen right then, possibly not ever. Because he had loved his King from afar for too long to have Arthur raise and later dash his hopes. “We should go.” And he had turned away, and gone to help.
*
Lancelot had always been more self-aware than Arthur. Of course, he hadn’t realised what he felt for Arthur straight away. He had been too wrapped up in what he ought to feel for Gwen, what he thought he did feel, to notice the growing something towards his prince, then King. The realisation had begun when Arthur went to save Gwen. The fact that he’d risk himself so much for one servant girl had sparked thought after thought, and by the time he was giving Gwen to Arthur he was really running from something that could surely never be.
He loved Arthur. And it wasn’t just the worship of an idol, or respect. It was love, true and strong, and there was no escaping it.
*
He couldn’t avoid Arthur forever of course. There was the meeting after the patrol with just the knights, then the council meeting to try to work out who had been attacking and how they had found out that Arthur would be there. Lancelot had to be present for both, and when they were both over, Arthur called him to stay. Lance couldn’t disobey his King.
“I nearly lost you before.”
Arthur’s barely speaking above a whisper, and Lance can’t stand it.
“It won’t happen again, Sire,” he says, head down.
Arthur’s face hardens. He needs help with this, not Lance reverting to the model knight.
“How do you plan on stopping it, then? You can’t just prevent anyone attacking. You can’t weave an enchantment to make you invulnerable, or to stop anyone taking you away. If you could, Merlin would have done it for us all.”
Lance hangs his head, sorry for ever mentioning it. Arthur steps into his space, takes hold of his shoulders.
“No. Stop shutting yourself off. I know you must be feeling something, I need you to show me.”
Lance looks up, slowly, revealing his eyes bit by bit. Arthur falls half into them and stays there, waiting.
“What do you want me to say, Arthur? I can’t tell what you’re thinking, I need to know. Do you care about me?”
The last is so tentative that Arthur reaches for him, finding his hand and holding it between them, as some sort of bridge for all he feels, all he wants, to travel along.
“I’m not sure I can put it into words yet,” he begins. And it’s true, it’s not something he can or even wants to define, not when he’s only just realised it’s there. He needs to separate out his feelings for Lancelot, now and before, from the rest of his life. Chart them, analyse them, and at least begin to understand them. Only then will he be able to explain to Lance what they are. For now, he’s left with general impressions; fleeting things, like the panic at the thought of Lance being taken from him, or the warmth that he feels just knowing that he can seek Lance out in council and he will be there, always there for him.
“For now, I just know that I love you. I don’t know how, or when, and I’m only beginning to realise why, but I’ve fallen in love with you. You’re under my skin, and I don’t think I’ll ever get you out.”
Lancelot gasps, reaches forward for Arthur. Arthur takes the plunge all the way into his eyes, loses all sense of their separate identities in them. He leaves Lance framing his jaw with his fingers, holding him as if he’s going to be snatched away, as if he’s been waiting for this moment for years. Which, to one extent or another, they both have.
Arthur tests out the feel of Lance’s almost beard with his thumb, a little hesitant until he leans in and kisses him, the nervousness melting between them, making way for tongues and teeth and devouring each other. Lance drops one of his hands to Arthur’s back, pulling him in. Arthur threads his fingers through Lance’s curls, his other arm wrapping around Lance’s waist and tugging him in close.
They moan together and pull apart, breathing to each other.
“I love you too,” Lance whispers, and attacks Arthur’s fuller lips with nips and nibbles until they’re red and swollen, and he has to kiss them better.
They can’t use Arthur’s rooms, because Gwen would find out. Thankfully, there are guest rooms scattered all over the castle, kept in readiness for visiting nobles. They choose one in the less well used part of the castle, reasoning that fewer people are likely to walk past. They lock the door behind them, and neither of them mentions the Queen.
She’s there though, almost a physical presence, standing over them and condemning them. Arthur and Lance help each other with the clasps of their armour, careful between kisses, peeling off layer after layer until it’s skin on skin, and Arthur can pull Lancelot to the bed and bar Gwen, shutting them off from the world by pulling the curtains.
He claims Lance’s mouth, lying over him so they can rock their hips together and gasp open-mouthed kisses to each other. They’ve both done this before, and they admit it to each other. Though it’s never meant anything like this for either of them.
Lance opens his legs for Arthur, and it feels natural, feels planned, for Arthur to open him with the oil he took from the armoury. Lance’s moans and the need in Arthur’s eyes prove that they’re right.
Arthur pushes into Lance, staring straight into him. There’s a bond between them, a connection between their pupils that means that neither of them can look away. Arthur sinks into Lancelot in more ways than one, and Lance lets him. Arthur can’t help but think that it’s never been like this with Gwen. Everything worked physically, most of the time, but she could never have the same intensity as Lance. Compared to right here, right now, Arthur’s relationship with his wife seems superficial. He won’t be able to stand never doing this again.
So he gives Lance all he has, angling until Lance moans with each thrust of Arthur’s hips, until his head tips back and they can no longer stare at each other, until he pulls Arthur down to kiss him and comes, body taut, between them. Arthur lets go, and they’re left panting into each other.
Arthur raises his lips to Lance’s forehead, kisses the tiny scar there.
“My knight,” he murmurs, settling in next to Lance.
Lance reaches for the covers and pulls them up, shifting a little until he’s comfortable, head on Arthur’s chest.
“My King,” he whispers, falling into sleep.
*
Gwen breezes into the council meeting, taking her seat next to Arthur. Merlin sits on his other side, and Lance tries not to be jealous.
“You wanted me here, Arthur?”
“I wanted your advice.”
Lance watches, as Arthur smiles at her, helps turn her ideas of how to reduce the sewage problem in the lower town into something achievable. He’s the perfect husband, and Gwen doesn’t suspect a thing.
He and Arthur see each other whenever they can, sometimes even daring a night together. Arthur will tell Gwen that he wants to go up to the eastern tower at night, to help him think, and he doesn’t want to wake her, so he’ll sleep in one of the guest rooms that night. And because it’s the eastern tower, it makes sense to sleep on the other side of the castle. The room that he and Lance first used, now effectively theirs. Gwen takes the lies easily, believes them with all her heart. After all, this marriage is new, there’s no drastic change.
Arthur does feel guilty for cheating on her. Of course he does. But in a way he thinks it’s better for them all. He chose Gwen because he ought to love her, not because he does. A Queen, rather than a wife. She works well with him, provides a good counterbalance to his kingship. She’s lived her life as one of the people and she knows them well. She’s kind, good, and always points out when he’s not behaving how he should. And she’s a woman, so she can bear an heir. But beyond that, Arthur has no interest. He’d bore easily, and then they would be trapped in a loveless marriage.
Better he find love where he can, and be happier for it, than be miserable and drag Gwen down with him.
Lancelot feels worse even than Arthur. Like he’s stealing something from Gwen. Something he has no right to. And it’s so wrong, because he likes her. He doesn’t want to ruin her life by taking her husband. But he can’t stop himself. He loves Arthur, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stay away.
*
It’s two months in, and Lance ends their relationship.
“We can’t do this any more,” he tells Arthur, “If Gwen found out it would kill her.”
Arthur tries to change his mind, but he just walks away. That’s when they both know that he’s being serious.
Two weeks, where they barely speak. Arthur chooses others to demonstrate with, makes sure they aren’t on patrol together. He listens to Lance in council, but only as a polite gesture. He can’t really listen, too busy thinking about what he’s missing, how he could be wrapped up in only sheets with Lance, kissing him, showing him how much he cares. And Lance can’t really come up with anything useful, his thoughts trained on Arthur, pining over what he knows he should deny himself. For Gwen, for Gwen, so that Gwen doesn’t get hurt.
Arthur sleeps in their room odd nights, because he has a fiction to maintain. Sometimes he even walks up to the tower, too haunted by ghosts of echoes to truly sleep in that room when Lancelot isn’t there. And he hopes that one day it’ll be worth it, that one day Lance will come back to him. It’s the only thing that keeps him going, the thought that maybe Lance is going through the same pain, and that maybe, one day, he’ll decide that it hurts too much to carry on apart. And then he’ll kiss Arthur again, and it will be as if they never parted.
Arthur waits, and hopes, and watches him across the council chambers. Notes every scar, every hollow and raise of muscle, and how they felt under his fingers, under his lips. He knows Lance’s body as well as his own, and wonders if it changes. Wonders if the man it hides is still the same, still feels the same. The Lance he knows will find a way to be true to himself, even if it means doing the wrong thing. He hopes the Lance that left him is the same, in a moment of mad guilt, and will return to him with apologies on his lips. Eventually.
Lancelot doesn’t concentrate when training, his eyes fixed on Arthur, on his muscles, fantasizing about what they could be doing. On his mouth when he talks in front of his counsellors. But most of all on his eyes, when they are turned away from him, wishing to see so much in them but not daring to let himself. He knows what would happen if he looked.
It’s been two weeks, and people are noticing.
*
Arthur walks straight into the guest room, because he doesn’t expect anyone to be there. But there someone is.
Lying in the bed, head buried in the pillows, is Lancelot.
He hasn’t noticed Arthur enter, so he steels himself, breathes in deep. This is his chance, probably his only one, so he must seize it. He has to succeed, he can’t be without Lance any more.
Arthur takes a few steps closer, watching him wrapped up the sheets, breathing into the pillow.
“Lancelot.”
He rolls over, instantly tense, staring up at Arthur.
“What are you doing here?”
“Gwen would think it a little odd if I suddenly stopped going up the eastern tower.”
“Oh.”
There’s quiet for a while, as they stare at each other.
“I miss you,” Arthur admits. He looks far too broken for Lance to cope with, standing there, arms useless by his sides.
“I miss you too,” Lance has to admit.
And then Arthur’s kissing him and Lance has to wonder why he ever stopped this. Surely nothing is as important as his lips on Arthur’s, their hands on each other. He’d known he missed Arthur, but hadn’t realised the extent of it.
“What were you doing here?” Arthur asks him.
“Missing you,” Lance hesitates before admitting the rest, “I wanted to do more than see you, I wanted to smell you again, and the sheets smelt of you.”
Arthur just smiles, pulling him closer.
“I love you, don’t ever leave again.”
“I won’t,” Lance promises, and he tugs off Arthur’s shirt, starved for his skin.
Arthur breaks all the laces on Lance’s shirt in his hurry to get it off, so Lance finishes the undressing, boots, breeches, all. They pull each other close, lying on their sides, and kiss each other until it would be criminal to continue without anything else. Arthur salvages the oil, opening his legs for Lance to prepare him. He lies diagonally on the bed, clutching at a bedpost while Lance brushes his prostate, crooking and scissoring his fingers until Arthur is pliable enough.
They only rarely fuck like this, Lance inside Arthur, because Gwen might notice. But it’s worth the risk, more than just the incredible feeling of it all. It’s a symbol that here they are equal, that Lance can rock into Arthur as easily as Arthur can into him.
So he does, moaning, some strange derivative of Arthur’s name. Arthur clings to the bedpost, using it as leverage to push back. And when they meet they collide in stars and sparks and dust. The muscles in Lance’s chest ripple and stretch with the exertion of loving Arthur. Arthur’s shoulders hold the weight of it, braced against them both.
They come, and sag into each other, clutching at each other. Because this is something that can’t be lost.
*
They have their time the way they both want it. A love-fuelled affair, a loveless marriage that appears anything but. And then, as these things are wont to do, it falls apart.
Arthur slides into bed with Gwen in the early hours of the morning.
“Good morning,” she murmurs.
“I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Gwen curls into him, seeks out his lips for a kiss.
“Well, now that you have…”
It’s obvious what she wants. One palm she settles over Arthur’s chest, the other resting on Arthur’s hip and tugging him over her. He goes easily, ever the dutiful husband, kneeling between her legs and trying to disguise the twinge he feels when he moves. Gwen’s hand slips down, cupping over the curve of his arse, and she hums her approval, reaching up to kiss him again.
And then she stills. She pulls her hand away, slowly.
“Arthur… why are you wet?”
Suspicion clouds her face. Gwen may be sweet, but she isn’t exactly innocent. She knows what men can do to each other. And she recognises come when she sees it, leaking out of her husband’s hole.
He should never have come back to her bed.
“Who?” she asks. Gwen deserves to know, he thinks.
“Lancelot,” he admits, pulling back to sit away from her.
“Why?” she asks, “Aren’t I enough?”
Again, she deserves the truth. There’s no point in coming up with excuses.
“I chose you as a Queen,” he tells her, “More so than I did as a wife. You have always been everything I should love, but I find I can’t. If it’s any consolation, I have never loved another woman without enchantment. Never. You are the closest I have ever come to that, and that’s why I asked you to marry me. At that point I hadn’t realised why I hadn’t found my true love, if such a thing exists. If I had, I might not have done this to you. Or I might have done.”
Gwen frowns, and gets out of bed.
“I think we should continue this conversation dressed.”
She gestures for him to turn away, and pulls on a nightdress, and a robe. Then she looks away while he pulls on a shirt and breeches.
“So. How long?”
It seems that it’s to be quickfire questions and answers, cursory details only necessary, and Arthur catches on quickly. It is, after all, what he’d want as well. Her voice is cold, processing the information without involving emotion, because that would be too much.
“We’d been married three months.”
Gwen draws in her breath through her teeth, wounded.
“Do you love him?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t put you through this if I didn’t.”
She seems almost fond at that, but not quite.
“How did you realise? How did it begin?”
“We were on patrol, and we were attacked. I thought I was going to lose, him, and the panic unlocked something, made sense of things I wasn’t even aware of. And here we are.”
“Does he love you in return?”
“Yes.”
“Bastard.”
Arthur doesn’t say anything to that for a while. What can he say? There’s nothing that will take away the knowledge that her husband is having an affair with another man. Nothing that could possibly console her to the fact. If they hadn’t married, she would have had a chance at happiness and love with someone else. Now, she can’t, because she is the King’s wife and they can’t ever officially separate.
“Don’t blame Lance,” he begs, “He tried to end it, but we found we just couldn’t.”
Gwen waves him away, not wanting to hear, stares at the hangings of the bed.
“Did you ever… in here?”
Arthur shakes his head, but she isn’t looking.
“No. Never. There was a guest bedroom.”
“The eastern tower.”
Gwen stares at him, for the first time, truly looking at her husband.
“You were supposed to love me! Both of you! How could you? How can you live with yourself, Arthur? I thought you’d changed, but no, you’re still the selfish boy you were from the start. I can’t believe you’d do this to me.”
He watches her rage, something he’d previously seen as one of her merits, and thinks that maybe she’s wrong about who’s selfish. At least partly. All he can hear is me, though there are plenty of other reasons to hate him for his decision. The ridicule it would bring Camelot were it to get out, the possibility of a lowered chance of an heir (he’s heard ridiculous tales), the compromised structure of his hierarchy of knights. Something snaps within Arthur, and he can’t understand why he ever decided it would be a good idea to marry this woman.
“I’m moving out.”
“Fine,” Arthur tells her, bitterness and sarcasm lacing his voice, “I don’t care if Camelot crumbles if I don’t have an heir. I can just fuck Lance in this bed.”
Gwen glares at him.
“Well, that’s hardly my fault, is it? I’m not the one who married the wrong person and had to have an affair.”
Arthur’s shocked by this jealous, harsh side to Gwen, and he frowns. But he lowers his voice, trying to salvage some face at least, to get her back on side.
“I don’t think the world would have taken kindly to me marrying the right person, Gwen.”
She scrutinises him for a moment, and then sighs.
“I suppose you’re right. If I can trust what you’re saying any more.”
“I swear on Camelot that I’m not lying.”
She can’t dispute that, so she just leaves.
*
“Gwen knows,” he whispers to Lance after training.
“What? How?”
“Not here.”
Arthur leads Lance up to his chambers. His alone now; Gwen moved out all her things while he was busy. It’s not uncommon for a husband and wife to have separate rooms in the ruling classes, and there’s an unspoken agreement that this is their story to the rest of the world. Neither of them could stand the mortification.
“I wasn’t careful enough,” he tells Lance, once they’re securely locked away from prying eyes and ears. “I wasn’t careful enough, and now she knows.”
Lance nods.
“What are you going to do?”
“Let her leave. I don’t love her, there’s no point in fighting it. If I did, I’d have to give you up, and I can’t do that, not ever.”
His head is held high, tense and taut and defiant.
“You’re so brave,” Lance tells him, and kisses him. The kiss turns into more, tearing off clothes while they talk.
“Just selfish,” Arthur admits.
“Brave. You’re true to yourself. And it’s not as if you’re just going to ignore her. I know you’ll try to sort something out.”
“Not brave.”
“Let me believe, Arthur, even if you don’t.”
Arthur nods, kisses over his brow, his nose, to his lips.
“I’ll try to find a way to get along with her. We need to try for an heir, but perhaps the child doesn’t have to be mine.”
Lance pulls back abruptly.
“You’d-”
“I can’t deny her an affair if I’m having one. And I’d bring him up.”
“Of course.”
Lance kisses him again, sliding off breeches.
“And his father would be sleeping with a knight,” Lance teases.
“He wouldn’t have to know.”
“Of course.”
“Not that I wouldn’t want him to know the truth.”
“Arthur,” Lance silences him with a kiss, “I know you love me, and I know there are things we can’t be, and that’s fine. I love you enough for it not to matter.”
Arthur nods and draws him in close, hips moving together, pulling him to the bed. There’s muscle oil somewhere, and Arthur finds it, pours it over his fingers, into Lance. And then he’s fucking him on his own bed, in his own Pendragon red sheets, claiming him for his own.
“Never going to let you go.”
“I know.”
*
Gwen avoids them both for weeks. Lance wants to apologise, is desperate to do so, but Arthur won’t let him.
“Give her time,” he urges, determined for it not to be an instruction, “Let her anger cool, then she might listen.”
Lance does as Arthur wishes, because he can hardly not. He watches her, waiting for some sign that she’s ready to move on, but sees nothing but disgust in the turn of her head.
Arthur looks anywhere but at her. Merlin gives him a little smile whenever he sees him, never actually saying anything, but sympathetic. It makes Arthur wonder if he’s known all along. It wouldn’t surprise him.
After a few weeks, Gwen starts participating in council again. It’s then that Arthur agrees to talk to her.
He finds her in the gardens, the ones that he’s extending for her, because he had thought it would please her.
“Gwen, hello.”
“Sire.”
“I am sorry, you know.” She’s sitting on a bench, and he stands awkwardly before her, then thinks better of it and kneels.
“I don’t doubt that. You are a good man, despite what I said.”
“I’m not,” Arthur says, “But I try. I couldn’t try hard enough this time.”
“Yes, well, we all have our failings.”
She doesn’t want to hear, but she is trying, and Arthur will give her credit where it’s due.
“I won’t insult you by asking you to move back in again.”
“Good.”
“But I will ask, though it is no longer how you expected when I first asked you, would you continue in the roles of the Queen? And would you fulfil your duty of begetting an heir, either with me, or with another man of your choosing. Just please, Gwen, don’t make the child too obviously not mine.”
“I-“ she looks outraged, and Arthur immediately begins to take it all back but she interrupts, “The heir to Camelot has to be yours, Arthur. I will visit your rooms once a month. That should be enough for one child, at least.”
“Thank you,” he tells her, and he means it entirely.
*
Over the years, they grow to be friends again. Gwen can’t hate him for too long for following his heart. And it leaves her free to a chain of short-lived affairs. None of which produce a child.
Merlin looks at him with something like admiration, now. Arthur never asks why. And an answer is never volunteered.
Arthur prefers not to think about things too hard, these days. He’s seen suffering, and death on the battlefield over and over, always looking for Lancelot after the battle, urgent, to find him not among the dead. He takes what he can now, because he could lose so easily, and he needs to cherish love before it vanishes. With a sword, with a foul air, with an arrow. Blood, and gone, which can never ever be allowed.
*
He lays Lance out in front of him on the bare grass, wet and clean after their brief swim in the river. It’s hot and they’ve escaped the castle for the day, riding out across the countryside with the pretence of hunting. No one questioned them, after all, who would speak out against the King and his highest ranking knight?
The pair of them are naked, goosebumps rising on their skin as the breeze cools them. And then Arthur leans down over Lance, kisses his lips and down over the muscles of his chest.
“I love this,” he murmurs, feelings accessible and open for sharing now they’re in an open space, like they’ve stopped hiding for the moment, “Kissing the muscles I know you use to spar with me, to protect me. They’re just pretty, now, but so powerful.”
“I love this,” Lance whispers in return, “Being worshipped by the King. I love you.”
In answer, Arthur just sucks Lance’s cock into his mouth. Lance’s fists slam into the ground, scrabbling for purchase, dirt finding holds under his nails until he gives up and clings onto Arthur’s hair. Arthur just hums and bobs and licks, the vibrations and movement coming together to make Lance moan so loud his voice echoes around them.
“Arthur, please,” he says, and Arthur sucks a little harder, cheeks hollowing. Lance tries to sit up enough to watch, but he can’t, his whole body arching as he comes.
“Arthur,” he sighs, as Arthur crawls up his body, pushing down against him to rut against him. After a while, Lance slips a hand between them, mustering the energy to stroke Arthur’s cock until he comes, a shout that sounds suspiciously like Lance’s name on his lips.
And they wipe themselves off with Arthur’s shirt, which they can wash later. And they hold each other on the grass, face pressed into chest or shoulder, arms loose around each other, as they wait to dry. Arthur presses his lips to the scar between Lance’s eyebrows, and just thinks that this is how it will always be. Him and Lance and all the love in their hearts.