Title: just don't let me disappear
Summary: There are no secrets between them. Except one. Lancelot/Merlin.
Notes: There is a severe lack of appreciation for this ship, and that makes me sad enough to attempt writing it. I tried to make this fic fit as seamlessly into canon as possible, between s3 and s4.

It starts not long after Camelot is retaken from Morgana.

Arthur has grown paranoid and determined to prevent something like that from ever happening again, and so drills and training take on a much harder edge – or so Lancelot learns, from the knights who have been there longer. Not that he minds; he can keep up with the best of them, and there's still something slightly unreal about it all. He's here, in Camelot. He's a knight, and the boy in him sometimes feels giddy with the knowledge that he's achieved what he once dreamed of.

But as happy as he is, there's something missing still, and he's ashamed of the fact that his happiness isn't complete. He should be grateful, and he is – after all, he'd hardly felt worthy of Camelot after lying his way into the knighthood years ago. But a discontent lurks underneath, and he tries to ignore it, to push it away. It isn't right, to feel what he does. He has everything now, a purpose, and he isn't alone, and yet…

Truthfully, it takes him a long time to finally understand his own feelings, to find the root of his discontent, and it starts when he wrenches his shoulder in training.

Lancelot has dealt with far worse injuries, and this one only twinges, but Arthur is adamant about his knights being in the best possible shape. And so Lancelot finds himself being unceremoniously ordered to visit Gaius without delay. He doesn't mind, actually; it means a chance at seeing Merlin, with whom he has not spent nearly enough time since being knighted. It's understandable – both of them have been preoccupied with setting Camelot back to rights, and a sense of routine has not yet returned to the castle and the city. But all the same, Lancelot misses his friend.

Only Merlin is in the physician's chambers when Lancelot arrives. The warlock is deeply engrossed in a book, bent over so that his face is only a few inches from it, and he doesn't even notice when Lancelot opens the door. Smiling at the sight, Lancelot clears his throat, and Merlin nearly falls off of his stool in fright. He slams the book shut and shoves it behind him, only to visibly relax when he finally realizes who has entered.

"Magic book?" Lancelot asks, one eyebrow raised, once he's made sure to shut the door firmly behind him.

Merlin chuckles, sounding utterly relieved. "Yeah," he says. "S'pose that's a bit stupid of me, reading it out in the open."

Lancelot takes a moment to look over his friend. Merlin seems strained – not enough for Lancelot to seriously worry, but he thinks he has an idea of why. He knows that Merlin had been aware of Morgana's treachery when the rest of Camelot had been in the dark, and he guesses that it had taken its toll on the warlock. With everything out in the open now, Lancelot thinks he knows why Merlin seems to be hard at work studying.

Well – almost everything is out in the open, Lancelot amends.

He realizes that Merlin is studying him, too – eyeing the way Lancelot is awkwardly holding his left arm. Merlin comes to his own conclusions just as fast. "Training's gotten rough, yeah?" he asks sympathetically.

"Just wrenched it," Lancelot says, stepping forward.

Merlin is still observing him, head tilted, seemingly debating something with himself. "I could heal it," he says at last. "I need to practice healing spells, anyway."

And Lancelot knows that he is right about why the warlock looks more strained than usual. "Don't waste your magic on me, Merlin," he says gently. He doesn't like to think about what would happen if someone walked in on Merlin healing him. "Besides, I'd have to pretend to still be in pain for the rest of the day."

Merlin laughs again and then comes forward to inspect the injury for himself, his nimble fingers making a quick assessment. Lancelot finds himself a little bit fascinated by those hands. A few moments later, Merlin turns to one of the shelves stocked with bottled remedies. "You'll need something for inflammation," he says, more for Lancelot's benefit than his own, and Lancelot is struck by how much older he seems. "Other than that, it's mostly up to you – rest and no strenuous activity for the next two days." He looks back at Lancelot briefly. "I could heal it, y'know. Save you the trouble."

Lancelot shakes his head firmly; no matter what, he will not allow even the possibility of Merlin's secret being exposed because of something as needless as an injury that will heal swiftly on its own. Merlin selects one of the bottles, full of dark liquid, and grabs an empty cup as well. He carefully measures out the correct amount, pours it into the cup, and hands it to Lancelot. "That should do the trick."

Lancelot downs it in one gulp, grimacing at the taste, and hands the cup back to Merlin. "Two days?" he asks, unenthusiastic, because 'strenuous activity' encompasses virtually everything the knights do.

Merlin sets the cup aside, scoops up the book he'd been reading, and then looks up with a grin. "I have to go pick herbs as soon as Gaius gets back," he says, light suggestion in his tone. "It's really boring."

A matching smile crosses Lancelot's face, and suddenly, two days of rest doesn't seem so bad. "Am I to assume that picking herbs isn't strenuous?"

"You can hold the basket," Merlin says matter-of-factly.

Merlin gets Gaius to inform Arthur that Lancelot is under a strict order of rest for two days, after affirming the old physician's second opinion on the matter. It isn't long before Lancelot finds himself outside the city walls with Merlin, heading into the forest to forage for medical supplies. The day is wonderfully pleasant – warm, with a light breeze and a dazzlingly blue sky, flashes of which can only be glimpsed once they are underneath the forest's thick canopy. All around them are the sounds of forest life, chirping and rustling, and Lancelot's well-trained mind adjusts to it quickly, on alert for any sounds that are unnatural to the forest instead. He has to admit that he, too, is on edge, like the rest of the city – wondering if another attack is forthcoming any time soon.

They settle into a routine quickly – Merlin stooping to gather what he needs, Lancelot holding the basket for him, as they move through the various parts of the forest that contain the necessary herbs. Merlin chatters easily as he works, and Lancelot is content to listen. Something about Merlin's voice is comforting – he's naturally enthusiastic and cheery, and most days it bleeds through every part of him, but especially his voice. It's infectious, Lancelot thinks warmly.

Occasionally they fall into comfortable silence, too, particularly when Merlin is intent on hunting down a more recalcitrant herb. It's during one of these silences that Lancelot speaks up, on something that's been on his mind since he returned to Camelot. He brings it up almost on impulse, if only because they aren't anywhere near the city and because this place feels safe. "Merlin," he says. "Why do you care about Camelot so much?"

There's a lot that's unspoken in the question – why do you risk yourself, risk being exposed? why do you protect a place that could so easily turn on you? Merlin's shoulders stiffen for a moment; he's crouched down near a patch of coltsfoot, and his eyes are fixed on the ground. Then he sighs, looking up at Lancelot. "It's a long story."

Lancelot shrugs with his right shoulder. "I've got two days."

Merlin smiles, then – not his usual grin, but something a bit more melancholy. He looks back at the ground and absently begins to gather the coltsfoot up. As he does, he starts to speak.

And Lancelot learns. It takes the entirety of those two days for Merlin to explain thoroughly – the gist of it while they're out picking herbs and then more details, more answers to Lancelot's questions, later on in moments snatched in the safety of the physician's quarters. Lancelot had known only bits and pieces, from conversations they'd managed to have in safety before, but he's never gotten the full story. And he can sense a palpable relief when Merlin talks; it comes spilling out of the warlock without resistance, almost hungrily, and Lancelot realizes how much it all weighs on Merlin.

Even if Merlin tries to downplay his own feelings while telling his story in full, he can't hide it. Not from Lancelot.

And amidst the awe at his friend's power, at the prophecies and the workings of fate… Lancelot thinks that it must be a singularly lonely existence.

He understands the pain of that all too well.

Lancelot wonders how to reciprocate, at first – if there is any way for him to help. After all, the amount of trust Merlin is placing in him, in sharing his tale, is not small. No matter how Lancelot has promised to keep his secret safe, no matter how relieved Merlin is to share it with another, it's still dangerous knowledge. And it's a huge burden on Merlin's shoulders.

"What you're doing is enough," Gaius reassures him gently, when Lancelot broaches the subject with him. Merlin is busy with his chores for Arthur, and so Lancelot doesn't worry about him walking in on them. "What he needs is someone to lean on. I've tried to give that to him, but I'm only one person. It's good that he has someone else to confide in as well." Gaius levels his gaze at Lancelot, as if trying to determine whether his words are sinking in effectively.

All of two people to lean on. Two people who know what Merlin does for Camelot, and yet he never asks for anything in return. Lancelot is once again ashamed of every single moment of discontent he's felt since coming here. "I just wish there was something more I could do," he says broodingly, more to himself than anything.

"Being there for him is the best thing possible," Gaius says. "I know how much he values the time he spends with you. He's told me as much."

The revelation alights a warm glow somewhere in Lancelot's center.

Because they do spend a lot of time together, when both of them can manage it. The discussion in the forest and the physician's quarters isn't an isolated incident. Sometimes Lancelot will find excuses to be outside the castle when Merlin is out picking herbs, and sometimes they'll arrange things so that they both find themselves in the armory; it's a bit of a game, really, and there's more than a little fun to be had in it. And through that, Lancelot accidentally finds a way to reciprocate. As it turns out, Gaius is right – all it takes is being there.

He realizes it when his own secrets come spilling out. Well, not so much secrets to Merlin, but things that Lancelot keeps bottled up inside, things that are well-hidden. His quiet discontent is a hard thing to contain sometimes, and as he does not want to confront it, he has a hard time pinpointing its source. Oh, he has an idea, of course, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes how complex it is.

And, most importantly, he realizes how liable it is to change.

"You can't help your feelings," Merlin says reasonably. They're out in the forest again; herb-picking is a favored chore instead of an annoying one, now. And this time, Lancelot has a solid excuse for being there. After a number of bandit attacks dangerously close to the city, it isn't safe for anyone to be out alone in the surrounding forest. Especially someone as seemingly defenseless as Merlin.

Merlin could probably take apart a group of bandits with his eyes closed, but neither he nor Lancelot are inclined to protest the extra "protection."

"It isn't your fault that you love her," Merlin continues, standing with a handful of tansy, which he places in the basket. His hands are careful, gentle. "And choosing not to act on that… that takes real strength. It's noble."

Noble. Lancelot resists the urge to snort wryly. Jealousy is hardly a noble quality. And truth be told, he isn't even sure it's that anymore. Does he still have feelings for Gwen? He thinks so – he cares about her deeply, after all. But he doesn't understand the nature of them anymore. He doesn't understand what he wants. He doesn't even know how he and Merlin ended up talking about this, how his feelings came spilling out, and now he feels bad for unloading them onto Merlin.

But Merlin doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he takes to the role of offering advice rather naturally. It seems to restore something in him, almost – not quite confidence or happiness, but a simple pleasure in helping.

And slowly Lancelot realizes that all he needs to do to reciprocate is to offer the same trust in return.

There are no secrets between them. Their talks become a regular thing, in between Lancelot's knightly duties and Merlin's many chores. They share anything and everything, and Lancelot comes to consider it one of the highlights of living in Camelot. It's freeing, to be able to talk to someone so openly, and he knows that Merlin feels the same. They reach an unspoken agreement – that most of their talks are for being open. There's no judgment, no restrictions. Just the two of them and their thoughts.

Lancelot's discontent fades, for the most part, and he thinks that it will finally leave him permanently. But therein lies the problem, because he starts thinking about it. He's always been one to wonder, to brood, to consider the philosophical angle of things; it doesn't come as any surprise to him that now that his discontent is no longer a threat, he naturally reflects on it and tries to figure out its meaning.

Which only brings it back.

They sit next to the tavern's fireplace, and the warm heat of the crackling flames washes over Lancelot. It isn't a night for private talking, no – Gwaine is currently engaged in an elaborate drinking contest two tables over, and Elyan is ordering them another round. Lancelot doesn't know why his mind insists on being so active in the midst of revelry, even more so than when he is alone. He's never much been one for actively taking part in that sort of merriment; he falls more naturally into the role of observer, which might explain it.

He smiles at the sight of Gwaine arm-wrestling with a man twice his size. Across the table from Lancelot, Merlin's entire frame is shaking with laughter as he watches the doomed Gwaine. The firelight casts the warlock into a warm glow, and Lancelot wonders when he started noticing things like that. He starts when Elyan sets a fresh round of drinks down, having gallantly liberated them from a barmaid.

"Jumpy tonight, aren't we?" Elyan asks Lancelot with a laugh, sliding a mug towards him.

Lancelot smiles and shrugs and wishes that he weren't so prone to thinking as much as he does. His eyes shift back to Merlin, who catches him looking and grins happily at him. Somewhere in the region of Lancelot's stomach, something lurches – not an unpleasant sensation, but a disconcerting one, and oh, Lancelot thinks.

The increasingly drunk Gwaine loses, of course. He returns to their table shouting merry insults towards his opponent and the man's friends, receiving much the same in return. "What happened to, what was it? Being on top of your game tonight?" Merlin asks, trying to contain his laughter, as Gwaine settles down next to Lancelot.

"Oi! S'not my fault," Gwaine protests, grabbing one of the mugs Elyan had obtained.

"You weren't ready?" Lancelot asks knowingly. It isn't the first time.

Gwaine claps Lancelot on the back in appreciation. "Exactly! Started 'fore I was ready. I'd beat 'im easily at another go. I'd beat all of 'em."

Lancelot smiles, and Merlin and Elyan snort into their drinks. It's a pleasant night, full of good cheer and camaraderie, and yet Lancelot finds himself distracted – by his own confused thoughts, by the way Merlin laughs with his whole body, and oh.

And Lancelot thinks that he's become a selfish fool.

Suddenly, there's one secret between them, on Lancelot's part, and it's shameful how easily fear sways him. Part of him thinks about how good it feels to talk to Merlin, to confess and to relieve his mind of what burdens it, and he wants to spill this secret, too. But a greater part of him is paralyzed into inaction by fear – the fear of upsetting and unbalancing a good thing that already exists. Because it is so, so good – Lancelot would not trade this life and this friendship for anything.

Perhaps he feels the same. Or perhaps there is a chance of that, the first part of him whispers.

And if he doesn't? If there isn't? The other part's returning whisper is ominous.

It's no longer discontent that Lancelot feels, because he understands it, now. He understands why his emotions towards Gwen perplex him like they do, and he understands what he was really looking for, and the clarity of it all is sudden and sharp.

And Lancelot thinks that he'd like to return to the murkiness of the discontent, because heartache and quiet fear and shame at that fear are worse. He'd felt a similar thing with Gwen, before, and oh, he's a selfish fool indeed.

The worst thing, however, is that there is nothing preventing him from speaking up, this time. No duty-bound honor to give him an excuse.

It's just him, standing in his own way – him and his fear.

It's easy to be brave when one has something like a rigid adherence to honor to fall back on. And, Lancelot knows, it's even easier when he has someone at his back – someone to protect.

Merlin is at his back, now, and Lancelot knows that the warlock may never forgive him for this. Lancelot had observed Merlin's stubborn determination to sacrifice himself for Arthur, and the knight had sworn to himself that he would never let that happen. He'd promised Gwen that he'd look after Arthur, but it isn't really Arthur that needs protecting. No – Arthur has his own protector. His own stupidly self-sacrificing protector who doesn't realize his own importance.

Camelot needs Merlin. It doesn't need Lancelot. But Merlin needs him, and that is what Lancelot focuses on, as he stares down the veil. His heart is pounding so painfully that he's surprised he doesn't fall over then and there, and there's a deep despair gathering in his chest. He'd never gathered up the courage to tell Merlin how he felt, and now it is far, far too late. But perhaps that is for the best. Merlin is going to blame himself for this more than he could ever blame Lancelot… but better he be alive than dead. He will be able to move on in time. He will be able to fulfill his destiny and gain the recognition and life he deserves.

Lancelot feels his eyes burning. This past year had been more than he ever could have hoped for, and it physically pains him to let it go. But let it go he does… mentally detaching himself so that he will be able to force his legs forward. His eyes sting, but when he looks back at Merlin to offer a small smile of reassurance and farewell, they are clear.

He looks back at the veil and hears the screams of the dead, and he thinks about how he has found a meaning to life at last. And giving it all up for the person who led him to that meaning… well, there are worse ways to die. Lancelot finds that, in these last moments, his fear is almost gone… and he smiles.

Just before the blackness envelops him, he hears Merlin's desperate cries of denial, and Lancelot's heart seizes painfully… before it, too, finally forces itself to let go. He is a selfish fool, he thinks, but he's finally accepted that.

Forgive me, Merlin.

The pyre had been empty, and Merlin's heart is empty as he walks aimlessly through the trees, gazing unseeingly at the ground dotted by familiar herbs. In his head, those final moments with Lancelot repeat over and over, and he can't stop them. He can't stop Lancelot from walking forward into the veil. He can't stop seeing Lancelot's faint smile, the only goodbye they'd gotten. He can't stop any of it, and all of a sudden he's so, so angry… at Morgana and Morgause, at the Cailleach, at Lancelot, at himself.

Merlin sees Lancelot's smile in his mind's eye, and it makes him even angrier, and he wants to scream or to hit something. But the anger leaves him as suddenly as it came, and he's drained. He's tired and ashamed of his anger, and the emptiness comes rushing back.

And his heart aches.

Merlin slumps down against a tree, thinking about Lancelot's smile and watching his friend walk into the veil, again and again. His heart twists as grief continues its relentless assault. Why?

Oh, he knows why. Because Lancelot is – was – so idiotically noble and was always the kind to sacrifice himself for someone else, who couldn't bear to see someone he loved in danger. Because he was stupidly brave and loyal, and because he was the best, most noble person Merlin knew, and oh.

Merlin's breath comes out in a rush, and the world seems to slow to a painful halt, for a moment. And he realizes it, then and there, so violently sudden that his heart is seized anew with stabbing grief, as his terrible sense of loss is sharpened by the painful clarity of what he should have known before. Because a whole future brimming with potential has just been snatched away, lost forever – potential that Merlin had been too blind, too stupid to see before. He'd been too wrapped up in looking after Camelot to consider what could have been, to consider the nature of his own feelings, but Lancelot's loss has forced them to the surface, now, and they cannot be ignored any longer. Merlin knows his own feelings, now, and knows exactly how he could have loved Lancelot, given the chance.

Those feelings have reached the surface too late, however. Far, far too late, and it's Merlin's fault.

Merlin bows his head and weeps bitterly… for the loss of a friend, for the loss of a future.