Warning: a nice dose of wholesome (i.e. R-rated) Arthur/Lancelot slash;)
Chapter SixteenThey clung to one another as dying men cling to life itself. And then they slid apart, both wide-eyed and breathless; both knowing what they craved and yet neither quite sure how to achieve it.
Arthur gave a little laugh. "It's the awkwardness," he said, still chuckling. "I've known you forever and yet-"
Lancelot swallowed. "Kiss me, please," he whispered.
And he didn't know how exactly, but there was definitely starlight seeping through the fabric walls of Arthur's tent. That is to say, Lancelot could see the silver gleam of the Heavens was reflected in Arthur's eyes as he leaned in closer.
"It seems," Arthur murmured, his breath mingling with Lancelot's, "that my entire life has only been lived in order that I might reach this moment."
It might be called fate, or perhaps destiny… It was everything Tristan despised and yet everything Arthur believed in.
Two men, different men, and Lancelot finally knew that only one could heal him. He brushed a soft kiss across Arthur's lips and then stepped backwards. "After what happened I turned to Tristan because I thought you would not understand," he admitted.
Arthur's eyes were suddenly very wide. "How could you think-?" He grasped the front of Lancelot's cloak and pulled him forwards in a quick, almost brutal moment. "I have only one regret and that is…"
"No regrets," Lancelot said, his voice barely a whisper in Arthur's ear. He threw his arms around the other knight's neck; his cheek was pressed up against Arthur's stubbled jaw. "I don't regret a thing…Not even what happened with Cynric. It could have broken me – hell knows, it nearly did – but in the end it has only made me stronger." He carefully disentangled himself from Arthur's tight embrace and instead reached out a hand to cup his Lord's cheek. "It opened my eyes."
And then he smiled; smiled as he kissed Arthur tenderly – almost chastely, in fact – and then with growing passion as Arthur parted his lips and then gave a half-guttural groan that Lancelot had never heard before. It was intoxicating, painfully arousing, and suddenly, in what could best be described as a joint effort, Arthur's tunic was on the floor and trampled underfoot.
Lancelot ran his hands across the heated skin now revealed to him, lingering across faint-white scars, tracing the muscle across the lean torso and caressing a nipple on the way, before reaching round to touch the back, the shoulder-blades... all this flesh that now belonged to him.
And Arthur groaned again. "If only I'd known," he said, his words tumbling out in a tone of wonderment. "If I'd known that it would be like this…"
"No regrets," Lancelot repeated. It was the heat of the moment: he loved this man, had to kiss him again; felt the need to hold him, touch him, claim him…
Lancelot froze. His cloak had dropped to the floor and Arthur's hands were working at his tunic; they had in fact already ripped the fabric in a moment of supreme impatience.
"What is it?" Arthur asked. "Did I do something wrong?"
Outside, Tristan walked in the woods. He walked until he could walk no more, and then he knelt on the forest floor, amongst the damp leaves, and offered up a pact to whichever gods he believed in.
And as everyone knows: an agreement with the gods, once made, cannot be broken.
"I'm… Ugly," Lancelot said.
"Christ," Arthur swore, his voice husky, almost breathy, and all fear of blasphemy quite banished. "You're beautiful. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen." And to his credit Arthur did not flinch, even as Lancelot pulled off his tunic, revealing a chest marked black, green and purple; swollen in places, scratched in others. "Beautiful," Arthur murmured, knowing that if in that moment Cynric had ben offered to him, his death would have been painful indeed. "Beautiful."
And Arthur stared and Lancelot stared back.The two men were panting: a fine sheen of sweat glistened across the skin of both. And in that second of stillness – for it was only a second – Lancelot realised that life truly is inexorable.
"Heal me," he said.
And Arthur did, reaching out to him with a hand that trembled slightly even as its owner smiled and wore a look that seemed to say I do not know that I'm doing… But I think – yes, I think – this might just be okay.
Lancelot bit back a moan, swallowed the sound, as Arthur's hand slowly worked on the fastenings of his breeches, before tangling itself in the treasure trail of dark curls leading downwards. And then it was a shock – a good one, though, like a sudden all-encompassing warmth spreading across his body – as Arthur grasped his cock.
"Arthur," Lancelot managed to say. "Arthur…" he repeated it, not as a reprimand but rather in the tone of reverence he'd always reserved for the gods.
And then he moaned, really moaned, as Arthur's hand (a hand which possessed the slight roughness of a born soldier) stroked up and down his length. His legs buckled and he nearly fell to the floor; only nearly because Arthur's arm was all of a sudden wrapped around his waist, holding him up and supporting him, even as the other hand tried to bring him to his knees.
Tbc…