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They did this often, going off by themselves, away from everyone else. Sometimes, they didn’t talk, but the silence was always companionable. Lancelot’s company, in whatever form, always soothed Arthur. Calmed and anchored him.
Even as his body yearned for more.
Together, they walked away from the bonfires, over a set of hills, until they arrived at a secluded hilltop overlooking the village. There was a gigantic yew whose branches sprawled all the way to the ground, like hammocks inviting them to lie in.
Lancelot, unsurprisingly, scaled one thick branch with alacrity and lay there like a lazy cat, while Arthur sat upon the thick grass with one knee drawn up.
It was quiet here, away from the boisterous celebration. The light from the bonfires glowed below, but dark night surrounded them, and they could see the stars clearly in the sky. They both craned their heads back to admire the twinkling brilliance in wordless awe. It seemed that on nights like these, anything was possible.
Impossible wishes, if you believed hard enough, wanted them fiercely enough, might even come true.
“Lance…” Arthur murmured, almost involuntarily, like a wish spoken out loud.
“Hmm?” came the sleepy reply.
Arthur took time to gather his wits, debating how much he should say.
Finally, he went with, “You ask me what I want. I would ask the same of you.”
Lancelot was silent for a long while. Then—
“What do you mean? I have everything I want.”
“You are content then? In my company of men?” Arthur pressed. “I never see you…seek others’ company. Are you never lonely?”
“Why would I be lonely when I am always with you?” came the ever-logical reply.
Arthur made an impatient, frustrated sound in his throat. Sometimes, Lancelot could be extremely dense.
“Do you never wish for more…intimate companionship?” he asked haltingly, testing the waters as if they might be shark-infested.
“Many women—and men, for that matter—desire you.”
“Well, I do not desire them,” the warrior said matter-of-factly.
Arthur could almost hear the frown of incomprehension and distaste in his voice.
“Do you not…desire anyone?” Arthur persisted, his breath tight in his chest.
There was another long silence, during which Arthur did not, could not breathe.
“I don’t know what you mean by desire,” the knight finally said.
“I have what I need. I am never hungry. I come and go as I please. I am healthy and strong. And I serve a purpose greater than myself. I serve the mighty King Arthur.”
Arthur released a long breath. More aptly, he deflated.
“You are content to be my knight,” he repeated.
A pause.
Then, “Should I not be? Are you not content to be King? The mightiest these isles had ever seen?”
Arthur flopped back onto the grass, one arm beneath his head, the other draped over his eyes. This conversation wasn’t going well. Not in terms of where he’d hoped it would go.
He was frustrated beyond measure, his body strung up tight, heart aching. He didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t want to ask, if the answer would wreck what he and Lancelot had. An easy comradery. A deep, abiding trust. A sense of comfort and belonging.
The other men might be better friends with Arthur, in a sense. But Lancelot was the closest. Sometimes, they seemed to communicate without words. In battle, they worked flawlessly as one, as if they shared one mind, two bodies. He understood what Lancelot didn’t say as much as what he did, and he knew that Lancelot understood him in the same way.
