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Arthur detested that he still breathed. Abhorred the fact that even after Guinevere was gone, he could not die. Because Lancelot was always there to make sure he didn’t accidentally-purposely kill himself.
By some unknown magic, they carried on without their hearts, chests empty and feelings numbed. They were a shadow of their former selves, but they existed, if not lived.
They fought and won battles together. Arthur took consorts every once in a blue moon, just to remind himself that he was still a man. He took no pleasure in it. He’d stopped being able to feel pleasure a lifetime ago.
Lancelot, on the other hand, seemed barely changed. He was still his stoic, taciturn self, still following Arthur everywhere, like a misguided pup. They called him the Monk Knight because he showed preference for no one. Shared his time with no one.
Arthur resented the hell out of his presence, a constant reminder of what he couldn’t have. Of the beating heart he’d lost.
He gave up Excalibur too. Bequeathed it to Tristan du Lac, a ward of Lancelot’s.
Tristan and his friends had defeated the she-demon and freed Arthur and Lancelot from her spell. He deserved a reward. And Arthur wanted to offload an inconvenient protector. Perhaps without Excalibur, some lucky bastard would finally deal him the killing blow on the battlefield.
Lancelot had given him a strange look when he gave Excalibur away. He ignored it. He knew he’d promised, once upon a time, to cherish it.
But he was no longer that man. And this was no longer that life.
And then, one day, visitors from another realm, with Tristan and Morgan’s help, retrieved their missing hearts.Suddenly, Arthur was flooded with the emotions, memories, and sensations he’d lost so long ago.
It had devastated him. It had destroyed him all over again.
He’d been glad when the shadow assassins attacked them shortly thereafter. Glad to have suffered a fatal wound.
Glad, too, that Lancelot’s face was the last thing he saw before he lost consciousness. The last memory he had as he journeyed to the afterlife.
Furious to realize upon waking that he was not dead after all. Thwarted yet again!
And yet again, it was Lancelot who saved him. Dividing his own life force to share with Arthur.
Merciless gods, why couldn’t hedie?!
He was tired of pretending to live. Tired of feeling and remembering.
And being lost.
So very lost…
And that was when the object of his obsession, hate and desire followed him into their temporary abode.
The door locked automatically behind Lancelot as he stood just within the threshold, looking uncertain and wary at the stormy expression Arthur must have been wearing.
Arthur didn’t think. He simply took action.
With a burst of strength, not entirely his own, he shoved Lancelot back against the door, his fist caught in the neck of the other man’s shirt.
“I told you what would happen if you came,” he gritted out, his voice a dark, resonant rumble that was soaked in savagery and bloodlust.
And just plainlust.
“Last chance to leave.”
Lancelot simply stared unwaveringly at him, his silvery eyes glinting. He wasn’t backing down.
Arthur roared with pent-up frustration, tearing the shirt right off of Lancelot’s body like it was a flimsy piece of dried leaf. He attacked Lancelot’s mouth with his own in a clash of teeth and tongue.
It could not be called a kiss by any stretch of the imagination. It was an assault. A conquering. A punishment, and a release.
Lancelot didn’t just stand there and take it, much to Arthur’s satisfaction. He pushed Arthur back without disengaging their locked mouths, ripped off Arthur’s clothes as efficiently as Arthur did him, and even divested himself of his trousers and kicked off his shoes, as he backed Arthur into one of their bedrooms, Arthur didn’t care whose.
