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Arthur’s mouth quirked as fine lines appeared at the corners of his eyes.
He always wore this expression when he was laughing at Lancelot without really laughing. Lancelot never knew what was so amusing, but he liked it exceedingly when Arthur took on that look.
“Come closer then,” Arthur invited, “so I can reach you better.”
Lancelot scooted closer and dangled lower on the branch, putting his face almost on top of Arthur’s.
But still, Arthur didn’t kiss him.
“Why are your eyes open?” Arthur asked instead.
“The better to see you,” he replied.
“You don’t need to look at me when I kiss you,” Arthur instructed.
Lancelot frowned, pulling back slightly.
“But I want to,” he said.
“You wore a new expression I didn’t see before just now. Maybe you’ll have another new one if you kiss me again. Although, I wouldn’t mind seeing the same expression as well, just to remember it better.”
“And what expression is that?” Arthur murmured, his mouth still quirked just so, though his eyelids had drooped to half-mast.
He was looking a bit slumberous. Was he tired? Should they go to sleep?
“A little disbelieving. A little…pained,” Lancelot described, searching for the right words, but not finding them.
“Mmm,” Arthur hummed, wrapping a large hand around the back of Lancelot’s neck and drawing him close again so that their lips brushed when he said the next words.
“You make me ache, warrior. Come hurt me again.”
Lancelot was about to protest that he never wanted to hurt Arthur, but his mouth was suddenly occupied once more.
This time, there was no gentleness. Only demanding, consuming, fiery need.
He tried to keep his eyes open, but they drifted shut on their own accord. And when they shut, he could only feel. And smell. And hear. His other senses heightening to compensate for the lack of sight.
He could hear Arthur’s heart thundering in his chest. Or perhaps it was his own. He heard their breaths deepening, shuddering, as if they struggled to draw air. Or desperate to breathe each other in.
Arthur’s unique scent filled his nostrils, reaching inside of him like questing hands. The intoxicating musk was stronger somehow, as if he was surrounded by Arthur, skin to skin. And suddenly, he wanted to bury his nose in Arthur’s neck or chest or under his arms or in his groin. Lancelot knew he would smell so good.
If he could breathe Arthur as his air, he would.
And he felt. He feltso much.
He had never been so aware of his own body, of the tightness of hot skin over steely muscles. Of the hammering of his heart and the strength of his hands as they gripped the branch beneath him tight.
So tight, there was a crack and a snap. The branch broke beneath him, and he crashed down upon Arthur, knocking teeth, noses and cheeks.
“Oof!” Arthur grunted when Lancelot accidentally elbowed him in the stomach in a hurry to right himself.
They grappled like a couple of novice wrestlers and rolled until their bodies were aligned in a way that didn’t black someone’s eye or knee the other in the groin. Arthur kept him still with his bigger, heavier body pinning Lancelot down, all of their limbs and torsos perfectly locked together.
Just like the day they first met at the tournament, during the no-holds-barred fist fight. Arthur had gotten the upper hand then as well, before Lancelot turned the tables on him.
Strangely, Lancelot was most content to remain as he was now, pinned beneath Arthur’s broad, muscular bulk.
Arthur held himself slightly off of Lancelot on one elbow, while the other hand cupped his jaw, long fingers stroking into the hair beside his ear that had loosened from his braid.
