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Chapter Text

Gwaine opens his eyes with a gasp and lurches out of bed. 

He’s… okay? The last memory he has, it’s of a battlefield and a dawning hopelessness that he can’t seem to shake. The sky is cast a milky sort of white and the wind howls in his face. This is not a good place to be, but he’s going to stand his ground anyway. 

His neck aches, but otherwise he feels fine. Better than fine. How long has he been asleep for?

“Gwaine?” A head pokes into the room. Big ears and bigger eyes and soft skin. Merlin. Looking years younger. Is this a dream or something? In fact, Gwaine himself feels a little like he had when he was younger too. A little fresh off a night out, a little more limber, a little… just. Yeah. “Are you alright? I heard a yell.”

“Oh, you know me,” Gwaine grins helplessly at the sight of his old friend. He looks so much less burdened than he had as years dragged by and onwards. “Stubbed my little toe.”

Merlin laughs, a soft huff of a chuckle, shaking his head. 

“Only you, Sir Gwaine,” he grins. The emphasis on the title was the teasing that he had done the second it had been conferred upon him and hadn’t let up for a month. He remembers those days with a hazy sort of fondness. 

He shakes his head, a hand reaching to pinch himself out of this nostalgia-tinted dream. It’s not good to dwell on these kinds of things, after they're gone. But his arm stings and Merlin frowns.

“Gwaine? Are you okay? Were you hurt somewhere in your spar with Lancelot yesterday?”

And that settles it, no? He’s in the past.

Fuck.

Gwaine spends about a good hour going through the motions, nearly catatonic. In fact, when he sees Lancelot’s face again, he almost cries. It’s been so long. They're all so young. And if he’s the one saying it just shows exactly how fucking tired he’s become. 

He wants to go back to his correct place in time, but he doesn’t really know how to do that. So he needs to figure out what to do now that he’s here. 

It comes to him in a startlingly simple moment, spying Merlin’s eyes flare gold for a second that he thought he was alone. He honestly is less surprised to see it than he really thinks that he ought to be. Merlin’s magic, a taboo that was never really talked about, but was in hindsight a non-insignificant part of his delicately balanced tower of secrets. Merlin had been a part of so many impossible moments that people tended to forget that it wasn’t normal for someone with no training to achieve what he did. A pivotal role in so many magic-related incidents that resolved themselves too neatly, in hindsight, for a friendly sorcerer not to be involved. But last time, doing it all alone had worn Merlin thin, turned the mischievous and bright-eyed youth that Gwaine met in the bar into someone else by the time they reached this point in history. He needed help then, and didn’t get it.

Now? Now he could have Gwaine. If Gwaine could figure out how to put himself into the role. And the answer, almost harebrained, comes to him in a dull flash of genius. One person sneaking around was suspect, Merlin’s own suspicious sneaking around had always been a point of contention, but two people sneaking around together created a different story. If people assumed they already knew their secrets they wouldn’t look for new ones. It’s the kind of cover that would do perfectly: people need to think he and Merlin are lovers. 

Then he freezes and laughs until tears start to burn at the edges of his eyes. What a stupid idea. What a brilliant one. 

Before he can even approach Merlin, he thinks that groundwork may be necessary. A suitable build up to talking to him.

And the truth is, maybe he’s also a little afraid to. 

The situation presents itself in a way that he honestly didn't expect: Leon of all people trying to initiate a conversation about feelings. 

“Gwaine? You’ve been a little out of it these past few days, what’s on your mind?” 

“Who,” he corrects without thinking. Everyone around him makes loud noises of surprise, dragging his brain back to itself. Ah, fuck. Well, he might as well commit.

“Who?!” Percival grins, eyes mischievous. “You’re thinking about someone?”

Gwaine leers at him, internally grateful that they're making it into something.

“Why, jealous?”

Which sets off a bit of good-natured shoving and laughter until the moment settles and Arthur approaches. He blinks at them, then frowns.

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not,” Leon sighs. Then he looks at Gwaine, face curved in the way it does that he’s thinking a little too much. But whatever he was about to say dies a little in his throat, and they get to work.

“So who was on your mind earlier?” Elyan asks as they head off the field. Gwaine weighs his options and decides to set things more firmly into motion. He shrugs.

“Merlin,” he answers. 

“ Mer lin?” Leon gapes, unintentionally mimicking Arthur at his most prattish. 

“You should have said so,” Elyan laughs. “We thought you were thinking about a girl you liked. What were you thinking about?”

“Just saw something that made me see him in a different light,” Gwaine shrugs. “Now I’m wondering how many other things I haven’t seen.” Then he puts on the sleaziest, most over-the-top grin. The others groan with disgust. 

“Since when,” a voice cuts in. Lancelot’s. His face is almost stern. “What did you see?”

Gwaine winks. 

And maybe the point is to be unsubtle but it’s a bit difficult to get him alone for long enough to actually talk to him. And his opposition is coming from… just about the last person he would expect, actually.

“Have you seen Merlin?”

“Ah, you just missed him! He’s off on an errand for Gaius,” Lancelot shrugs. There’s a strange sort of glint in his eyes. Almost… satisfied? “Anyway, Elyan was looking for you.”

Elyan had not, apparently, been looking for him. They both wondered what he’d said that Lancelot had misunderstood. 

“Hey, Leon, have you seen Merlin?”

“I don’t know? Apparently Arthur got a bit upset about some favor he did for Lancelot and has him off on a dozen or so chores. Was trying to find him for Lancelot myself, poor fellow's been looking everywhere for him.”

Yikes. Gwaine’ll need to keep his mouth shut about the time they spend together if it sends Arthur into that much of a jealous frenzy.

“Hey, Merlin, there you are. Look, I’ve been trying to—“

“Merlin! Gwaine! There you two are,” Lancelot beams, Percival in tow. “Do you two think this is enough wood?”

“Definitely enough,” Merlin laughs. “How did you two find it so quickly? That ought to have been my job, but I’ll let you start the fire if you feel like doing my work for me.”

Lancelot laughs, eyes crinkling with fondness, gaze fixed on the sorcerer.

“If you come with,” he half-bargains, half-teases. Merlin follows with nary a second thought before pausing.

“Are you coming, Gwaine?”

Ah, Gwaine reflects, this might actually pose a problem. Somehow, he’s made Lancelot… jealous.

Lancelot and Merlin have always had a close relationship. Lancelot had loved with too much of himself for nothing and Merlin had been gutted to lose him. By all means, he should want them to be happy. 

But he can’t leave Merlin on his own. Not again.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters. They shouldn’t be fighting when they both care about the same person… albeit differently.

But there isn’t anything he can do to make it better. He needs to be there for Merlin and for Camelot. So even if it’s wrong to take the bud of what could really be something and crush it for the sake of putting himself in that position, he doesn’t think he has a choice. And he knows that Lancelot, sweet and honorable to a fault, would do exactly the same thing if he needed to. He just wishes that he could feel less like a traitor for it. 

“Merlin,” Gwaine begins. “I’ve finally caught you alone.”

“Yeah?” The aforementioned physician’s apprentice looks up at him.  “Had no idea you were trying to. What is it?”

“I want in,” he says without preamble. “You’re doing it alone and you shouldn’t have to.”

“Huh?” Merlin frowns, eyes darting around. It would be endearing if there wasn’t a sudden flash of fear on his face that he pushes down violently into a pleasant and slightly goofy expression. Something dimwitted and hard to look at and think much of.  “What are you talking about?”

He’s used to playing the decorative fool, but Gwaine has known him for so long and has seen him too well to know him as anything of the sort. Something in his chest cracks and breaks like the first ice on a pond thawing with spring. 

“You’ve been doing my job of protecting Camelot, no? Can’t let that stand, so what can I do?”

“What are you saying?” Merlin laughs but it has a shaky note under it. And maybe this should have been obvious: for as much as they like the Princess, Arthur can’t know. Not yet. It’s a death sentence. But they would fix it, together. 

“Are you really gonna make me say it?” Gwaine sighs. “Magic, Merlin. I know you’ve been using it to keep people safe. And if you’re gonna be skulking around at night, I should be skulking right there with you.”

Merlin gasps, face pale, and begins to stumble back. Away. Like he wants to run, Gwaine realizes. Because Gwaine is a knight, and he is a sorcerer. Gwaine puts his hands up, universal surrender.

Merlin, careful, still so damned afraid, comes back towards him. 

“You’re a knight. You can’t— you can’t be… what?” 

Is he seriously thinking about the consequences for his part in this? Sure, it’s treason. Sure, the consequence for him would be death. But that was no different from Merlin’s own end. Gwaine laughs, feeling the anxiety fall out of him. He grins at his best friend. 

“I’m your friend first, stupid,” he reminds Merlin. “Come on. I know I caught you on your way to do something. Take me with you.”

Merlin swallows, eyes searching him for a lie. 

“That simple?” He seems so uncertain that Gwaine aches. But he's right to be afraid, which is terribly unfair. “Just like that?”

“Yeah,” Gwaine says. “Just like that. Just keep my involvement a secret from everyone else, yeah?”

Merlin grins, the curve sharp as a knife in his lips. 

And that’s how Gwaine meets a dragon who seems to know Merlin pretty well. Which isn’t really how he had expected this to go but is honestly kinda really fucking fascinating. A dragon, of all things. 

It’s kind of strange, getting an inside view of how frequently there’s this-or-that mishap that never even reaches Arthur or Leon because Merlin handles it with tidy precision… or by stumbling upon the advantages of his shockingly powerful magical reserves. But it works, so Gwaine isn’t picky. Mostly he’s just a second pair of hands, but at least he’s a decent pair of hands! He’s doing a bit too much treason for a knight, but hey, it is in Camelot’s best interests. And he’d probably commit treason for Merlin anyways. 

Which leads him to now: him and Merlin stumbling out of the dungeons after sneaking a druid lass out again. She keeps letting the guards catch her in different disguises and throwing her down there because she wants to see Merlin. Poor bloke isn’t catching onto her starry eyes. 

“Halt! Who goes… Sir Gwaine? Merlin?” A guard blinks, stupefied “You…

“I don’t know,” Gwaine rolls his eyes. “What do you think I’d be doing with a fellow I dragged into somewhere private and secluded, huh? Not the sharpest sword in the armory, are you?”

“I- uh-! No, of course! Uhm, h- have a good night!” And the guard scampers off, eyes wide and cheeks bright red. He’s scandalized, probably because there’s mud in Gwaine’s hair. Merlin blinks after him, astonished.

“That was… why did that work?”

“It’ll probably be rumor by morning, which means we can keep using it,” Gwaine suggests, like this wasn’t his plan from the beginning. Merlin beams. 

“That’s gonna make it so much easier! You don't mind?"

"Not at all. But I do mind this mud," he yells, flinging it on his friend who shrieks with laughter before vanishing it with a lighting-flash of gold in his eyes. Gwaine is still getting used to getting to see it, a remarkable and beautiful trust placed in his hands. He needs to be worthy of it.

He’s right. 

“So,” Percival says awkwardly as they wait for Arthur to enter the room before a meeting. “You and Merlin, huh?”

Gwaine smiles, but doesn’t answer him. He can feel Lancelot’s eyes burning into the side of his face. 

He wishes he was sorry. Maybe then it would taste less like guilt in his mouth.

“...no! And that’s not…”

“I’m worried, Merlin!” Lancelot’s voice breaks through the wall. “Gwaine-”

“What about me?” 

Merlin and Lancelot whirl around to face him. Lancelot’s face is hard, but also somewhat pained. 

“Nothing,” Merlin says easily. “What’s that?”

Gwaine lifts a flask of the water from that lake Merlin had kept trying to get to but couldn’t escape Arthur’s clutches for long enough to go. Then he winks.

“A little something for you,” he says. Merlin steps forward, reaching to take the bottle from his fingers with a smile that feels like the crackling jolt of rubbed wool when the first person makes the mistake of touching it. It feels like magic ripping through him. For a moment, he thinks that Merlin might just be a creature from another realm. 

Over Merlin’s shoulder, Lancelot looks… afraid. And maybe he is, of losing what he had not realized he had cherished until his death. Because Gwaine, without regard for his vulnerable heart, had stolen Merlin from him right before they could have had something precious. 

Gwaine’s chest aches.

Neither Gwaine nor Lancelot speaks to the other for days. It’s half because they’re busy and half an unsettled awkwardness. Lancelot has been staring at Merlin with a fragile, hunted gaze. Something desperate and afraid. Gwaine knows that he is unspeakably cruel for this, for parading around in the seat he wants. And crueler still for knowing that this keeps happening to Lancelot. First with Gwen, now with him. Crueler still for the fact that it’s a lie. 

But what can he do? He’s doing this for Merlin and all of Camelot. And he had committed to it knowing it would hurt the man. But that doesn’t mean that he’s not choking on that too-vulnerable gaze directed at his ostensible boyfriend. 

Lancelot is the one to break the tension, finally forcing a resolution.

“We need to talk,” he says, tense. Wordlessly, ignoring the stares of their friends and king, he follows Lancelot. He trusts the other knight with his life, even given what he’s stolen. And he would follow him willingly. But the tension bleeds into nervousness the second they’re alone.

“So,” Lancelot begins, suddenly his usual awkward and endearing self. And Gwaine gives.

“You’re in love with him,” he accuses softly. “Aren’t you?”

“You… what?” 

“I know, Lancelot,” Gwaine says. “I’m sorry, that I’m taking him from you.”

“Don’t say that,” Lancelot spits, his own anger finally welling to the surface. “You have no clue-”

“I do, Lancelot,” Gwaine says. “I can’t say that you’re not a better man than me, because that would be a lie. But I’m not going to leave him.”

Its quiet for a moment.

“Just… promise me one thing,” Lancelot rasps, grabbing Gwaine’s shirt, white-knuckle grip and eyes glazing with tears like he’s begging. Maybe he is. “Promise me that you will never hurt him. No matter what happens or what-”

Which… huh? He’s not familiar with this end of a conversation but… he supposes that makes sense to ask. Gwaine can’t hurt Merlin—the bloke isn’t even in love with him.

“That was a given,” Gwaine says. “But I’ll swear it to you on my knighthood.” 

Lancelot looks at him, and whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it. His face falls, then hardens, and he shakes his head. 

Gwaine watches him as he leaves, helpless.

Chapter Text

Lancelot doesn’t know what to do. There’s a new thrumming, rabbit-heart undercurrent of fear every second of every day now.

Gwaine and Merlin have become lovers. Which is fine, and Lancelot would be happy that two spectacularly brave and kind and loyal friends of his had found something so wonderful.

Except that Gwaine is Sir Gwaine—a knight of Camelot, sworn to a kingdom that would see Merlin burn at the stake for the golden magic flowing through him. And Merlin is as deeply soaked in magic as a rag dropped into the bottom of a lake. And the second that Gwaine learns the truth, one or both of them will be in mortal danger. 

And worse, even more than that, Lancelot had planned to take that place. He still plans to take that place. 

When his eyes shut the last time he had thought it was the end of him. But instead, he had woken up only days after he had been knighted and they had retaken Camelot: years in the past. And after days of carefully trying to figure out how to handle it, he had realized that posing as Merlin’s lover would protect his friend and enable him to be of far more use than he had before. It wasn’t like he had fallen in love with anyone he could actually have, and Merlin hadn’t either.

Except days in, everything is thrown off course. Something changes in Gwaine, and now he wants Merlin. And despite everything not pointing to it in the last timeline, Lancelot had no idea Merlin even liked men that way, Merlin seems to want Gwaine back. 

And it’s deeply disgusting of him to steal his friend away from something so good but he knows, deep down, that Gwaine would want him to do this. Because Gwaine is a better man than he is. Lancelot had died knowing that.

He watches, constantly ready to jump in and stand between them. He sees the way Gwaine smiles at Merlin. Something almost full of wonder and awe, buried under laughter and warmth. But Lancelot sees it. 

Because he used to smile at Gwen exactly the same way.

Merlin shoves Gwaine, laughing, and Gwaine flails with extra drama as he goes down instead of stopping himself. 

Their argument, interrupted days prior, still sits heavy in his stomach.

(“I didn’t know you liked him,” Lancelot broaches the subject gently, leaning on Gaius’ worktable. “I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks,” Merlin smiles awkwardly. Youthful and naive, unaware of the danger clawing behind him. He looks so painfully young right now, and Lancelot resists the urge to tease him about that smile. But he’s too busy really thinking about it. He had no idea that this could have happened. Did he set about this change by accident? Something about the wing of a butterfly setting off a storm across the world? Is this his fault?

“Does he… know? About you?” If he did, then it would be fine. Lancelot would figure out a new way, but then they could all work together. It would be great, actually. If a little awkward. But safer. 

“I… no,” Merlin admits. He bites his lip and fiddles with his hands. “It’s… not a first date kind of topic, you know?” Oh. Oh that’s… that’s not good. Lancelot’s entire body goes cold. He has no clue where Gwaine stands on magic or his loyalties to Arthur. But Merlin smiles like he still believes that the people he loves will never turn on him. (When had that changed, in the last timeline?) And Lancelot is suddenly, irrationally furious with Gwaine for taking that faith and stretching it like a noose around Merlin’s neck. 

“You’re in a relationship with him and he doesn’t know?!” His voice is too sharp, too loud. His fear sounds like anger and Merlin flinches as if Lancelot had struck him, eyes wide. But Lancelot can already see the moment that Gwaine finds out playing out a million different ways in his head. And they all end with Merlin, devastated, tied to a pyre.

“I-”

“You can’t stay with him,” Lancelot begs, jumping to his feet. “You have no idea how he’s going to react if he finds out! What if this is a trap?!”

Merlin’s face hardens, something old and wounded and dangerous rearing back at him.

“No! And that’s not your matter to be concerned about!”

“I’m worried, Merlin!” His voice rises with his heart rate. He’s afraid. Can’t Merlin see that he’s terrified for him? “Gwaine-” -never loved you in my last life, Lancelot is about to say. Gwaine never loved Merlin or acted that way with him. He’s about to break Merlin’s heart, and he feels hideous for it. Because Gwaine never loved him then, yes, but Lancelot would be stupid to think that he doesn’t love Merlin now. But it’s a variable they can’t have, if Lancelot’s death and subsequent waking up in his body in the past can mean anything for them. If any of it means anything at all. 

What Lancelot is about to say never comes. Because a new voice cuts in.

“What about me?” 

It’s Gwaine, eyes sharp as he sees Lancelot for the competition he leans in the doorway. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world, him and Merlin. But he smiles as brightly as a child as Merlin takes his gift, alcohol, from his fingers. They’re drunk on each other, but they’re going to wake up eventually. And the morning after is always painful.)

The others can tell that something is tense between him and Gwaine. They have the grace not to ask… and they probably know the reason but are giving them the dignity to handle it between themselves. But eventually, he knows they need to talk about it. So he leads Gwaine to a closet only to find himself grasping for words.

“You’re in love with him,” Gwaine asks, almost kind for the actual question he’s asking. “Aren’t you?”

Which is… yes. He needs the public position of Merlin’s lover, and yes, he’s terrified of the unwitting threat that Gwaine poses to Merlin, but he had no clue that Gwaine thought… he thought… Lancelot had never even considered Merlin in that way. It would be untoward of him to suddenly feel that way about a friend whose greatest mortal weakness lay in his hands. It would be cruel to pursue something when Merlin couldn’t dare say no. 

But that aside, why is Gwaine being kind about it?

“You… what?” 

“I know, Lancelot,” Gwaine says, and something in his face cracks with guilt that he shouldn’t feel. Because Lancelot shouldn’t make him feel guilty when he doesn’t know. Because he has no clue about the truth, just that he thinks that he’s hurting his friend. “I’m sorry, that I’m taking him from you.” Twin waves of rage slam into him: at himself, for doing this to his friend and fellow knight, the man who he would lay down his life for and trust with his back, and at Gwaine, for playing in matters he cannot understand and they cannot dare to teach him. 

“Don’t say that,” Lancelot spits. “You have no clue-”

“I do, Lancelot,” Gwaine interrupts, and he doesn’t! Not really, and that’s so much worse. “I can’t say that you’re not a better man than me, because that would be a lie. But I’m not going to leave him.” The fight in Lancelot sputters and dies, a flame smothered under a cup, at that. Gwaine is wrong to think Lancelot is a better man than he is, not when Lancelot wants to take away something that’s made him happier than he can ever remember seeing him. Not when he is treating the friend he thinks is after his lover with this much gentility.

He can’t trust him, not yet, but…

“Just… promise me one thing,” he begs, approaching Gwaine and grabbing at the front of his shirt to force the other man to look him in the eyes. “Promise me that you will never hurt him. No matter what happens or what-”

“That was a given,” Gwaine says, naive. He and Merlin are too naive, a matched set of misplaced faith. “But I’ll swear it to you on my knighthood.” 

Lancelot looks at him, but he just can’t make himself believe him. He can’t convince himself that Gwaine isn’t a threat. 

He leaves. 

He needs to talk to Merlin before this gets out of hand. 

(But why does Gwaine’s assertion “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” ringing in his ears like a death knell? He doesn't feel that way about Merlin. He can’t.)

Merlin isn’t talking to him, a hard shell of professionalism coating their interactions. Lancelot pretends it doesn’t sting.

He hates this. He hates his friend being so far out of his reach. Lancelot missed him dearly, somewhere in the tenderest recesses of his heart is where he’s placed his brilliantly powerful and recklessly giving old friend. Lancelot will never be able to scrub the memory of his face, frantic, horrified, when he died. It had been the last thing he had seen. But he had been glad that it was Merlin, out of anyone in the world, that he could say goodbye to. 

But that’s all it is. Merlin is just his friend. Lancelot misses his friend.

(“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”)

There’s a weird tension, Lancelot realizes, in the way that Gwaine holds himself. It’s new, he thinks, a depth in their interactions that wasn’t there before. A bitter, ugly part of himself that he didn’t recognize had wished it was guilt, for cleaving a rift between Lancelot and Merlin.

But that’s unfair. He knows it’s unfair.

Merlin sidles up to Gwaine and whispers something in his ear. Lancelot watches the way he leans into the touch, almost unconscious, and beams at whatever Merlin had told him. There’s a softness to the two of them, and Gwaine seems almost helplessly in love, the way his eyes trace after Merlin’s back as he leaves. If someone could be pining after their own lover, Lancelot muses with absolutely no humor, maybe it would look like that.

Then Gwaine’s eyes catch and lock with Lancelot’s. Something complicated flickers across the glow of Gwaine’s face, shadow in candlelight. Lancelot looks away.

(“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”)

They’re off on a hunting trip, something that Arthur had demanded of them with a brooding demeanor that smells of intervention. Merlin is exchanging honeyed barbs with Gwaine at the back.

Lancelot is apart from them, at the front.

“Sir Lancelot,” Arthur coughs. His face is twisted with discomfort. Lancelot rides up closer until they’re a slight ways ahead of the others. 

“Sire?”

And Arthur, the man that he is, doesn’t dance around the matter, cleaving right to the center. 

“What happened?”

Lancelot holds his tongue, swallows the millions of things that he wants to say, and sighs. But Arthur’s gaze demands an answer, so Lancelot gives the one that he actually can.

“He’s going to break his heart,” he says. “And he doesn’t even realize how much of it he has.” An unforgivable carelessness.

Arthur knows who the actor and the victim in that statement are too, mouth pressing into a thin line. For a moment, he almost looks like he wants to agree. But then he says something else. 

“I think those are the kind of thoughts jealousy would breed,” Arthur broaches. Cautious, but wise. The making of a king that will be great. He’s leaving them to sort it out, it seems. Which is the right choice, but… 

Lancelot glances over his shoulder, at Merlin riding with Gwaine on his horse. They’re looking at each other like nobody else in the world exists. Merlin is not the wretched, magic-twisted sorcerer that Uther (and, if he’s honest, Morgana) would make a man believe in. He isn’t the ethereal, golden-drenched warlock that Lancelot can know him to be. He is not the dimwitted, hapless, forgettable servant that he dons like his own sort of armor. In that moment, he is just a young man, and Lancelot is unable to look away.

He’s just a young man, who never fully explained his reasons or his dedications, but seemed to have everything in him leached out by the world. He’s just a young man, and Lancelot wants nothing more than to help him. 

That frame, which Lancelot might in his hiddenmost thoughts call cute, holds incredible power. Merlin might be able to protect himself against an assault. But he cannot protect himself from the agony of betrayal, and it is that, Lancelot thinks, which would be his doom. It’s keeping him awake and breaking his own heart. Merlin deserves to fall in love, but Lancelot wants him to be safe. 

“I wish I was jealous,” he mutters. “That would be easier.”

“I see,” Arthur says, but it’s clear that he doesn’t. Which is fine. Lancelot almost wants to tell him everything. But Arthur is still Uther’s son, and some secrets stain too deep. Not yet. They’ll bring him around to magic this time, Lancelot is determined. 

But not yet. For now, this secret is a fire that cannot spread, lest it burn them all. Lancelot will hold it for Merlin until he dies again, if he needs to.

(“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

No. He can’t. That’s a magnitude of betrayal that he just can’t let himself commit.)

“Lancelot,” a voice, quiet, drags him from his thoughts. Merlin, like he had summoned the man with longing alone, right behind him. Merlin, Lancelot realizes, who is alone.

“Where’s Gwaine?"

“He’s… Elyan and Percival wanted his help with something,” Merlin answers. Which a vague and clearly made-up excuse to force them to talk and make up. But that's not the glaring issue: they're in bandit-infested woodland right now!

“And he left you alone in these woods?!” Lancelot grips his weapon more tightly and looks around.

“I can defend myself," Merlin snaps. And Lancelot doesn't want to fight him. He never did.

“I know you can, but not in view of Arthur,” he says. Merlin searches his face and whatever he finds, something in him softens.

“You… worry too much," he says.

“I’m always worried about you,” Lancelot admits, looking out into the woods so he doesn’t have to say that to Merlin’s face. That’s the face of the man he left all alone in a city that would see him burned. Merlin coughs.

“I know,” he says. Lancelot looks back over at him and he has a small smile on his lips, and he can’t tear his eyes away from it. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. But he’s apologizing for more than he has the right to. Merlin cheerfully nods with satisfaction, and scampers off back to the campgrounds without a word. Lancelot watches him go.

(“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

It’s a betrayal. Wronger now, that Merlin has someone. Just like Gwen before him, Merlin has someone and there is no room for Lancelot there.

But Lancelot has never been as good a man as he wanted to be.

It feels like a surrender to a greater force, like a wrung-out submission. He is, and isn’t that terrible?)

Chapter Text

Merlin regrets not talking things out with Gwaine and Lancelot sooner. Maybe it would have resolved this… disaster. He had gone with Gwaine to see Kilgarrah when the dragon landed in perfect unison as Lancelot, who, to his credit, seems just as surprised as they are to bump into each other here, found them.

And now Kilgarrah is cackling in the background and both Lancelot and Gwaine are pointing their swords at each other and yelling to him at the same time.

“You- Merlin, get out of here, I’ll handle him!”

“Gwaine, if you don’t swear to me that you will never speak of this again, I’ll have no choice but to fight you here.”

Then they both stop, confused. And lower their swords.

“You’re not going to tell anyone,” Lancelot surmises, and it’s like a weight was lifted from his shoulders. Merlin remembers that fight and winces. Not telling Lancelot… must have driven him mad with anxiety. Shit, he owes the knight a serious apology. 

“I already knew,” Gwaine admits sheepishly. “I, uh, I’ve known since before we… uh, yeah. But, uh, thanks for being willing to fight me to protect him as soon as you found out.”

“I… also knew,” Lancelot frowns. “I knew from the first time I left Camelot.”

“That’s… what?” Gwaine looks taken aback. Why does he look… oh. Oh, Merlin had known there was something he had forgotten. He feels his face drain of color as it happens. 

“I forgot to tell you,” Merlin realizes. “I totally forgot to tell you that he knew. I am so sorry.”

“You told me he didn't,” Lancelot glares. Merlin quails under it. 

“I promised him I wouldn’t tell anyone that we were fake lovers first, I owed it to him to keep my mouth shut,” Merlin confesses immediately. Lancelot’s disappointed face makes something in him ache. He never likes seeing his closest people upset, and especially not at him.

Lancelot chokes at the revelation. 

“F- fake?”

Gwaine grimaces, and there’s something… off in his laugh as he explains. Merlin stares, trying to puzzle it out. 

“Oh, as soon as I knew, I figured that I would join him in his plans and act as a cover.” Which is actually news to him, but he supposes that it makes sense that Gwaine would be openly sneaking around like that with him knowing how it would look. He could have just offered.

“That…” Lancelot laughs. He laughs so hard he wheezes and tears spring into his eyes. “I had the same thought. I felt awful about it, because I thought-”

“No, I felt awful! You looked so upset!” Gwaine laughs and the two knights grab each other’s shoulders. Almost a hug. Lancelot is laughing, brighter than he has even after the two of them stopped fighting. 

“I was upset! I didn’t know you knew!”

They’re smiling and something in Merlin’s chest tightens with warmth. He dismisses it.

They both only were trying to be his friends, after all. Merlin wouldn’t ask more from them than that. 

“Well, young warlock, it seems that you have more human matters to untangle tonight,” Kilgarrah chuffs. “I will return when you’re ready.”

The three of them watch him take off into the sky and Merlin sighs. 

“Damn dragon just wanted to get out of playing teacher for the night,” Gwaine mutters. And Merlin, numb, laughs. 

The truth is, he already knows. Kilgarrah had told him before: Lancelot and Gwaine have come backwards in time. They’ve seen something in the future and they’ve decided that the best outcome would be from protecting him and working with him. That’s all this is. He can’t ask more from them than that.

The three of them head back to the castle in silence.

“Lancelot, it might come across as weird, but I don’t mind the reputation I’ll get if people think I’m running around with both of you,” Merlin gently suggests. Gwaine glances sidelong at his fellow knight.

“I’d be willing, I think,” Gwaine shrugs. “I’m the kind of person who’s okay with sharing like that anyways.”

“Me too,” Lancelot admits, eyes wide like he’s only just realized it himself. Merlin’s heart twists. It would be so doable, but he can’t ask. His head suddenly drops, a guilty submission. He and Gwaine meet eyes and some grim understanding that Merlin is not privy to passes between them. “In real life too. I’m sorry, Merlin.”

Merlin blinks. It’s like a moment in a book that you start to read and realize that you’d skipped a page.

“What?”

“I shouldn’t have,” Lancelot admits. “I shouldn’t be doing this. It’s-”

Ah? Is it about that? Merlin’s made his peace with that.

“I knew about it,” Merlin laughs awkwardly. “You both could have told me, but I know why you didn’t.” He would have believed them, of course, but it’s still hard to discuss. Lancelot’s head whips to stare at Gwaine, whose heart is cracking on his face. Merlin doesn’t know what future he’s seen, but he aches to see that expression painted on Gwaine’s features, best suited for laughter. 

“Both?”

“You knew?”

“About you both coming from the future? Yes,” Merlin admits. Then frowns, because they’re staring at him. “Was… was there something else?”

“I’m in love with you,” Gwaine blurts out, the confession shocked out of him. “And so is he.”

Merlin blinks.

“Oh. Well. Um. That’s…”

“I’m sorry,” Lancelot repeats, his own face breaking across with anguish that breaks Merlin’s heart. He reaches out, one hand each, to rest on their faces and can’t help the small noise that escapes him when their faces, mirror movements, lean into the cup of his palms.

“I… thought that it was impossible,” Merlin breathes, tears starting to blur his vision. “It wasn’t something I could ask of you.”

“Ask anything of me,” Lancelot rumbles, “and just see if I would deny you.”

Merlin smiles, heart soaring with something bright. Like sunshine. Or gold.

[fin.]