Merlin resolves to ignore him, and remains kneeling in the water despite the hard river stones digging up into his shins. After a few more moments--where he can practically sense Lancelot's concern radiating at him from the shore--he unclenches his fists and cups water in his hands to pour over his neck and shoulders. He follows the flow with the scrub of the palms, the last residue of yesterday morning (their mouths, his come) turning almost silky against his skin before it washes away.
He's shivering with the cold after not much longer, teeth gritted as he stares resolutely downstream, not looking down as he scrubs his belly and thighs and cock, imagining it all washing away, carried down the river, nothing of yesterday left.
Of course, it's not that easy. Lancelot refuses to even turn around as Merlin rises out of the water and picks his way back to shore again, something that both grates and reassures Merlin--for all that he longs for privacy right now, at least Lancelot's not suddenly treating him like a maiden, which would have been even worse. He keeps his eyes on Merlin's face as he holds out Merlin's clothes, and Merlin succeeds in resisting the urge to snatch them from him, though he can't manage to unclench his jaw for a thank you.
Lancelot still nods as if Merlin's given him one, and much to Merlin's relief he gazes across the bank with false idleness as Merlin hurriedly pulls his clothes on again. As he tugs on his boots he loses his balance; Lancelot's quick grasp on his upper arm steadies him and steals his breath at the same time. As Merlin straightens Lancelot's touch doesn't fall away, instead shifting to rest reassuringly at the centre of Merlin's back, hot as a brand.
"All right?" Lancelot asks again, softer this time as his eyes bore into Merlin's, dark with concern.
Merlin doesn't answer at first, wondering wildly if perhaps the curse hasn't been cured after all, but he's not senseless with lust--just suffused with the same warm gratitude and affection that he'd always felt toward this man, amplified by the curse and seemingly not toned down a bit since its resolution.
"Of course," he says again, mustering a smile which he's sure must look more like a grimace.
"Your lips are blue," Lancelot says.
Merlin blinks, registering that he's still shivering; he looks back over his shoulder but there's not a patch of sun in sight, the sky clouded over; the seasons are fickle in this part of the land.
"Come on, there's hot food." Lancelot's touch shifts to his shoulder and squeezes briefly before dropping way at last; he walks a few paces back toward camp and stops to make sure Merlin's following.
"Thought that's what I was along for," Merlin grips half-heartedly; as they get closer to camp he can smell meat cooking, and his stomach knots eagerly. Something embarrassing--in an entirely different way--warms and twists in him at the thought of them cooking for him.
"I thought that's just what we were telling Arthur," Lancelot says over his shoulder--a little cheekily--and it makes a genuine smile creep onto Merlin's lips. His steps are still slower than Lancelot's, though--he can't help but carry himself carefully, as much as he wants to pretend nothing at all is amiss--and when Lancelot realises, he stops until Merlin is alongside him, throwing his cloak over Merlin's shoulders. The weight of it settles warmly, and Lancelot uses his hold on it to chivvy Merlin along.
The day after As Fey Would Have It (3/3)
Merlin resolves to ignore him, and remains kneeling in the water despite the hard river stones digging up into his shins. After a few more moments--where he can practically sense Lancelot's concern radiating at him from the shore--he unclenches his fists and cups water in his hands to pour over his neck and shoulders. He follows the flow with the scrub of the palms, the last residue of yesterday morning (their mouths, his come) turning almost silky against his skin before it washes away.
He's shivering with the cold after not much longer, teeth gritted as he stares resolutely downstream, not looking down as he scrubs his belly and thighs and cock, imagining it all washing away, carried down the river, nothing of yesterday left.
Of course, it's not that easy. Lancelot refuses to even turn around as Merlin rises out of the water and picks his way back to shore again, something that both grates and reassures Merlin--for all that he longs for privacy right now, at least Lancelot's not suddenly treating him like a maiden, which would have been even worse. He keeps his eyes on Merlin's face as he holds out Merlin's clothes, and Merlin succeeds in resisting the urge to snatch them from him, though he can't manage to unclench his jaw for a thank you.
Lancelot still nods as if Merlin's given him one, and much to Merlin's relief he gazes across the bank with false idleness as Merlin hurriedly pulls his clothes on again. As he tugs on his boots he loses his balance; Lancelot's quick grasp on his upper arm steadies him and steals his breath at the same time. As Merlin straightens Lancelot's touch doesn't fall away, instead shifting to rest reassuringly at the centre of Merlin's back, hot as a brand.
"All right?" Lancelot asks again, softer this time as his eyes bore into Merlin's, dark with concern.
Merlin doesn't answer at first, wondering wildly if perhaps the curse hasn't been cured after all, but he's not senseless with lust--just suffused with the same warm gratitude and affection that he'd always felt toward this man, amplified by the curse and seemingly not toned down a bit since its resolution.
"Of course," he says again, mustering a smile which he's sure must look more like a grimace.
"Your lips are blue," Lancelot says.
Merlin blinks, registering that he's still shivering; he looks back over his shoulder but there's not a patch of sun in sight, the sky clouded over; the seasons are fickle in this part of the land.
"Come on, there's hot food." Lancelot's touch shifts to his shoulder and squeezes briefly before dropping way at last; he walks a few paces back toward camp and stops to make sure Merlin's following.
"Thought that's what I was along for," Merlin grips half-heartedly; as they get closer to camp he can smell meat cooking, and his stomach knots eagerly. Something embarrassing--in an entirely different way--warms and twists in him at the thought of them cooking for him.
"I thought that's just what we were telling Arthur," Lancelot says over his shoulder--a little cheekily--and it makes a genuine smile creep onto Merlin's lips. His steps are still slower than Lancelot's, though--he can't help but carry himself carefully, as much as he wants to pretend nothing at all is amiss--and when Lancelot realises, he stops until Merlin is alongside him, throwing his cloak over Merlin's shoulders. The weight of it settles warmly, and Lancelot uses his hold on it to chivvy Merlin along.