"You are, just not before your god."

Arthur stops, his eyebrows raised. "And what is that supposed to mean, old friend?"

Lancelot sniffs the air, derision in his countenance. "You pretend you don't know?" He gets up from his chair and moves toward Arthur, the grace of the battlefield in his movement. He reaches Arthur and stops, fingers grasping the thin fabric of Arthur's tunic. "Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps she was the one on her knees."

Arthur lifts his chin, his eyes still on Lancelot's. He reaches down and wraps his hand around the one on his shirt, applying pressure until Lancelot releases the material. "You of all people would begrudge me pleasure, Lancelot? Certainly she had to be mine before you could want her."

Lancelot steps back as if stung, unable to move too far with his hand still in Arthur's grip. "You are welcome to your little whelp, Arthur. I just never presumed to see the day that you would lead with your," his eyes darted down Arthur's thighs, the laces of his pants hanging loose, "sword."

"You dare…"

"I dare everything, Arthur, to save you from this drive to death. You cannot ask that we believe that you have put aside everything you've fought for, everything you've believed in for the warm flesh of some girl who is barely a woman!"

"I have not put aside everything, Lancelot." Arthur's voice is edged with anger, his eyes bright with hurt. "I have put aside nothing but the belief in Rome. Rome is nothing now that Pelagius is dead. His dreams and ideals were buried with him there. Rome is Marius Honorius. Here I can take Pelagius's words and make them reality."

"Can you hang your noble intentions on her shoulders, Arthur?" Lancelot walks away, grabbing a goblet from the table and drinking its contents down. "You were resolved to return to Rome from the day you were born, Arthur. And then she is here and you are somewhere else. Suddenly this wall is your home, your destiny."

"There is no destiny, Lancelot."

"Our destiny was to be free, Arthur."

"You are free."

He throws the goblet against the wall and watches as it clatters to the stone floor. "So are you."

"I am, Lancelot. Free to choose my life." He walks toward his friend and stops before him, his hand light on Lancelot's cheek. The rough rasp of his beard brushes Arthur's palm. "I choose to stay and fight."

"Your choice was made for you, Arthur, by a maiden's kiss and the slick heat of…" He stops as Arthur's hand tightens, fingers coiled in the short hair of his beard. "Do I lie, Arthur, or do I speak the truth? I can smell her on you. Your body stinks with the sweat and sex of her." He glares at Arthur defiantly. "You choices are made by what lies beneath your tunic, Arthur, and I do not mean your heart."

Arthur's fingers tighten more, forcing Lancelot's head back. "My brother speaks to me this way?"

"Only your brother can." Lancelot grits his teeth as Arthur's hand releases him then slides up into his hair and fists again. "Do you deny that you've tasted her flesh, Arthur?"

"Do you deny that you want to?"

"I am of no interest to your lady, Arthur. I'm not the one she wants on his knees."

Arthur's breath feathers over Lancelot's lips, his eyes holding Lancelot's gaze. "You do not answer my question, Lancelot. Do you wish to taste her flesh?"

His jaw tightens. "Does my argument no longer bear truth if I say yes?"

"If you say yes," Arthur breathes as he lowers his lips, finding Lancelot's with his own, "then I will let you."

Lancelot's mouth opens, his eyes closing as Arthur's tongue slides inside. His hands slide up to Arthur's neck, bracing on either side of the column of flesh, his nails digging through the thin tunic. The kiss deepens, lengthens as they begin to move, Arthur pushing Lancelot back until the table digs into the back of his thighs.

Lancelot breaks free of the kiss and tugs at Arthur's tunic, exposing his throat. With a low growl, he moves in and tastes the flesh there, his hands pulling the thin fabric up and over Arthur's head as his lips and teeth scrape the bare flesh beneath. His beard rasps against Arthur's chest as he bites the swollen nipple, licking it before pulling away with a knowing smile.

"Do you taste her yet, Lancelot?" Arthur whispers as he catches Lancelot's head and jerks him forward, eyes boring, questioning. His smile answers Lancelot's own as he moves his hands to Lancelot's shoulders and presses down. "Or do you still need to find what you seek?"

Lancelot goes down to his knees, his hands grasping Arthur's hips. The leather is warm and supple against his hands as he finds the laces and undoes them, tugging the material aside. Black falls from Arthur's pale skin as Lancelot's hands smooth over his flesh, palms feeling the pulse of blood beneath Arthur's skin as his thumbs slide along the thick flesh of Arthur's arousal.

He licks his lips and then slides his tongue over the head of Arthur's shaft before taking the length of it in his mouth. His tongue presses hard to the thick vein, feeling the rush of Arthur's passion. He pulls back, his eyes upward on Arthur who closes his eyes, his hands grasping the edge of the round table as Lancelot moves forward again, his mouth hot and tight around Arthur's flesh.

Lancelot's fingers dig into Arthur's flesh, scoring his hips as he sucks and strokes with his mouth. Arthur remains stiff and silent above him, only the hitching of his breath and the sound of his nails scrabbling against the rough table surface hinting at his struggle for control. Lancelot removes his hands, one circling Arthur's shaft while the other moves down to his own, rubbing himself through his leather breeches. He moans around Arthur's thickness, gasping breathlessly as Arthur pulls away, stumbling backward a step.

"Taste her yet?" His words are gravelly and hushed as he sinks down in front of Lancelot, staring at him for a brief second before lunging forward and pushing his knight to the ground. Lancelot falls, taking Arthur's weight on top of him and capturing the back of his neck, finding Arthur's mouth again.

Arthur's hands work at Lancelot's laces, jerking them free, his rough hands ripping them from their moorings. They both groan as Arthur's hand snakes around Lancelot's flesh, lowering himself so that their skin touches. Lancelot's hips arch off the floor and he presses himself against Arthur, their tongues imitating the slick slide of their cocks as they grind together.

Lancelot's hand moves to join Arthur's, both of them circling their joined flesh. Arthur pulls his head back and inhales, the sound like the roar of blood in Lancelot's ears. Arthur frees his hand and captures Lancelot's, pulling it back and pinning it to the ground. With a low groan, Lancelot offers up his other hand, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as Arthur holds him against the rough stone floor.

"I belong to no one but myself," Arthur's words are still rough as he thrusts down against Lancelot, skin slick as it slides together. "Not you. Not her. Not Rome. I am my own man."

"And you cannot be broken?" Lancelot taunts in broken gasps. "I could not break you? She could not break you? Rome cannot break you?"

"You," Arthur's voice is soft, barely a whisper. "You." Lancelot digs his nails into his palms as he thrusts upward to meet Arthur's driving hips, the sudden, thick heat engulfing them both. Arthur groans, his shoulders suddenly sagging with the weight of release as he spills himself, their bodies wet and slick as he sinks down and rests his head against Lancelot's shoulder. "You always break me."

"Do not stay. This is not your fight."

Arthur lifts himself way from Lancelot, raking his hand through his short hair. "It is now. Perhaps has always been." Raising himself up on his elbows, Lancelot shakes his head. Arthur stops him from speaking with a similar gesture. "You believe in nothing you cannot feel or taste or smell or kill."

"And you believe in nothing that you can."

"I believe, Lancelot. That shall have to be enough." He reaches down for Lancelot's hand and helps him to his feet. Their tunics fall, covering the spoils of their time together as they make their way toward the hall leading to their quarters. "A word of caution though, my friend?"

Lancelot doesn't turn his head, his sidelong glance an echo of his sly smile. "I have no caution in battle."

"I was not speaking of battle, Lancelot." Arthur's hand settles at the nape of Lancelot's neck and he laughs, though the sound is not mirth but warning. "I was speaking of Guinevere."