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Lancelot was the one who noticed that Gwaine had developed a fever. Gwaine had dismissed the sweating as a result of the nightmares that had returned after Fyrien, the shortness of breath as a consequence of reliving every moment that he’d been tied to a rock in the ocean. And he’d been trying to eat, trying to keep hydrated, since being moved from Merlin’s room into their shared chambers. He’d been trying so hard to recover, to lessen the strain on Merlin and Lancelot, but when Lancelot had refused to leave him for even a moment it had become apparent that Gwaine was not getting any better.
Merlin, after resting for two days, had returned to his duties and Lancelot, unable to train with his arm in a sling, had chosen to stay with Gwaine. He’d barely spoken since returning – had done little but sleep and curl up against Lancelot in the hours before dawn, his face streaked with tears – and both of his partners had been concerned about what thoughts would trickle into his mind if he was left alone. It was on the third day after their return that Lancelot realised Gwaine was significantly warmer than he ought to have been.
Outside, the rain was steadily increasing in volume and Lancelot had opened the window at Gwaine’s quiet request. They were sitting in bed together, Gwaine with his head resting on Lancelot’s uninjured shoulder and Lancelot with his arm carefully draped behind his partner, stroking his ribs gently through Gwaine’s shirt. Lancelot, much to his partners’ delight, had taken to not wearing a shirt to avoid the hassle of trying to get his stiff arm through a sleeve. Percival had offered him one of his shirts, of course, and it was strewn across a chair, but Lancelot had always felt too warm to wear one when he shared a bed with two other people. The breeze curled in through the open window, yet it did little to dispel the heat seeping into Lancelot’s left side.
Frowning, he removed his hand from Gwaine’s ribs to press the back of it to his forehead. ‘You’re burning up,’ he murmured, frantically moving his hand further down Gwaine’s body, careful to avoid his wounds.
‘Summer,’ whispered Gwaine.
Lancelot bit back a remark about the wind infiltrating the room. He’d hidden enough injuries of his own over the years to recognise the signs of infection. ‘Tell me where it hurts, my love.’
Gwaine closed his eyes and pushed his face into Lancelot’s neck. Everywhere you don’t touch me , he wanted to say. Everywhere that either of you don’t wish to reach . ‘’S'fine.’
Brushing a chunk of hair out of the cut on Gwaine’s left cheek, Lancelot’s voice was tender but firm. ‘Tell me, my love. If it’s infected, it needs treating.’
‘’S’not infected. Just adjusting to warmth after the water.’
The last two words were little more than a whisper and Lancelot felt his heart clench. Merlin had tried to persuade him to take a bath the day before and the only response had been Gwaine’s entire body stiffening at the thought of it. Both Lancelot and Merlin had been careful to censor any trace of salt near Gwaine, be it in food or remedies, but that hadn’t stopped the nightmares. It hadn’t stopped Gwaine from throwing back the blankets he had been buried under to keep warm and gasping for air in the early hours of the morning. It hadn’t stopped him from nearly gagging every time he tasted his own tears. And Merlin and Lancelot had been helpless in the face of it. They had tried to reassure him, had repeated that he was safe, but they both knew that the panic wouldn’t be chased away by simple words.
‘Gwaine, my love, please. Please. I don’t want you to be in any more pain. Particularly when you can be helped this time.’ He buried his face in Gwaine’s hair. ‘Please, my love.’
Gwaine’s reply was thick and fragmented. ‘Abdomen.’
Taking a shaky breath, Lancelot pulled back his head and stroked Gwaine’s hair. ‘Okay, love, okay. Can you lie back for me?’
Nodding, Gwaine slowly lowered himself onto the mattress, keeping his gaze fixed on the deep-set lines on Lancelot’s face. Lancelot and Merlin had both been fiercely protective over him since returning to Camelot, but Lancelot had practically glowered with eyes like flickering embers at anybody who dared ask what had happened on the journey from Gawant. Elyan had come to sit with him the night before when Lancelot and Merlin had reluctantly gone in search of food, initially trying to tease a smile from him by giving him a rundown of the antics that had occurred whilst they’d been away. Then Gwaine had made the mistake of wincing after his laughter had contorted his wounds, at which Elyan’s expression of mirth had been wiped clean and he’d leaned close, whispering: ‘What happened to you, Gwaine?’
Gwaine’s eyes had dropped to the sheets and he had muttered a flimsily vague explanation of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He hadn’t met Elyan’s gaze to see if his friend had believed him, but Elyan hadn’t pressed him further. Instead, he’d told Gwaine about Percival ending up in the wrong place when Arthur had told the knights to line up in the training session earlier that morning. Percival, who had been listening to the debate Elyan and Leon had been having about a crossbow or a sword being superior, had taken Arthur’s instruction to mean lining up vertically behind him, instead of horizontally in front of him. The result had been Arthur being swamped by a large shadow and Percival had decided to follow Arthur’s every movement: spinning around at the same time as him, pulling his body to one side when Arthur had turned his head… It had even gotten a smile out of Leon, who was usually so focused in training sessions.
Gwaine had been careful to control his laughter to avoid wincing once more.
Tentatively, Lancelot pushed up Gwaine’s shirt. His hands were cool against Gwaine’s skin, cooler still where the ring on his index finger pressed against him, and Gwaine closed his eyes, savouring the touch that was like gentle rain on his face. When he felt a second hand brush over him, he opened his eyes to push it away, frowning. ‘You’re meant to be resting your shoulder.’
The corner of Lancelot’s mouth flickered. ‘Shoulder, not hand.’
‘All connected though, aren’t they?’ challenged Gwaine quietly. ‘I’ll tell Merlin.’
That made Lancelot withdraw his right hand. He deftly untied the knot in Gwaine’s bandage before Gwaine even had the chance to assist him, carefully peeling back the layers to reveal the wound he hadn’t seen since Gwaine had been covered in seawater and on the verge of bleeding out. It had been stitched by Gwen – Merlin had been in no fit state to do it himself and Gaius, even with his glasses, would have struggled to do it quickly and precisely – but Lancelot hadn’t watched. He had been having his own wound treated at the same time and his eyes had been tightly closed, only an outstretched finger tethering him to an unconscious Gwaine as Merlin had gripped Lancelot’s thigh.
Gwen’s stitches were neat and subtle, drawing together the skin that had been damaged twice, but escaping from the gaps between them was a yellow pus. Even if Gwaine hadn’t admitted to being in pain, there was no way that the warmth of his skin could be explained away by it being summer. When Lancelot raised his eyes, Gwaine was watching him expectantly with an impassive expression.
‘How long?’ whispered Lancelot.
Too late, Gwaine tried to recover the face that had slipped from him and pushed himself up with difficulty. ‘Look, Lance, it’s not that bad,’ he said, moving to wrap the bandage around the wound again.
‘I know they say that love is blind and everything, but I saw that well enough.’ Lancelot placed his hand on Gwaine’s, preventing him from concealing the damage. ‘How long has it felt like this?’
‘Since yesterday morning. I just thought it meant it was healing. It’s been a while since I was last injured.’
‘Gwaine, it’s literally been a fortnight since you got an arrow in the arm.’
Gwaine sighed, closing his eyes again as his mouth turned up at the corner. ‘Worth a try. Besides, Merlin hastened that healing.’
His voice was ragged from his extended silence over the past few days, bearing the uneven hardness of crumbling cliff sides, but Lancelot had never heard a more beautiful sound. He and Merlin wouldn’t have loved Gwaine any less if he had never raised his voice louder than a whisper, but it had been like they’d left part of him shackled to the rock they’d rescued him from. Gwaine had reacted to their affection with uncertain kisses of his own, had held them both tightly throughout the night, but he’d not initiated anything himself. Lancelot had been careful not to pressure him to, as had Merlin, but since returning to Camelot he’d not cracked a single joke – not even to mask his pain.
Half-reclined against the headboard and with his hair braided back off his face, Gwaine was painted in the daylight fighting against the rain. Lancelot, having spent most of his time pressed against Gwaine, hadn’t been granted such an interrupted view of his entire body since he had laid him across Kilgharrah’s back. Above his shirt, the cut on Gwaine’s throat stood out like a statement necklace, dangling dangerously down towards his chest. Lancelot’s hand absent-mindedly caught on the silver necklace at his own throat. He’d offered it to Gwaine after he had been released from Gaius, even beginning to try and unfasten it with one hand, but Gwaine had simply covered the hand with his own. The reason had become apparent mere hours later as Lancelot’s neck had brushed up against Gwaine’s throat and the chain had caught on the thin cut.
Despite not having left their chambers once, Gwaine had been careful to keep a shirt on and the sleeves pulled down. As a consequence, both Lancelot and Merlin struggled to remember just how many injuries he had hidden beneath the material. All Lancelot could recall of their visit to Fyrien was Gwaine’s head dipping beneath the waves, the blood splashing the floor as he had fought Pelleas and Merlin’s tears and trembling hands on the back of Kilgharrah. Lancelot’s mind had completed the tragedy of their deaths in several different ways in Fyrien and he had lain awake every night since, not even the screams of their breathing able to sing him to sleep. It was perhaps a blessing that he was unable to train.
When Lancelot looked at Gwaine again, his clothes were soaking wet. They clung to his body with the same desperation that Lancelot had held him with when he had pulled Gwaine from the water. Beads of water were decorating his hair and dripping from his fingers and Lancelot’s stomach lurched as he lunged towards Gwaine, hand falling to Gwaine’s head. Beneath his fingers, Gwaine’s hair was dry. It was a little greasier than normal but that was to be expected after an endless stream of nightmares and a reinforced fear of water.
At the touch, Gwaine’s eyes had opened. ‘’S’matter?’
‘I’m just worried about you,’ Lancelot softly replied, stroking his thumb over Gwaine’s temple. He hesitated. ‘Is it alright if I kiss you?’
He and Merlin had been careful to seek permission before being intimate with Gwaine. Whereas much of their relationship thus far had been trying to outdo one another in catching each other off-guard with quick kisses, neither of them had wanted to inadvertently injure Gwaine further. Gwaine nodded, applying pressure to Lancelot’s good shoulder to pull himself up. He grimaced as his abdomen rippled but severed the beginning of Lancelot’s apology with the weapon of his mouth.
Lancelot steadied him by planting his hand at the base of his spine and closed his eyes as Gwaine’s hands anchored themselves on either side of Lancelot’s face. His lips bore all the muskiness of sleep and Lancelot tried to seize it with his tongue to force the elixir of rest down his throat. Gwaine’s hands were travelling down his body, gliding over the muscles in his chest, and halted at the scar from the griffin. Lancelot’s neck arched instinctively at the touch but, remembering that Gwaine had a festering wound in the same place, he pulled away.
The scar had always fascinated Gwaine. When the three of them would lie together, he liked to take Merlin’s hand and place his index finger over one of the lines, doing the same with Lancelot’s hand and then fixing his own finger on the third mark. They would all contemplate it, remaining still, for several moments before their thumbs inevitably found each other and their hands became entwined on the surface of Lancelot’s abdomen. Lancelot doubted that the same would ever be done with the wound above Gwaine’s hip.
As Lancelot’s lips parted to speak, the door swung open. ‘Tell me I’m the best partner in Camelot, because I’ve secured dumplings,’ Merlin announced, closing the door behind him with his hip.
He was carrying two plates and a covered dish in his arms, smiling widely. His hair was damp from the hurried walk from the kitchens and sprung over his forehead like sprigs of heather in the moonlight. Squeezing Gwaine’s hand, Lancelot swung his legs over the edge of the bed and hurried to help Merlin with the food. Even though Merlin had sworn that his ribs had healed – he had a habit of healing much faster than what should be possible, but it was something that both Gwaine and Lancelot were constantly appreciative of – Lancelot knew that he had to carry around enough heavy objects as part of his job without doing it out of love for him and Gwaine, too. Merlin, however, swept the dish out of Lancelot’s reach and put it on the table himself, glancing towards Gwaine.
The smile on his face dropped faster than a sudden downpour of rain. Gwaine’s shirt had fallen back down when he had kissed Lancelot, but the entrails of his dressing were spread across the sheets. ‘What’s happened?’
The responses from Gwaine and Lancelot were simultaneous and contradictory.
‘Nothing.’
‘Gwaine’s got an infected wound.’
Looking between them, Merlin’s mouth gathered into a thin line and he crossed the room in three strides, perching on the bed. ‘May I?’ he asked, glancing up at Gwaine with his hands hovering by the hem of his shirt.
Gwaine stiffly nodded, head barely moving. Merlin lifted the bottom of his shirt, holding it in place against Gwaine’s chest, and swore softly. Pressing a kiss to Gwaine’s palm and one on Lancelot’s cheek as he passed, he swiftly withdrew from the room without another word to either of them. Watching the door fall shut behind him after catching a mutter that involved Gaius’s name, Lancelot separated the plates and removed the lid of the dish, dividing the dumplings in silence. They caught his fingertips with fiery tongues and his eyebrows drew together in response before he balanced the plates on one hand and walked slowly towards Gwaine.
‘Can we—’ Gwaine cleared his throat and pulled himself towards the edge of the bed. ‘Can we eat by the window? I need some air.’
Lancelot answered by sharply changing direction. Setting down the plates on the window seat, he quickly returned to Gwaine’s side and offered a hand to help him up. It was gently rejected as Gwaine swung his legs over the side of the bed and uncertainly stood. Lancelot remained at his side, should his balance be compromised, and kept his eyes on him. The last time Gwaine had been on his feet unsupported, he had had a knife sticking out of him. When Lancelot’s eyes dropped down to Gwaine’s abdomen, he could see a wooden handle pinning the shirt in place and his hand leapt towards Gwaine, eyes searching his face for any sign of pain.
His gaze was met only with confusion and Gwaine caught his fingers between his own. ‘What’s wrong?’
Blinking, Lancelot glanced at his abdomen once again. There was no knife buried in Gwaine. ‘Nothing. I thought I saw something, that’s all. I didn’t mean to worry you, sorry.’
Gwaine hesitated before taking a step towards Lancelot and resting his feverish forehead against his partner’s. His sweat anointed Lancelot’s brow and Lancelot closed his eyes only for a moment, fingers contracting around Gwaine’s hand. Then, as a leaf carried serenely downstream, Gwaine slipped from his grip and settled on one end of the window seat.
Following, Lancelot seated himself opposite him and passed over one plate. Gwaine was leaning against the wall and had pushed the window open further, looking out onto the courtyard. Although his face was turned fully towards the window, his head was pulled back from the casement. The downpour had subsided but spitting rain could feel much like spray from the sea, especially if it entered at an angle, and Lancelot reached out to knock against Gwaine’s ankle with his own. In the process of lifting a dumpling to his mouth, Gwaine offered Lancelot a weak smile in return.
The cuffs of Gwaine’s sleeves fell down his arms as he ate the dumpling, revealing the leathery scars on his wrists. Lancelot had dismissed them as a change of light, when he’d seen them before Fyrien, even after learning of what the scar on Gwaine’s hand concealed. But after his own hands had scrambled over the manacles, drenched in seawater, that had armoured the scars there, Lancelot had been unable to rid himself of the image of layers of skin peeled back like shredded blades of grass. In the nights he had lain awake, he had watched Gwaine transform into the terrified child he had described in the cell, had witnessed his strength bleed out of him and be transfused with tears. Bruises now decorated Gwaine’s skin like delicate bracelets formed from amethysts and both Lancelot and Merlin had avoided holding his wrists in the desperate manner they always had when holding Gwaine close. There had been many adjustments of how they had touched Gwaine over the past few days.
Merlin and Gwaine had been careful not to touch his shoulder, either. If asked, Lancelot would blame his general sleeplessness on his healing wound – in truth, it certainly did not make things easier. He had caught Merlin looking at it in the candlelight, with shadows falling across his face that Lancelot knew didn’t come from the flimsy illumination. Merlin hadn’t said anything about blaming himself for Lancelot’s wound, but Lancelot had known the expression well enough. He’d worn it himself enough times.
The door opened and drew Lancelot’s gaze away from Gwaine, only for his head to snap back around at a loud clatter of metal on stone. Gwaine’s face had drained of all colour and his plate had fallen to the floor, dumplings rolling towards the bed. His eyes were fixed on Merlin, who was struggling with a bathtub. Lancelot, fighting every instinct to reach for Gwaine and realising that he was rooted to the spot, rushed over to Merlin and took one handle on the tub with his good hand.
There was already water in the bathtub; it sloshed against the sides as Lancelot and Merlin carried it into the middle of the room, threatening to spill over the top. When Lancelot let go of the handle and moved to close the door he could hear Merlin beginning to recite a spell. Standing with one hand on the door in front of him, Lancelot looked over his shoulder. Merlin was kneeling beside the tub, eyes ablaze, and gripping the edge with one hand as the volume of water steadily increased. Creating water was no easy task and usually the three of them all carried a bucket of water they’d manually drawn each – but with Lancelot only having one functioning arm and Gwaine flinching when anything splashed against him, Lancelot could understand why Merlin had only filled some of the tub and was relying on magic for the rest.
Slowly, Lancelot turned around and pressed his back to the door. In ordinary circumstances, he would lock it without hesitation and kneel behind Merlin, his forehead pushed into the space between Merlin’s shoulder blades to feel the magic flowing through him. In ordinary circumstances, Gwaine would be on the other side of the tub and watching them both dreamily, his hand draped over their side for Lancelot to take, knocking against Merlin’s elbow. But the situation was not ordinary and Lancelot was painfully aware of the implications that might spring into Gwaine’s mind if he locked the door, even if it was to prevent anyone walking in and witnessing Merlin performing magic. Instead, he used his body as a bolt as Merlin sat back on his heels, breathing heavily.
Gwaine had flattened himself against the alcove of the wall and was reaching out towards the window frame with one hand. As Merlin began to heat the water gently, Gwaine’s fingers curled around the metal and Lancelot, heart pounding, opened his mouth.
‘Gwaine, my love, come away from the window, please.’ The look that met his was wild, bearing only the faintest flicker of recognition. ‘You’re not locked in, I promise. This is to protect Merlin, that’s all.’
Hearing his name, Merlin looked up. The gold faded from his eyes like the last touch of sunlight and he rose to his feet, giving Lancelot a small nod. ‘Gwaine,’ he said, approaching him slowly as Lancelot moved from the door. ‘Gwaine, look at me.’
The corresponding action from Gwaine was almost mechanical and absent of any feeling. Seeing him so still, Lancelot could almost picture him consumed by the waves once more, hair floating in the water and body crumbling into the rocky ground beneath. As Merlin reached Gwaine and lifted one hand towards his unmoving body, Lancelot stumbled forwards and fell to his knees just beyond the window, body angled towards Gwaine.
‘Gwaine, can I hold your hand?’ Merlin asked softly, trembling palm upturned. ‘You’re in Camelot and I know for a fact Elyan and Percival are sitting out there in the courtyard. If you fall out of that window you’ll never hear the end of it.’
Slowly, Gwaine turned his head to look out of the window. His shoulders sagged slightly and his voice was low. ‘I see them.’
At any other time, Gwaine would have yelled something obscene and incredibly suggestive out of the window, before pulling it shut and collapsing with laughter in front of his bemused partners. As it was, he simply released his hand from the window frame and slid it into Merlin’s palm, allowing Merlin to help him down from the seat and onto the floor.
‘Sorry about the dumplings,’ he muttered, nudging one with his foot.
The three of them watched it trundle across the floor and come to an abrupt halt at the side of the bathtub. ‘It’s alright,’ Merlin replied quietly. ‘Plenty more where they came from.’
Gwaine’s eyes slid across to Lancelot, who was still kneeling at a short distance from him. ‘What’re you doing there?’
‘I didn’t want to crowd you.’ Lancelot responded to the hand lifted in his direction like a call to war and let Gwaine lean into his chest, stroking his forehead with his thumb. ‘I’m sorry for leaving you by the window. It’s just Merlin…’
‘One of the very few drawbacks of having two partners,’ Merlin put in, lifting Gwaine’s hand to his mouth and extending one leg to rest over Lancelot’s. ‘Sometimes you’re caught between them.’
‘Oh, no, being caught between you two is one of the best parts,’ Gwaine said, tugging them both closer towards him. ‘Especially between your mouths.’
Had it not been for the frantic rise and fall of his chest, spurting like blood between his even-toned words, Merlin could have been fooled into thinking that Fyrien had never happened and they were simply spending time together between duties. Lancelot had manipulated his leg to graze Merlin’s hip with his foot and had his lips pressed to Gwaine’s head. Over the past few days, his gaze had been becoming more and more glazed over when he wasn’t involved in conversation and Merlin had noticed the ever-darkening circles beneath his eyes. There had been moments when he had stirred in the night and, in reaching out to check that Gwaine was still breathing, had brushed against Lancelot. His touch had always been met with a violent flinch before the muscles had relaxed and Merlin knew that Lancelot never flinched in his sleep. It was only when he was lost in worries that the gentlest of touches cut through like an enchanted sword. Before, when Lancelot had been unable to sleep and the thoughts hadn’t been debilitating enough to chain him to the sheets, Gwaine or Merlin would wake in the early hours of the morning to find him calmly sketching by candlelight. With his dominant arm out of action, though, Merlin guessed that hadn’t been an option recently.
For now, though, Merlin accepted the small smile sent his way by Lancelot and moved Gwaine’s hand over his own heart. Grasping his meaning, Gwaine flattened his palm against Merlin’s chest and tried to match his own breaths to Merlin’s pulse. The endeavour was reinforced by Lancelot’s touch on Gwaine’s skin, sweeping over his forehead with every inhalation and taking the same path with each exhalation. They remained like that, silent and shaking, until Gwaine’s breath was a steady melody.
When Merlin spoke, it was with a soft tone. ‘I’ve got a salve from Gaius to help combat the infection, but the wound needs washing.’ Beneath Merlin’s hand resting on his arm, Gwaine stiffened and Merlin closed his eyes. ‘I know, I know.’
‘I can’t go in there,’ whispered Gwaine. ‘I can’t.’
‘You haven’t washed since everything that happened,’ Merlin weakly reasoned. The memory of Gwaine scrambling out of bed when Merlin had accidentally spilt water from his goblet on him, of him hyperventilating against the wall and then holding Merlin and Lancelot’s hands with enough force to break the bones in them, was more vivid in his mind than the first execution he’d witnessed. ‘I’m worried that other things might get into the wound.’
Gwaine remained silent, chest heaving once again, and Merlin rested his forehead against his temple. The last thing he wanted to do was force Gwaine into the water, but he had no idea what he was going to do if Gwaine didn’t enter of his own accord. They could always wipe him down with a damp cloth and hope that would be successful. In an ideal world, Merlin would have been able to add some herbs to prove that no salt lurked in the water, but he had been wary of adding anything that might worsen Gwaine’s condition.
Merlin was alerted to Lancelot standing when his leg dropped to the floor and opened his eyes, pulling his head away from Gwaine’s temple. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Taking a bath,’ replied Lancelot, shimmying out of his trousers.
They were dropped to the floor and Lancelot eased his sling over his head with a wince. He threw it towards the table and approached the bathtub, pinching the edge with his good hand as he clambered in. Understandably, the three of them hadn’t been intimate to the point of nudity for a longer period than was usual and the flippancy with which Lancelot had undressed had left Merlin feeling a little dazed. When he turned towards Gwaine, his partner was still breathing heavily but with his mouth agape.
Lancelot leaned against the inside of the bathtub, head resting on the forearm folded on the edge, and smiled gently at them both. He could have been a siren supported by rocks, enticing sailors to a watery grave with sweet words, and Gwaine’s necklace caught the diluted daylight like the sun on the sea as he spoke. ‘Excellent job with the temperature, Merlin.’ His words were thick with affection and, with difficulty, he lifted his right arm to extend a hand outwards. ‘Gwaine, I promise I won’t kick you this time.’
‘You kick him when you bathe?’ Merlin, catching Lancelot’s expression, temporarily reined in his indignation. ‘Right, not the time.’
Ever so slowly, Gwaine was levering himself from the wall. His hand fell from Merlin’s chest, though remained linked, and Merlin hastily stood to help him up. ‘Merlin?’ Gwaine’s voice ran through the syllables of his name like fingers through sand. ‘Could you lock the door?’
Merlin glanced towards it and the key turned without him uttering a single sound. ‘Is there anything else you want me to do?’
‘Take off my clothes,’ Gwaine said steadily, stepping closer to the bathtub. ‘I don’t think my hands will do it.’
He was close enough to Lancelot that the latter’s fingertips could brush against him. Merlin watched them play with the waistband of Gwaine’s trousers, watched Gwaine’s eyelids flutter closed at the touch, and Merlin dropped his hand. As Lancelot tugged on Gwaine’s trousers, Merlin manipulated the hem of his shirt with his hands. His knuckles grazed Gwaine’s ribs as he pushed the fabric over the scabbing torso, jumping over the cut on the top of Gwaine’s chest. Every inch of skin that Merlin found burned his fingertips and his tender touch scraped off a layer of sweat that collected underneath his nails as Gwaine raised his arms.
The trousers that had been at Gwaine’s waist were already pooling around his ankles and the linen shorts that had been underneath were halfway down his thighs. Merlin knew that they should have bathed Gwaine as soon as they had arrived in Camelot, but their main concern had been getting him to Gaius and then making sure the bleeding had stopped. He’d been dressed in garments from Merlin’s room, except for the shorts, and had remained in the same clothes since then.
Easing the shirt over Gwaine’s head, Merlin pressed a kiss beneath the cut on his left cheek and Gwaine opened his eyes. ‘Impressive speed, Lance,’ he shakily said. ‘I don’t think you’ve ever been so desperate to see me naked.’
Suppressing a smile, Merlin dropped the shirt and offered his hand to Gwaine. He kept his gaze averted from the slender gashes across Gwaine’s body, looking instead at the fingers that wrapped themselves around his hand. The scar on Gwaine’s hand bulged like a vein and his other hand fumbled for Lancelot’s as he raised one leg. The grip on Merlin’s hand tightened and the Gwaine’s ring dug into Merlin’s skin as Gwaine plunged his entire foot into the bathtub, closely following with the other. It seemed that his method was getting in as quickly as possible before his brain had a chance to catch up to what was happening.
He remained standing until the water had stilled completely, taking deep breaths in and out. ‘You courageous fuck,’ Merlin breathed as he raised Gwaine’s hand to his lips. ‘Look at you.’
A burst of raspy laughter struggled free from Gwaine’s mouth and he slowly lowered himself into the water, still holding his partners’ hands. ‘Lance was right; you have done an excellent job with the temperature, love.’
Grinning, Merlin knelt down at the side of the tub. Had he not been painfully aware of needing to return to Arthur soon, he would have quite happily climbed in with them both. He’d doused himself in water shortly after returning to Camelot, before Lancelot had bathed and after Gwaine had been tended to, but the smell of smoke still lingered on him. All his efforts of masking it, or scrubbing it off, had been in vain. The fury was still crackling in his heart and the contortions he had felt beneath his hands when Gwaine had slept were nothing but kindling. It would take more than another bath for him to be enveloped in cinnamon, rather than brimstone, again.
Gwaine’s mouth was tight at the corners and he retrieved his hands to hold them near his infected wound. Edging closer, Merlin mimicked the position that Lancelot had been in to persuade Gwaine into the bathtub, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. He could feel the metal leaving an indentation in his arm mere moments after resting it on the edge and, cautiously, Merlin let his other arm dangle over the tub, fingertip making contact with the water.
‘Gwaine?’
‘I’m alright,’ was the soft reply. Gwaine lifted his head and glanced between his partners. ‘As long as I keep my eyes open, I’m okay.’
Like they were a suspended breath of eternity, Lancelot and Merlin remained frozen, despite Gwaine’s reassurance. Bathing with the three of them usually consisted of more water flying outside of the tub than sloshing about in it, with heads bumping against the sides and feet emerging over the edge as they submerged the upper half of their bodies in the water. Well, the heads of Gwaine and Lancelot. If Merlin were to do the same, limbs would be flailing everywhere in the confined space and they’d have to explain a number of bruises to their friends. But playful splashing could quickly transform into choppy waters and Merlin couldn’t help but wonder if the reason why Lancelot was leaning against one end of the tub, rather than wrapping his arms around Gwaine’s back as he usually would, was out of fear that his muscles might harden and become a rough rock face against Gwaine’s skin. Merlin himself was being careful not to brush Gwaine with his finger, lest the spectral touch curled around his limbs as seaweed.
There was a spell, one that Merlin had used only once, and Gwaine had made a complaint about wrinkling skin and had hopped out of the bath when Merlin had used it, that was capable of converting a simple tub of water into a rock pool. It was only an illusion, of course – powerful though Merlin was, conjuring live creatures was something that was significantly advanced – and the starfish that Lancelot had snatched his foot back from had dissolved into the ripples he’d created. Gwaine, although not wanting to be in the bath himself, had watched with a smile through his fingers, sitting backwards on a chair by the edge of the tub. The sun had been setting and, through the open window, had decorated Merlin and Lancelot in jewelled garlands crafted from reflections in the water. The light had ricocheted off their smiles and had bounded towards Gwaine, wrapping him in a decadent cloak of gold when they had looked at him, and Merlin had dispelled the illusion to drag himself to the other side of the bathtub and take Gwaine’s face between his hands. He’d left trails of water running like veins down Gwaine’s throat as he had kissed him and it hadn’t been long before Lancelot’s fingers tangled themselves in his hair, dampening the ends.
Merlin could see Lancelot’s fingers outstretched in Gwaine’s direction, despite being held firmly beneath the surface of the water, and they lurched forwards as Gwaine slowly sank down. Gwaine closed his palm around them as his head was submerged. His eyes remained open and the ends of his braid drifted outwards like the tentacles of a jellyfish. For the briefest of moments, he was ethereally serene. Then he broke through the surface of the water, gasping violently and still clutching Lancelot’s hand.
‘That—That should do it,’ he choked out, turning his body to collapse against Lancelot. As he leaned his head back on Lancelot’s uninjured shoulder, he lifted his arm to take Merlin’s hand. ‘And hopefully means the pair of you will stop tiptoeing around me.’
Pushing his finger into the water, Merlin avoided his gaze. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Come off it, Merlin, nine times out of ten if my kit is coming off then you two have something to say about it,’ Gwaine replied through heavy breaths.
‘You wanting us to come off is also rather unusual,’ Lancelot quietly said, corner of his mouth twitching.
Gwaine turned his head to smile up at Lancelot, clumsily catching his jaw with his mouth. ‘Now, that’s more like it. I appreciate how careful you’ve been with me,’ he continued, tightening his grip around Merlin’s hand as his gaze returned to him, ‘I really do, but I’m done with being scared. You struggled up stairs with a half-filled bathtub. Lancelot strained his shoulder when persuading me to get in. I’ve let this’ – the hand that wasn’t holding Merlin’s splashed through the water – ‘hurt you both too much already.’
Slowly, Merlin looked towards him. His eyes drifted over the heavy rise and fall of Gwaine’s chest, of the fist closed beneath the water, of the closeness of Gwaine’s face to Lancelot’s neck. ‘You’re still terrified.’
The hand that had sat in Merlin’s palm was withdrawn and Gwaine’s limbs curled into his torso, face buried in the knees drawn to his chest. It was then that Gwaine made the mistake of closing his eyes and the gentle motion of the water, disturbed by his movement, pummelled his skin like the soft lap of waves at low tide. His hands shot out either side of him, hitting metal, and he tightly gripped the edges of the tub as he opened his eyes. When he looked at Merlin, the concerned expression on his face morphed into one streaked with tears in a silvery light and the fingers, belonging to Lancelot, that feathered down Gwaine’s cheeks had the potential to grip him desperately, just as they had before Gwaine had been dragged to sea. Fyrien would haunt him for months, if not years, to come, but he was tired of feeling like he was trying to fight an enemy underwater.
He had seen the glassy glances of his partners in the candlelight, when they thought he was tuned out of the world they’d crafted from blankets and entangled limbs, and he’d had enough of causing them pain. He wanted to hear them laugh again, wanted to watch them fight pettily over who got to wear one of Gwaine’s shirts, wanted them to touch him like he wasn’t made of cobwebs encrusted with morning dew.
‘I’m still terrified,’ he finally said, staring into the water, ‘but I’m trying.’
Trying not to break things further . Wanting nothing more than to close his eyes again, Gwaine instead reinforced his grip on the edge of the tub. For the past few days, as he had noticed the way that the hands of Merlin and Lancelot had barely felt that they were resting on his body at all, Gwaine had been trying to swallow down the one thought that would drown him more violently than the sea if it was granted an audience with his heart. Still, it crept closer than either of his partners on the fringes of the night, stealing beneath the sheets to nestle against his chest like Lancelot used to, and it was the first thing that Gwaine woke up to in the morning. And, when Merlin had only taken his hand and Lancelot had remained at a distance from him yet had both so casually strewn their legs over each other, it hadn’t been difficult to believe that the reason they had both been acting so cautiously with him was because they were placing themselves at a distance. They were placing themselves at a distance – from him – in preparation to leave him completely. They were weaning themselves off him and trying to encourage him to do the same, so he hadn’t dared to initiate any intimacy in case their hands would only touch the air around him. They’d perhaps remain with him long enough for some of the damage of Fyrien to be healed, then would cut him loose in the same way that supplies were thrown overboard to lighten a ship’s load in battle.
Sometimes, despite all best efforts, fragments didn’t always form a fresh mosaic.
Lancelot’s voice curled around his ear. ‘Don’t push yourself into things you’re not ready for yet, love.’
Lifting his head, Gwaine’s eyes darted towards Lancelot’s mouth. His heart was hammering at the possibility of rejection, but the words left his lips all the same. ‘Right now, all I want to push myself into is you and Merlin.’
A surprised snort came from his left and his head snapped towards Merlin, who had a light in his eyes that Gwaine hadn’t seen for days. ‘You want me in there, too?’
Knowing that the water would have no chance of remaining still if all three of them were wedged in the tub, but also knowing that he had never been in any other water but domestic with both Merlin and Lancelot pressed against him, Gwaine grasped Merlin’s shirt with one hand, tugging him closer. ‘Why the hell not?’
When he kissed Merlin, the hand that had been dangling over the water jumped to the small of Gwaine’s back, just beneath the dip of the curved cut splitting his skin. Merlin’s fingers were long enough to nearly span the entirety of his back, slotting against Gwaine’s ribcage, and Gwaine was held steady between Merlin’s hand and Merlin’s mouth, caught between them like the moon entangled in a web of stars.
The hand that had been gripping the other side of the tub had long since dropped into the water, his arm limp, and Gwaine could feel Lancelot’s arm snaking slowly beneath his armpit and around his body, brushing Merlin’s elbow as he aimed for Gwaine’s unblemished hip. Lancelot’s mouth was at the bone behind Gwaine’s ear and he pulled Gwaine into his lap in one confident move. Gwaine’s back collided with his chest as Lancelot’s fingers dusted the sensitive skin beneath Gwaine’s hip and Gwaine was wrenched from Merlin’s mouth by a gasp. His eyes closed and he could feel the water smacking against his body but it didn’t matter, none of it mattered, because Lancelot’s hand was migrating to his crotch and his other hand was pushed against Gwaine’s sternum and Merlin’s fingers were still wedged between them both.
Raising the hand that had been drifting in the water, Gwaine twisted his fingers in Lancelot’s hair as Merlin’s arm slid out from between them, his hand prising Gwaine’s from his shirt. Gwaine let him go, more assured in his imminent return than he had been for days, and, as Lancelot’s lips travelled along the tendon in his neck to kiss the part of his collarbone at his shoulder, he rolled the lower half of his torso against Lancelot. The effect was instantaneous; Lancelot let out a low groan and straightened his legs, slamming against the opposite side of the bathtub.
Gwaine was faintly aware of a movement from beneath his body – that had nothing to do with Lancelot – and opened his eyes at a laughing cry from Merlin. ‘Watch the tub!’
He was shirtless and firmly gripping the bath, arms stretched out, with an irredeemable grin on his face. Faint bruises freckled his chest around the thick scar in the centre and a scab adorned the bottom of his throat, but there were no other indicators of any hurt suffered at the hands of Anselm.
Gwaine smiled at him as he pulled away to remove his boots and sharply inhaled as Lancelot skimmed a hand down his inner thigh. ‘Did you think I’d forgotten about you?’ he murmured, twisting beneath the touch and dropping his hand to face Lancelot.
Taking Gwaine’s waist between his hands, Lancelot leaned his head back over the side of the tub and thrust his hips forward so Gwaine could straddle him. ‘No, I was just enjoying touching you.’
The position Gwaine was in was pulling on his stitches but he was finding it difficult to bring himself to care. ‘If you were enjoying it,’ he softly said, crafting a chain of delicate kisses beneath his necklace hanging around Lancelot’s throat, ‘then don’t let me stop you.’
Softly, slowly, Lancelot’s hand skittered down Gwaine’s body and anchored themselves on his thighs, thumbs rubbing concentric circles on his skin. Allowing his back to arch for only a moment, Gwaine wove one arm beneath Lancelot’s to hold his head, his other hand running up and down Lancelot’s spine as their mouths met. Before, when they’d kissed, Lancelot had been desperately catching Gwaine’s lip with his tongue. Now, as Gwaine rolled his body again, Lancelot seemed to be falling apart in Gwaine’s arms. He tasted of the dumplings Merlin had brought them – or perhaps that was Gwaine, but he couldn’t tell where Lancelot ended and he began – and when Gwaine’s hand hitched over the spot between his shoulder blades, the grip on Gwaine’s thighs tightened and Gwaine could feel his legs loosening. His hand had broken from Lancelot’s head and Lancelot had slid further down the side of the bath, the water reaching his sternum. His hands held Gwaine inches aloft as they broke away and his ears ignored the weak protests concerning his shoulder as Gwaine changed his position to plant his knees either side of him.
‘You being mostly underwater makes it very difficult for me to get to you,’ said Gwaine, hands roaming his chest, nails skimming on the base of his own necklace glittering against Lancelot’s skin.
Lancelot smirked. ‘Perhaps that’s the idea.’
There was a surge of water as Gwaine opened his mouth to reply. ‘Oh! The water has gone cold,’ Merlin remarked, slotting behind Gwaine.
‘I’m sure it’ll get steamy soon enough,’ Lancelot said, winding one leg around the back of Merlin’s knee.
Gwaine was about to move to make room for Merlin when Merlin’s hands shot past Lancelot’s and abruptly planted themselves on the tendon at the very top of his inner thigh. The pressure they emitted ebbed and flowed in the only waves that Gwaine would allow to touch him, matched by Lancelot’s grip, and Gwaine slowly rose on his knees out of the water. His hands curled around Lancelot’s forearms as his neck collided with Merlin’s shoulder, whole body trembling. Their fingers were close, so close , to the place that would wipe all memory of Fyrien from Gwaine’s mind.
Lancelot was the one who reached it first. His hands glided up Gwaine’s thighs and his thumbs and index fingers formed a triangle on Gwaine’s crotch that gently contracted at regular intervals, running along the skin. Merlin was rubbing the tendon enthusiastically, now, and catching Gwaine’s jaw with his mouth. The last thing Gwaine saw before he surrendered entirely to them both was the muscles of Lancelot’s abdomen rippling as he lifted himself up.
It was when Merlin’s hand dropped so that he could wrap his arms around Gwaine’s waist, gently rolling his body in the same manner that Gwaine had with Lancelot, that Gwaine collapsed against him completely. He fumbled blindly for Lancelot, trying to keep the desperate grabs limited to Lancelot’s good arm, who responded reflexively. As his hands withdrew from Gwaine, his chest fell against Gwaine’s and he took his waist with one hand and Merlin’s back with the other. When Gwaine opened his eyes, Lancelot and Merlin were kissing over his shoulder.
Grazing them both with his fingers, Gwaine heavily exhaled with a smile. He’d missed them, desperately, and when his gaze flickered towards the bed it was empty of the form he’d entwined his body with for the past few nights. Merlin and Lancelot either side of him, like this, was the polar opposite of distance and their eagerness for intimacy, as soon as Gwaine had made it clear he wanted it, proved him wrong. He could feel them roaming one another’s bodies around him and his smile widened, eyes closing again.
The water had stilled and, free from distractions for the moment, the stench of salt wound its way up his nose. Muscles tensing like warriors bracing for battle, Gwaine’s hands dropped to his sides and his eyes opened. He was still in their chambers and was still contained within a metal tub; he was not a piece of debris bobbing on the waves and the salt was clinging to the skin pressed against him. It was from Merlin and Lancelot, not his doom.
‘Hey.’ Lancelot had broken away from Merlin and was brushing the hair out of Gwaine’s eyes. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Yeah, it was just the salt in the sweat…’
Lancelot and Merlin simultaneously sniffed themselves and Merlin’s hand found Gwaine’s forehead. ‘Gwaine, I think that’s you.’
‘Oh.’ Aware of the coolness of the water around his knees, Gwaine steadied himself against Merlin and Lancelot as he pushed himself to his feet. ‘Merlin, do you think you could pass me the jug on the table, please?’
The jug flew into Merlin’s hands without him moving from the bath and he lifted it up towards Gwaine. Bracing himself, Gwaine raised the jug and tipped it upside down over his head. The water it contained was not as cold as Gwaine had been anticipating, but after experiencing the warmth of Lancelot and Merlin it was enough to snatch the breath from him. If he remained still for too long then the steady dripping of water from his body would herald another wave crashing over him. Through the water streaming down his face, the world around him was blurred and he could easily believe that he was ensnared in a rock pool, brushing up against wet rocks as the tide approached him as a shy maiden wishing to dance. If he remained still for too long then the calluses on the hands grazing his body would become barnacles that threatened to claim him for their own. If he remained still for too long, suspended between fear and reality, then he wouldn’t be able to move.
Still clutching the jug, Gwaine stepped out of the bath and walked towards a towel hanging over the door of the wardrobe. A splashing sound alerted him to a similar exit from Merlin and Lancelot and the jug was taken from his hand. As Gwaine wrapped the towel around his shoulders, two more shot out from the wardrobe and, when he turned around, both Merlin and Lancelot had secured their own around their waists.
‘Pity,’ Gwaine murmured. ‘If you’d carried on, you know I wouldn’t have minded.’
Drawing near, Merlin kissed his temple. ‘We know. But, right now, you’re our main concern.’
Lancelot had retrieved his sling and was tugging it over his head with a grimace. Gwaine and Merlin both started forwards to assist him but he waved them away with a smile. ‘I’m fine. Did you manage to find something to help with Gwaine’s infection, Merlin?’
‘What infection?’ Gwaine asked lightly. ‘Could an infected person do what we’ve just done?’
‘I’d like to remind you of the condition Lancelot was in after you were both officially knighted,’ Merlin said, having left Gwaine to rummage around in the pockets of his jacket.
Lancelot scowled, taking Gwaine’s body in one arm after the question of his fingertips on Gwaine’s shoulder was answered with a quick kiss. ‘I was fine .’
‘You neglected to mention that the ceremonial sword had damaged your stitches until after you’d let both of us—Well, you remember,’ Merlin replied, straightening with a spark in his eyes and a small jar in his hand.
Gwaine traced the lines on the joints of Lancelot’s fingers. He could still remember the grass between his fingers and the earth beneath his nails, the gasping melody that had come from Lancelot’s lips, the jolts of lightning that seemed to come from Merlin whenever they had brushed against each other. ‘I’d like to do that again,’ he quietly said.
Lancelot, who had rested his chin on Gwaine’s shoulder, turned his head towards his neck. ‘What, have sex on the battlements?’
‘No. Well, yes. I just meant the part afterwards, where we just watched the stars.’
He and Lancelot had argued over the constellations as Merlin had shaken his head at them both, drawing their bodies close to him beneath the cloak they’d draped over themselves. Somewhere between seeking out scip-steorra and the tendrils of dawn they’d fallen asleep together, rising with the sun and before they could be spotted by guards. It had been the first night Gwaine had slept peacefully and without feeling like he had been back with Jarl. Since then, he’d grown used to – and even appreciative of – the four pristine walls that surrounded him at night, but he had a suspicion that was more to do with the warm buffer of Merlin and Lancelot beside him than anything else.
‘We can do that,’ Merlin said, walking past Gwaine and Lancelot. ‘Though maybe when you’ve recovered.’
‘We did it when Lancelot had a fucked shoulder,’ Gwaine pointed out.
‘Lancelot always seems to have a fucked shoulder, so that’s not a valid argument,’ Lancelot drily said as he guided Gwaine towards the bed, where Merlin was hovering. ‘But if you need some fresh air, we can go outside later, if you like.’
Perching on the end of the bed, Gwaine hesitated. It was still spitting outside and the grey sky looked hauntingly like stormy waves. He flinched as Merlin drew away the towel from his wound and popped the lid off the jar with one hand. Lancelot wrapped his arm around Gwaine’s shoulders, fingers holding back the towel to prevent it knocking against Merlin, and Gwaine looked towards the window again as Merlin applied the salve to his wound. It was cool against his skin, like the brush of morning dew on exposed ankles, and Gwaine leaned back into Lancelot’s good shoulder. Camelot was nowhere near the sea, he couldn’t afford to forget that.
‘I’d like to go outside later.’ His eyes flitted back to Merlin. ‘I don’t suppose, by some miraculous stroke, you’ve got the afternoon off?’
Merlin snorted. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. Having said that’ – wiping the excess salve on his towel, Merlin replaced the lid on the jar and gently cupped Gwaine’s cheek – ‘Arthur is more concerned about you than he’d ever let on, so if I asked him and said you needed the air, I’m sure he wouldn’t have a go.’
‘I can talk to him, if you like,’ offered Lancelot, reaching out for Merlin’s other hand.
Their fingers entwined over Gwaine’s knee, the gentle manoeuvres rippling through the towel. ‘You don’t have to do that,’ Merlin said. ‘I can handle it.’
‘I know. But I’m in a sling so I’m significantly harder to say no to.’
‘Not wrong there,’ murmured Gwaine, before mustering more gusto into his voice. ‘And if he says no to Lancelot, then I’ll put him in a sling.’
As Lancelot shook his head with a small smile, Merlin pressed a kiss to Gwaine’s forehead. ‘One, I’m not sure that you’re in a fit condition to go around putting anyone in slings. Two, that’s sweet of you but violence is not always the answer.’
‘It seems to be the answer you reach when you put together an aggressive inconvenience and a hard wall.’
‘He’s got a point there,’ Lancelot said, dropping a kiss to Gwaine’s temple.
Merlin scowled. ‘Sometimes it’s a tree.’
‘Different values, same result.’ Gwaine was smirking, now. ‘Anyway, we can attack without—No, I suppose attacking the regent would probably still bear the risk of execution.’
‘Nobody is attacking anybody,’ Merlin cut in, dropping his partners’ hands to smile at them fondly as he leaned against the bedpost. ‘Besides, I brought Arthur his food before bringing yours, so he won’t be as grouchy as he can be before he’s eaten.’
‘Still, I’ll be the one to talk to him,’ announced Lancelot firmly, dragging his fingertips across Gwaine’s shoulders as he stood. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’
Merlin and Gwaine turned to exchange a look of amusement as Lancelot moved towards the door. ‘You’re going to ask Arthur to give me the afternoon off dressed like that?’ called Merlin.
Glancing down at himself, Lancelot suppressed a laugh and pushed down the top of the towel over one hip, popping the same leg out to the side. He looked over his shoulder, tongue between his teeth, with a quirked eyebrow. ‘You mean to say that this won’t work wonders in persuading Arthur?’
‘Your powers of seduction are unfailing with us, but Arthur is blindingly in love with another,’ Merlin warmly replied.
‘Unfailing, are they?’ Lancelot took one slow step further away form them, still looking over his shoulder, his hips lifting. Concentrated on keeping his partners’ attention on him, he walked straight into something soft and looked down. ‘Well, that takes the shine off the seduction.’
His foot had landed in the dumpling that had rolled towards the bathtub earlier. Ignoring the barely concealed laughter from Gwaine and the grin Merlin was hiding behind his fingers, Lancelot perched on the edge of the tub and lifted his foot to peel away the squashed dumpling. In trying to get out a bit of dough between his toes, Lancelot adjusted the balance of weight in his body to remain stable – the bath, however, did not remain stable. As Lancelot leaned forwards, the bath leaned with him and they both crashed to the floor.
Water spread across the flagstones like a bloodstain and Lancelot was left in the middle of it, legs akimbo, his towel slowly growing darker as it soaked up the moisture. ‘Wonderful.’
His arm had come free from the sling and, returning it, he pushed himself up with one hand as his partners approached him. As Merlin set about clearing the mess before water began to drip down through cracks near the wall, Gwaine swallowed back his laughter and placed his own towel around Lancelot, who dropped his drenched one to the floor. ‘Maybe I should be the one to talk to Arthur.’
Lancelot looked him up and down, eyebrows threatening to disappear into his hairline. ‘Like that? Naked and feverish?’
‘Lance is right; you should be sitting down,’ Merlin said, turning the bath the right way up on the dry floor.
‘I’m fine.’ In truth, the ache of his body that Gwaine had put down to the stress of Fyrien had not been mitigated by the warmth of either the water or Merlin and Lancelot. ‘Anyway, I’ve got an irresistible glow about me.’
Pausing to push the hair off Gwaine’s forehead, Lancelot took his hand and tugged him towards the wardrobe. ‘That’s called sweat.’ He pulled out several items of clothing, not bothering to take note of whether they belonged to him or Gwaine, and glanced sideways at Gwaine. ‘Do you need help getting them on?’
Gwaine’s lips brushed Lancelot’s jaw as he took the clothes with his spare hand. ‘I’ll be fine. Thank you.’
He retreated to the bed as Lancelot withdrew a pair of linen shorts and stepped into them – Gwaine had felt a firm breeze when he had been sitting by the window and he knew that, after months alone with the frost, Lancelot hated getting cold. Merlin had already dressed – his clothes had narrowly avoided the flood – and was miming tossing something to the side. His head followed the movement and he knocked against Gwaine, who was bending over to put on a pair of his own shorts, in the effort to retrieve a boot that had skidded beneath the bed. Feeling himself falling, Gwaine shot out one hand and grabbed the bedpost, saving himself from hitting the flagstones but with the price of his backside hanging out over the top of his shorts. All things considered, there were more embarrassing positions to be in.
His hands slid down the bedpost and he lowered himself to the ground, hoisting up his shorts. Merlin was halfway under the bed and Lancelot was trying to drop Percival’s shirt over his head, but kept mistaking the arm holes for the head hole. Against his cheek, the flagstones were cool and Gwaine allowed a little peace to wash over him. Lying there, with his eyes darting between Merlin’s legs – the only part of him currently visible – and Lancelot’s flailing arm, he could almost persuade himself that the past few days hadn’t happened. It felt more like the mornings when they had accidentally risen late and had scrambled over each other to get dressed at the same time. More than once had Lancelot ended up in Merlin’s jacket and Merlin in one of their gambesons, or Gwaine in a shirt that almost plunged to his stomach and without strings to preserve his modesty. They never had determined if that had been one of Lancelot’s or one of Merlin’s with the string removed. Those mornings were all sunlight and soft kisses and, though there wasn’t currently much sunlight, Gwaine had received plenty of soft kisses.
Lancelot had succeeded in shoving his head through the correct hole and had changed into a fresh pair of trousers, having drowned the ones he’d been wearing before in bathwater. The hem of his shirt, reaching his knees, billowed in the slight breeze and Gwaine spoke over Merlin’s cursing as he wriggled further under the bed. Apparently it hadn’t occurred to him to use magic. ‘You look like you’re wearing a tent, Lance.’
‘Yes, but I don’t think Percival would appreciate me taking a pair of Gwen’s scissors to it,’ Lancelot said as he softly approached him.
Gwaine pushed the back of his head into the floor to watch Lancelot upside down. ‘Elyan would.’
Shaking his head with a grin, Lancelot squatted down and spoke in a whisper. ‘What are you doing down here?’
‘I got knocked over,’ Gwaine replied in the same tone, keeping his gaze fixed on Lancelot even as the latter’s eyes slid from him, having quickly swept over Gwaine’s body to ascertain that he had no further injuries, over to Merlin’s bare feet.
He could recognise the spark that lurked there and grinned as Lancelot kissed his forehead on his way past him. Without a single word being exchanged between them, Lancelot knelt down on one side of Merlin’s feet as Gwaine spun towards him. Simultaneously, they grasped an ankle each and pulled.
‘Hey, hey!’ Merlin cried, sliding along the floor on his stomach. His shirt was riding up his torso and, laughing, he twisted onto his back when Gwaine and Lancelot dropped his ankles. ‘What was that for?’
‘Fun.’ Lancelot dropped a kiss to Merlin’s lips before swiftly catching Gwaine’s mouth with his tongue. ‘Now I really do have to speak to Arthur. Don’t wreak too much havoc without me,’ he added with a grin when he reached the door, one hand on the key.
‘You’re the one who stepped in a dumpling and knocked over the bath,’ Gwaine reminded him, propping himself up against the bed, as Merlin stifled another laugh.
Lancelot removed his hand from the key. With his elbow, he held the hem of the shirt against his back and pulled on the waistband of his trousers. ‘Speaking of, have I started to bruise?’
At the sight of Lancelot’s bare buttocks, Merlin was unable to contain his laughter any longer. He curled up against Gwaine’s leg, shaking with the intensity of his mirth, and Gwaine placed a hand on his shoulder. His cheeks were beginning to ache, but he knew it was nothing to do with the fever. ‘Your buttocks are beautifully bruiseless, my love.’
Snapping the waistband of his trousers, Lancelot turned the key with a wink thrown casually over his shoulder. ‘Thank you, my love. Merlin, I’ll pretend I can’t hear you laughing to preserve my self-esteem.’
Merlin raised a hand in acknowledgement as Lancelot slipped through the door, unable to summon the breath to string together a sentence. Leaning his head against the mattress, Gwaine looked down at him with a gentle smile as his fingers dusted the top of his spine. The motion seemed to calm Merlin and, eventually, he had recovered enough to take deep, even breaths.
‘Why were you on the floor?’
‘Fell over,’ Gwaine said, resisting the urge to close his eyes as Merlin’s voice harmonised with a new touch on his wrist as Merlin’s fingers closed loosely around it.
‘Are you alright?’
‘Yeah, I caught myself before hitting the ground.’
Gwaine leaned down to kiss the top of Merlin’s head before pushing himself up with some difficulty. Now that he wasn’t relying on the distraction of laughter, his muscles were tending towards weariness. Stiffly, he pulled on the clothes that Lancelot had handed to him. The trousers could have belonged to either of them – but given the subtle scattering of grass stains, Gwaine would place his bet on them being his own – but the white shirt, with the opening dipping below his sternum, was most definitely Lancelot’s. It revealed the slender cut across the top of his chest and Gwaine tied the strings at the the neck of the shirt. He could have changed into one of his own, marginally more modest, shirts, but he liked having something of Lancelot’s protecting his heart. He wouldn’t have minded something of Merlin’s either, but he wasn’t about to strip his partner naked to feel close to him when Merlin’s limbs were right there.
Supporting himself against the bedpost, Gwaine’s fingers dangled down over the edge of the bed. Merlin’s fingertips brushed against them before his wrist glided along them, then his arm, until Gwaine’s hand was resting on his thigh and Merlin was sitting beside him. ‘I know you usually use it on special occasions only, but do want some rosemary oil in your hair?’
‘I’d say being back here with you and Lancelot is a special occasion,’ Gwaine softly said.
The door of the cupboard by the window flew open and a small bottle whizzed into Merlin’s hand. It was reckless, with the unlocked door, but it had meant that Gwaine was able to keep his hand on Merlin’s thigh. Magic could be a very useful thing, particularly when the three of them were tangled up together and too comfortable to have the motivation to move. Wordlessly, Gwaine shuffled around to press the bottom of his spine against Merlin’s now crossed legs.
A gasp seemed to come from Gwaine’s hair as Merlin untied the string at the end of his braid and the tension at his scalp stumbled. Deftly, Merlin combed his fingers through the thick strands, breathing apologies when they caught on knots from the seawater and wind, until Gwaine could feel the ends grazing his shoulders. There was a pause before Merlin’s fingers were in his hair again, this time eddying gently down from his roots. As the scent of rosemary wafted towards him, Gwaine closed his eyes and let his head tilt back further into Merlin’s hands. He and Lancelot liked to take it in turns to do this when Gwaine decided to put rosemary oil in his hair. Merlin was always meticulous in his application, ensuring it was evenly distributed and dragging a fine-toothed comb through Gwaine’s hair at least twice afterwards. Now, though, he was attempting Lancelot’s approach: relying on naked touch alone and feathering his fingers beneath the layers of hair again and again in a manner that was pleasurable for them both.
Gradually, Merlin’s fingers slowed and slid down to Gwaine’s shoulder blades as his mouth skimmed the base of his neck. ‘Do you want it up again? Or down?’
The palpable absence of tension in his head, after days of having his hair tied back, won out against the wet sensation brushing his cheeks. ‘Down. Merlin?’ The hum of response was communicated to Gwaine through nervous vibrations against his neck more than through an audible sound. ‘How are you?’
‘Glad that you’re seeming a little more yourself.’
Taking the hands that had fallen from his shoulder blades and drawing Merlin’s arms around his waist, a line appeared between Gwaine’s eyebrows. ‘No, you. Just you. Not you influenced by me.’
Merlin was tracing the lines of Gwaine’s lower ribs. ‘I’m actually alright. Better than I have been.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘There’s not much to say,’ Merlin said into Gwaine’s ear, breath warm against his skin. ‘I just struggled being apart from you both when I returned to Arthur. I… I thought I could hear you both like I could when you were in the throne room at Fyrien. Perhaps it’s because the corridors here echo in the same way. I’m fine now, though.’
Gwaine squeezed his hand. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you to hear…’ He swallowed down the rest of his sentence. ‘That place should have been set alight long ago.’
‘It has been now.’ Merlin slotted his forehead against Gwaine’s jaw. ‘It’s nothing but ruins, now.’
Nodding mutely, Gwaine leaned back with Merlin as he propped himself up against the bedpost and extended his legs. There was a subtle cracking from Merlin’s knees and Gwaine smiled in spite of himself, closing his eyes. He focused on the heaviness of Merlin’s hands on him, not the gentleness of a sword’s point skittering across his skin. If only it were as easy to devastate his memories as it had been for Merlin to set Fyrien on fire.
The rise and fall of Merlin’s chest propelled his own breaths and Gwaine inhaled the rosemary in his hair, the cinnamon that seemed to seep from Merlin’s skin, the pungent scent of onion and garlic in the salve on his wound. There was no salt. There was no sweat – well, none that he could smell – and there was no blood. There was the subtlest trace of brimstone, but Gwaine knew where that had come from, and it was nothing to fear. And, after the gentle thud of wood, a ribbon of mint threaded itself around him.
When Gwaine opened his eyes, Lancelot had a jug of water and a cloth in his good hand. The mattress sank as he sat down near Merlin’s legs, setting down the jug on the floor to lift Merlin’s feet onto his lap and run his hand along the dip of Gwaine’s lower leg. Gwaine saw the peace that he had felt when his partners had been trying to dress reflected in Lancelot’s smile and rested one hand on his.
‘Is Merlin free?’ he whispered.
‘Merlin is free,’ Lancelot confirmed. ‘Though I am loath to suggest we go outside when you both look so peaceful.’
‘I’m perfectly happy to remain here,’ Merlin murmured, raising an arm to stroke Gwaine’s hair. He lifted his head, looking directly at Lancelot. ‘Especially because it means you’re more likely to sleep.’
Lancelot’s gaze fell to his lap and Gwaine traced the veins in his wrist. ‘You haven’t been sleeping? Since when?’
‘Since Fyrien.’ Lancelot squeezed his leg and met Merlin’s eyes. ‘I’ve been coping.’
Gwaine could feel the muscles in Merlin’s face arranging themselves into a sceptical expression. ‘Well, you won’t be for much longer if you don’t sleep now.’
‘Right this minute? I don’t want to waste time with you both by sleeping—’
‘It’s not wasting time if you’re looking after yourself,’ Merlin said, muscles relaxing.
‘Besides, I could sleep,’ added Gwaine, glancing up at Merlin. ‘And a little of that never did you any harm, either.’
Smiling, Merlin rested his lips on Gwaine’s forehead. ‘So, sleep session?’
Even as Gwaine hummed contentedly, Lancelot looked unconvinced. ‘I got some water to try and keep Gwaine’s fever down—’
‘Lance.’ Gwaine pressed Lancelot’s hand to his cheek. ‘Stop fretting. I’ll be fine.’ He didn’t have the energy to try and explain how the dampness trickling into his mouth from a cloth on his forehead would be an entirely different sensation to the water in the bath. ‘Come to bed with us.’
Thumb feathering over the stubble on Gwaine’s jaw, Lancelot fell sideways and pushed himself up towards the head of the bed with his feet, pulling the sheets out from underneath him and discarding Gwaine’s bandage from before. Realising that he needed to be on the other side of the bed so his shoulder wasn’t knocking against either of them in their slumber, Lancelot shuffled along as Merlin and Gwaine slithered as one to join him. There was some careful manoeuvring, like they were children weaving ribbons around a maypole on a cool spring day, of limbs and Gwaine found himself wedged between Merlin and Lancelot. Now, when he closed his eyes, he could see them both stripped bare in the bathtub, their scars pressed against his wounds, and he smiled gently.
‘We shouldn’t have really bothered getting dressed,’ he murmured.
‘I don’t know so much,’ Lancelot said, even as the sudden dipping of the mattress to Gwaine’s right indicated he was removing Percival’s shirt. ‘It meant that Arthur asked me if I was intending to return to sleeved garments when my shoulder had healed.’
Merlin’s voice was already thick with sleep, the syllables dripping from his tongue in thick splashes of honey from a comb. ‘And what did you tell him?’
‘I told him that I was, though I was considering giving my calves a bit of air for a change and taking up the hem of my trousers to my knees, if not further.’
There was a delightful shaking from the parts of Merlin that were pressed against Gwaine and a breath of laughter from Lancelot that settled like a blanket over Gwaine’s chest as his fingertips sought out their skin. His lips were pinched in a smile too tight to remark upon Lancelot’s calves being the perfect thing for distracting the enemy if Merlin’s cheekbones failed to do so and his words tucked themselves away in the back of his throat as sleep stole over him with a cool touch.
As Gwaine drifted away from consciousness on a sinking raft, the waves he fell into bore the softness of hair beneath his fingers, the foam a rich laughter on his face, and the glittering surface was nothing but reflected light carried on the wings of butterflies, embossed on two delicate rings. And the seabed that claimed him was nought but cotton sheets and firm muscles, littered with anchors crafted from gentle fingers that touched parts of Gwaine they were no longer scared to reach.