V: Gradual Formation

[deawrites]

cover by fatuorum

Title: Dreams of Future Past (link to all chapters)
Pairings: Arthur/Lancelot, implied Gawain/Galahad(/Tristan)
Rating: Over 16
Dedication: Overall, to sasha_b and the G/G/T bits to andrealyn.
A/N: This fic is an AU fic, based on the idea of reincarnation and past lives. This is a WIP.
Feedback: Everything, including constructive criticism, is very much appreciated.

"Usually, you're either invited out for a drink followed by a fuck in some hotel - or just the drink depending. Invitation right into his home on the first night…" Tristan whistled mockingly. "Either you're good or he's very lonely."



"An invitation to lunch - that's a new one." Tristan flopped onto the sofa next to him, gesturing vaguely at the small card that had been delivered to their door by some man who dressed almost better than they did - and they gathered he was a servant in Arthur's household. "Usually, you're either invited out for a drink followed by a fuck in some hotel - or just the drink depending. Invitation right into his home on the first night…" Tristan whistled mockingly. "Either you're good or he's very lonely."

"Shut up, Tristan." Lancelot rolled his eyes, scanning the card once more before tucking it into the book he'd been reading before pushing himself off the couch. He stretched, yawning slightly, and rubbed his eyes. "I suppose that means I have to get dressed."

He ignored Tristan's sniggering in favour of showering, shaving - and then going through the (very painful) process of choosing something to wear. Nothing seemed right; he didn't want to look too formal - and yet he couldn't look too casual. He settled for a pair of loose, somewhat respectable-looking black trousers, a shirt and a cricket jumper; he tugged it all into some semblance of order. Summer wasn't quite here yet so he grabbed a light jacket and shoved his wallet into his trouser pocket. He was about to leave when he was accosted by Tristan.

He rolled his eyes once more, taking the offered tracker, disguised as a credit card, and slipping that to join the rest of his cards in his wallet. He raised an eyebrow questioningly, as if asking permission to leave - and Tristan simply returned the gesture. Bloody infuriating man.

"Don't worry," were the other man's parting words, "I suspect you won't spend that long in those clothes anyway; I'm sure he'll be only too happy to get them off you."

Lancelot paused long enough to flip a finger at Tristan before disappearing down the stairs just as Patsy opened the door opposite. He sniggered lightly as he heard Tristan stutter out some quick excuse before shutting the door on the curious neighbour - who was still staring after Lancelot. It didn't matter. He had somewhere to be.

For such a large building - and for being the home of such a well-known man, Arthur's house was surprisingly hard to find. That was something Lancelot hadn't expected (he'd sent the servant, who had offered to wait for him, back to tell Arthur that, indeed, Lancelot would take up the invitation); if he'd known that, he would have asked the man to wait. As it was, it took him more time than it should have and, even then, he'd been met on some random corner by one of Arthur's people.

Galahad, if he remembered rightly (from Tristan's files): young-ish, curly-haired with one short temper. By the petulant frown on this one's lips, he knew he'd guessed correctly. He was sitting in the driving seat of a red Ferrari, obviously having wound down the window when he'd spotted Lancelot.

"Get in then," he snapped impatiently. "You're late and Arthur's waiting." Lancelot was also sure he distinctly heard the "and I have other places to be", which he was obviously not meant to hear. He was about to snap back a reply when someone obviously answered the phone and the other man's attention was pulled away from him.

"Yes, I've found him." Galahad used a similar tone on the mobile so, Lancelot guessed (hoped, more like) it wasn't Arthur on the other end. "I'll take him up to the house." He hung up before glaring daggers at Lancelot. "Get in."

Lancelot simply raised an eyebrow, slipping sleekly into the seat next to the younger man's - but had barely shut the door before the annoying brat slammed the accelerator and shot down the road. Bloody infuriating brat. He certainly hoped the ride would be a short one; Arthur's assistant or not, Lancelot could only stand people like this for so long. He resolutely ignored the annoying voice (which sounded more and more like Tristan every time it started talking) in his head that was murmuring bullshit about the attitude being all too familiar.

He resolutely ignored that voice all the way to the house, which (thankfully) wasn't all that long. The car pulled into the driveway, where the servant who had delivered the message earlier opened the car door. Lancelot scowled a little at the small smile on the man's face - but the expression disappeared as his eyes met those of the man leaning against the frame of the magnificent front doors.

"Thank you, Galahad," Arthur murmured to the man in the car, who was busy dialling another number on the mobile, whilst smiling pleasantly at Lancelot, attention only shifting at Galahad's nonchalant wave back. "Thank you, as well, Jols."

The servant nodded, smiling brightly as he shut the door again. Lancelot watched the exchange, rather mystified: he'd never seen a lord so casual with his servants. And then Arthur's hand was on the small of his back, leading him up the steps as, behind him, the car zoomed off into the distance - Lancelot let himself be lead.

The hand on his back was warm (understatement) - no, it was more like fire burning through his clothing or something (overstatement, but Lancelot always liked extremes), it was so noticeable and Lancelot was having a hard time noticing anything else. He was getting a feeling in the pit of his stomach - that the determinedly (stubbornly) tried to label as arousal - or something. Something that wasn't what his body was trying so hard to tell him it was. He tore his attention away from the feeling of Arthur's hand and turned it to the house instead. That was information that would be far more useful for him.

But Lancelot ended up completely stunned at that too. Usually, the houses of these gentry were completely filled with useless junk that cost more than the salaries of all the people in the city (possibly combined), that were gaudy and really, really tasteless (it was usually gold or some bright, flaring colour that made it completely unmissable, covered in some precious jewel or another) and made you want to shield your eyes from the ugliness of it all. There would also, usually, be equally tasteless "art" on the walls and suits of armour, looking really out of place, standing in corners so you felt like you were constantly being watched. Usually. At least, that was the way it was with most of the rich today.

This was completely different. The whole place was tastefully decorated, with not too much and not too little, suggesting quietly at the wealth and prestige of the owner but in a completely understated way. The ornaments were sparse but well placed (and well chosen) and, rather than making the place look bare (as most aristocrats were afraid of, hence the overdoing), it resonated classiness in a way Lancelot had never seen before.

Just like Arthur.

He looked back at the man in question only to find him looking at Lancelot with a small, amused (and undeniably pleased) smile on his lips. His hand was still on Lancelot's back.

"What?" He asked, the word coming out a little more defensive than he would have liked.

"Nothing," Arthur answered, amusement even more obvious in his voice. "I was just waiting for you to finish looking around and, since I know what this part of the house looks like, looking at you is much more interesting."

And it was only then that Lancelot realised he'd stopped moving.

Do not blush. Do not blush. Do not blush. He had a feeling he was failing miserably.

Arthur, thankfully, didn't point it out (although Lancelot was sure he noticed from the slight change in the colour of his eyes…or something). Instead, he murmured "would you like to see the garden? That's where we'll be eating," politely.

Lancelot cleared his throat, trying incredibly hard to keep that blush at bay. "Yes, please. That would be nice."

Arthur's hand - still on his back - guided him in the right direction.

The gardens were every bit as beautiful as the house, in the same "just perfect" kind of way. The table was laid out on the grass in one of the smaller gardens (the rose garden - he'd never admit it to anyone, but Lancelot really loved roses), laid out for two but with enough food to feed an entire army.

"We don't have to finish it," Arthur pointed out with a small laugh (obviously laughing at Lancelot's expression). "The cooks always make too much; this way, they can have the leftovers."

It was the final comment that really stunned Lancelot. Other people he knew, whether very rich or simply rich (and everyone else) would be furious to know that their household was doing that to reap the benefits. Not only wasn't Arthur angry, he let it continue without complaint.

This man…really mystified Lancelot and, contrary to what his instincts - well, common sense more than instinct (he was scarily comfortable in Arthur's presence) - he wanted to know more. "You don't mind that they do that?" He finally voiced out, watching Arthur's reaction.

"Oh heavens no!" There was sincerity in the expression. There was absolutely no hint of Arthur trying to deceive anyone. Frighteningly, Arthur's feelings could be read as easily as Lancelot could read a book - although he didn't doubt that the book would rapidly become something written in hieroglyphics or Chinese or some language with a similar level of difficulty should Arthur want to hide something. "It's only a little bit of food, after all. They work so hard to make it, why shouldn't they get to enjoy it as well?"

Inside his mind, Lancelot's eyebrows furrowed; outwardly, he showed no signs of change. What kind of politician was this Arthur? A good man, yes (obviously) but (or maybe because of that) how on earth did he make a good politician?

Lancelot wasn't quite sure whether this made him wonder why someone wanted Arthur dead - or whether it made it completely understandable and obviously why someone wanted Arthur far, far away from politics.

A hand waved playfully in front of his face - "are you there?" - followed by Arthur's eyes. If there was a wall (and if it wouldn't look psychotically crazy) Lancelot would have gladly hit his head against it. This was not turning out the way it was supposed to - and it was very, very embarrassing.

His eyes finally focused on Arthur's face. "Oh good, there you are." Lancelot could feel that tell-tale hotness that made him certain Arthur was about to get him blushing again - and not in a good way (not that blushing was ever good, he reminded himself). "Thought I'd lost you for a moment there."

"Thought I'd lost you for a moment there!"

"I think, for a moment, you really almost did."

Lancelot shook his head to rid himself of the random thought, wondering where the hell those echoes of almost memories came from. When he finally really focused on reality and on Arthur again, he found him with a small, worried - almost haunted - frown. He was also almost sure Arthur had just shaken his head as well. They both blinked at each other slightly, as if clearing shadows from their minds - before Arthur's infuriatingly thoughtful, sweet smile was back in place.

Lancelot was quickly figuring that Arthur didn't know how to look and be anything but thoughtful; he was now pulling out a chair for Lancelot at the table and waiting for Lancelot to settle before sitting himself. Lancelot would have retorted that he wasn't a woman and, therefore, Arthur didn't need to treat him like one - when Arthur smiled gently, honestly, at him, and the words died in his throat.

He didn't dwell on what that could mean. No. He didn't even want to think about it. Ever, if he could help it.

So naturally, his mind was supplying him with all sorts of things, which he ignored (damn stupid bloody know-it-all Tristan voice). Thankfully, Arthur was offering him various things, explaining what some of the more obscure things on the table were, and Lancelot was soon distracted from that voice by Arthur's much nicer one (the effect of which was slowly spreading like smoke through his veins as well as triggering the reactions of every damn nerve in his body) that seemed to insinuate itself seamlessly into Lancelot's brain.

They talked about pointless, unimportant things. Inevitably, they talked about themselves and their lives - well, Arthur talked and Lancelot mostly listened, only really answering when pressed and, even then, with obscurity and very little detail. His explanation for it, which he didn't think Arthur bought at all, was that he'd had a difficult childhood and didn't like to think about it. Arthur had frowned, opened his mouth to say something - and promptly offered him more wine, eyes still troubled and curious. He was, however, obviously too polite to voice the concerns (which was, possibly, one of those times when Lancelot was infinitely grateful for Arthur's "proper" upbringing).

Somehow, whilst the lies were well-practiced and slipped off his tongue like the truth - used so often (far more often than the truth) that sometimes, he started, once in a while, to get confused as to which was real and which wasn't - he didn't want to tell them to Arthur. Whilst he knew them better than his own real past, he didn't want (couldn't seem to bring himself) to repeat them to the other man.

He didn't know why but, when he did tell the ones he told (the ones that he couldn't let slip into the shady shadows of irrelevant - he needed Arthur to trust him, after all), it was the first time in his life he actually felt guilty. It was the first time he actually felt them for the lies they were.

* * *

The computer bleeped again, signalling that the files he'd "requested" (hacked) from various different offices, clubs and registries (including governmental) had finished downloading. He clicked them open and browsed quickly for useful information, flicking from one window to another to enter them all into one file, rapidly filling with information on Arthur - and all his staff.

Another slither of Tristan's attention was watching another screen, which was very slowly mapping out Arthur's house - but it had, sadly, been very few places and now stopped at a garden. He supposed he couldn't expect much seeing as Lancelot was there for lunch and wouldn't be able to snoop around much, if at all. And Tristan had a sneaky suspicion the trail would end in Arthur's bedroom (which wasn't all bad for information collecting) - if Lancelot could keep his trousers on for that long, that was.

He was sitting in a small cafe not too far away, sitting in the corner, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible (which he was actually rather good at - no one seemed to notice the young man sitting with an abnormally large collection of electrical, technological stuff and a cappuccino) whilst making sure he looked intimidating enough that people wouldn't think of sharing the table or something equally annoying. He'd also paid the waitress well enough for her to leave him completely alone - unless he called her, at which time she was there, smiling sweetly, murmuring "how can I help you, sir?" incredibly quickly. Tristan was rather happy with the service, really. And the cappuccinos were good too.

He took another sip, about to turn his attention back to the files when a red Ferrari pulling up in front of the cafe. Even though it was supposed to be a No Parking zone (judging by the sign sitting right beside the car), the flashy young man didn't seem to care. And no one else looked like they were going to correct him.

Tristan double clicked a file, bringing up a picture. He looked up at the man, who was pushing his sunglasses up to sit on his head and muttering petulantly to the long-haired man sitting a few tables away from him, again. Tristan double clicked on something else, which brought another photo to the screen.

And then he nodded to himself, satisfied. Gawain and Galahad. Arthur's personal helpers…or something. Whatever the case, they were close to Arthur.

So Tristan outwardly went back to his clicking - and listened in on their conversation, gathering within seconds the reason for Galahad's anger: Lancelot. He almost laughed. The descriptors Galahad was using for Lancelot…one thing Tristan would never accuse him of being, as of that moment, was uncreative with his vocabulary.

"That attitude is fucking infuriating," he was saying. Gawain was just sitting there, listening quietly, with an amused smile on his lips. "Just sits there. Didn't say a fucking word and still annoyed the hell out of me with that stupid smirk and the idiotically annoyingly high-and-mighty way he holds himself. Fucking hell, he made me late and put me into a bad mood. I don't understand how Arthur can stand that mouthy bastard."

"I don't get how Arthur puts up with that mouthy bastard."

Tristan shook his head again, blinking rapidly, startled by the sudden…he didn't even know what to call it. Startled. He filed the thought away to consider later; now wasn't the time to be mulling over things.

"I thought you said he didn't say anything," Gawain was replying, obviously holding back a laugh at Galahad's expression. The younger man (Tristan didn't even need to check his files to know Galahad was the younger of the two) was pouting, crossing his arms over his chest and sinking back fully into his seat.

"Yeah, whatever. I just know he's a damn mouthy one." Gawain just laughed and called the waitress over. The conversation moved onto other far less interesting topics interrupted by comfortable, companionable silences. Tristan turned his attentions back to his computer and his own words, half listening to the conversation in case anything useful came up.

Nothing did. Only more playful, friendly banter that seemed incredibly familiar and comforting - and Tristan had no idea and didn't linger on it (and was more successful at ignoring all that than Lancelot had been). In reality, it was only after the voices had quietened and the Ferrari driven off that he finally noticed it.

The air felt empty without it and his world seemed far too quiet.