Character/s: Gwaine, Lancelot
Summary: It's a cold night out, and Gwaine never wants to leave
Word Count: 985
Author's Notes: So this comes from my headcanon for the menage a quatre verse where before Gwaine meets any of the rest of them he has a Dirty Dancing esque affair with his little sister's ski instructor. Making the ski instructor Lance was just fun :D Lyrics from Coldplay
The valley is silver at night. Looking out of the window, Gwaine is transfixed by it. The way the snow catches the moonlight and glows in it, the shadowy pines coated in filigree-like layers of snow and icicles. The frost on the path glitters like ground diamonds, and Gwaine is glad for the full moon. The ski back to his chalet will be treacherous enough with its light, let alone without.
But he doesn’t want to think about going back, because this is his last night in the Alps and he wants to make the most of it. It’s warm inside the chalet, and dark, and cluttered with all kinds of possessions that make it obvious that it isn’t someone on holiday staying here; it’s a home. There’s a wood burner in the corner, and it gilds the room so each object has one face of gold and one of moonlit silver.
Gwaine moves away from the window and sits, gingerly, on the sofa near the wood burner. He’s uncharacteristically uncomfortable, nervous, and he starts when the door to the kitchen clicks open.
“Here you go, hot chocolate with extra marshmallows.”
Gwaine looks up to see Lance smiling down at him and holding out a steaming mug. He smiles back, grateful, and takes a sip. It’s heaven, a little bit bitter but a lot sweet, and he can’t stop the moan when he takes the first sip, only just remembering to wipe away the cream moustache.
“Your turns are improving,” Lance tells him, with his ridiculous American accent. It’s adopted from his English teacher and the American tv shows he watched to improve his grasp on the language, along with ridiculous Americanisms like trash and math that Gwaine’s still trying to teach him not to use. Gwaine smiles again. He hasn’t needed ski lessons for a few years, but he was a little rusty when he first got out on the slopes. Lance, as a ski instructor himself, teased him endlessly about it.
“Come on, Gwaine,” he says, slipping a hand onto his knee, “You’re quiet tonight.”
He concentrates on the way the hot chocolate warms him up from the inside out, reaching the places the heat from the room hasn’t yet. He ignores the outside world, the fact that he will never see Lance again.
“Am I?” he asks, but he’s lost the glint his eyes and after only a fortnight Lance knows him well enough to recognise it.
“Baby, what is it?”
Lance scoots closer on the sofa, the hand on Gwaine’s knee sliding up and his other catching Gwaine by the jaw. His thumbs stroke soothing circles into his skin. Gwaine sighs, and he has to say it.
“I’m going home tomorrow.”
Lance falls silent, and they both look away.
“And you’re upset,” Lance says, quiet, “Because you’re going.”
“Of course I’m upset!” Gwaine all but shouts. Lance’s grip tightens with his tension, but only for a second. The soothing movements start up again, his hand moving from Gwaine’s jaw to stroke through his hair instead.
It takes Lance a while, but he brings his eyes round to look at Gwaine again, the disappointed hang of his shoulders, the tension along his spine. He waits, because there’s something else to say.
“I never thought it would end.”
Lance doesn’t need to voice his agreement, just nudges his knee against Gwaine’s.
“Are you in love?” Lance asks, quiet.
Gwaine looks up, expecting amusement or exasperation in his eyes. Instead he sees something that takes his breath away. Lance looks miserable, a mirror of his own expression. But still he doesn’t say anything.
“If you love me, won’t you let me know?” Lance sings, waveringly, breaking out into a brief smile.
“Yes,” Gwaine breathes, because it’s hard for him to voice things this real, then louder, “Yes, I love you, and I don’t want to leave you.”
He tries not to meet Lance’s eyes, but their intensity catches him, and he finds he can’t stop. Lance laughs, abrupt, hands stilling.
“You stupid English boy, you worried I wouldn’t love you back!” He sobers a little, moving to pull Gwaine closer to him, “Of course I do. I’ve been falling for you since that little incident with the showing off with your sister.”
Gwaine laughs a little at the memory. It was when they’d first met; Lance spent the first week teaching Gwaine’s sister to get her up to the more advanced slopes. Gwaine had skied past, turning in front of them and covering them in a spray of loose snow. He’d been laughing so hard at his sister’s face that he’d neglected to look where he was going, hit a patch of ice and lost control, falling over.
It seems a long time ago, now. The time in between is filled with chance meetings in the café, at a party, and then the invitations to Lance’s chalet. His sister has been covering for him ever since, letting their father believe it’s her having the affair with the ski instructor, and getting him to insist Gwaine act as her chaperone to the nightly parties; which, of course, he’d leave early to be with Lance.
“You don’t have to go?” Lance says, and it’s a question the way he pronounces it.
“Yes, I do,” he says, “I have to get back to Uni, I have responsibilities… I’ll come back when I can…”
It’s a feeble reassurance, they both know it. Lance frowns for a moment, then he leans in to whisper into Gwaine’s ear.
“I don’t suppose there are artificial snow slopes in need of an experienced instructor in England?”
Gwaine’s hot chocolate goes flying as he launches himself at Lance, locking their lips together, wrapping his arms tight around him.
“You wouldn’t move to be with me?” he asks, incredulous, when he has to pull back to breathe.
“Of course I would. I love you.”