Title: Nasty Surprises
Character/s: Gwaine, Lancelot
Summary: And then he sees him. The man Gwaine had least wanted to see here. Lancelot.
Word Count: 602
Author's Notes: Hi guys! I'm back again now I've finished Uni, and I've really missed this! Writing some Gwaine because I'm sick of writing Arthur for my Paperlegends
Gwaine rests his weight on the bar. He’s out to get drunk tonight, and possibly high. He doesn’t really care so long as he gets out of his mind; it’s claustrophobic there, with thoughts chasing him in circles.
He waves at the bar tender, passes over the money and downs another shot. Lights up a cigarette, inhales deeply, and turns to lean his back against the wood.
The room in front of him is filled with people dancing, bodies too close, sweat sticking their clothes to them. They move almost as one entity, ebbing and flowing and joined together somehow. His eyes flit over the crowd, unsure whether to join them quite yet.
And then he sees him. The man Gwaine had least wanted to see here. Lancelot.
Their break-up had been spectacular, and Gwaine maintains that it would have devolved into a fist fight had Percy, Lance’s flatmate, not been there to break them apart and send Gwaine packing. Though to be honest, he can barely remember why they fought now, other than that it was about Gwaine’s job, like all their real arguments. It was two months ago, now, and Gwaine regrets his part in the break-up. Wishes he could take back all the hurtful things he said. But it’s impossible and, besides, it’s highly probable that Lance has moved on by now.
He’s been staring too long, obviously, because one of Lancelot’s friends points over at him, and Lance turns, catches sight of him. Gwaine watches the shock cross over Lance’s face before he smiles, of all things.
It hurts, an almost stabbing pain that wrenches the breath from him. Because Lancelot is the best kind of person, so for him to be gloating is just cruel.
Gwaine turns away, planning faithfully to leave after just one more drink. His clothes feel too tight with Lancelot there, like they’ve shrunk in the wash, or his skin has swollen. He is almost painfully aware of every movement he makes, and promises himself to leave soon.
Before he can, though, before he can even attract the bartender’s attention, there are hands bracketing his hips, holding him pressed against the bar. Lips press against the space behind his ear, and he recognises that smell, that affectionate kiss, turning hungry when Lance scrapes his teeth over skin.
“Hi,” he whispers, straight into Gwaine’s ear, “I missed you. Sorry sorry sorry sorry.”
Lance is slurring, further gone even than Gwaine is.
“You’re drunk,” he points out, even though the pressure of him, the warmth of Lance against his back, is wearing his resolution down quickly.
“So are you,” Lance says, “And I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too,” Gwaine says, and he can tell Lance now because neither of them will fully remember it in the morning, “So much.”
“Now that’s out of the way,” Lance says, “Can I fuck you?”
Gwaine can’t help but laugh, a little strained and a little tense, because although he’s always loved the sound of something filthy out of Lance’s innocent, perfect lips, he can’t lose sight of how easily he could lose it all over again, and how brief this reunion is fated to be even despite that.
“Aren’t you going to ask me to dance before you take me home?”
Lance takes hold of his hips and tugs him back towards the dance floor.
“Dance first, fuck later.”
Gwaine lets Lance spin him, moulds himself into his chest and tucks his head onto Lance’s shoulder, holds him close and vows not to let go for a long time. And, in that moment, everything seems to fit just right.