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Lancelot was by the window, his face partially illuminated by flickering street lights, one, two, three times they'd blink and shadows would engulf him. His arms were crossed, eyes distant lost somewhere in the streets of Santiago where Gwaine was a long lost memory, something best left alone.
Lancelot remained silent after his initial greeting, making Gwaine suffocate in silence, trying to break the ice and find a way back in. For a lack of something to do Gwaine fixed his eyes on Lancelot, but his stance betrayed nothing.
Had it been a century? Perhaps longer. Gwaine stopped counting. There's no reason to dwell on lost time when you have an eternity in front of you.
Once upon a time he would've cut to the chase, asked for what he wanted. He had done so, hundreds of years back, before halogen lamps and mobile devices. Back when Lancelot had been a young idealistic man fighting for his country's liberty. Gwaine had wanted him and Lancelot had given himself up, too trustful.
Lancelot was a fool. A romantic fool and Gwaine had loved him. Loves him.
Between them stood time and regrets and mistakes, and all the unspoken words Gwaine had never brought himself to say. Not seriously.
"Why are you here?" Gwaine blurted out unable to subject himself to Lancelot's silence for much longer.
"Quería verte," Lancelot answered easily. The way he slipped into his mother tongue had Gwaine shivering when he hadn’t been afected by the changing seasons in a long time. He wondered if Lancelot remembered that time Gwaine asked him to teach him swear words in spanish, and Lancelot, coy and a bit shy had whispered the filthiest things in his ear.
"You wanted to see me?" Gwaine asked just to have confirmation he'd heard right.
Lancelot nodded, his dark gaze meeting Gwaine's. "I knew you were here and I wanted to see how life's treated you. You haven't been in Chile in what, eighty years? I was curious."
Gwaine was perplexed, he'd been careful hiding his tracks. He was sure. Unless-- "How? Can you--can you still sense me?"
"Something like it. I could never stop myself from seeking you out. You were never just--"
"Your lover?" Gwaine guessed, a bit of his flirty self rearing its head.
Lancelot rolled his eyes. "Yes. You were also my friend. A dear one."
"Is that why I'm here? Lovely house by the way," Gwaine said spinning around. Lancelot's furniture blurring by. "Now you've seen me. I'm brilliant, fantastic, I'm like a good aged whisky."
"Could you be serious for once?"
Gwaine stopped. "Lance," he sighed. "Why am I here? Why are we here?"
Lancelot shrugged. "I'd missed the way you say my name."
"Would you believe me if I said I missed every little thing about you?" Gwaine asked stepping up close to Lancelot, he felt a rush, something alive and frightening. Gwaine settled his eyes on Lancelot's lips. Lancelot searched his face, brushed back the hair that'd fallen over Gwaine's eyes with tentative fingers.
"I would. Because I did too."
Gwaine did what he'd wanted since he stepped in Lancelot's house, since he'd set foot in Santiago, since he boarded the plane. Since he'd left Lance behind. He pulled Lancelot close, wrapped his arms around him and kissed him. Their lips and tongues met in a hot, frantic slide. Lancelot pushed him against the wall without breaking apart, only going deeper, getting more desperate for touch.
"Vamos a mi pieza," Lancelot said when they parted.
"I thought you'd never asked."
They raced each other to the bedroom, and Gwaine knew they'd have to talk, but that's what sunrise was for. The night was for their bodies and the memories of their skin.