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The early morning sun waded softly into the room, painting all in a golden hue.
Patrick paused by the window, the warmth chasing away the bite of the deceptively cool breeze blowing outside. It’d been a shock to the system, that cold, but all for a good cause. His morning offerings were now lying in wait at the shrine, sequestered at the edge of the woodlands that encircled their cosy little cottage, and thus, he’d returned home with a sense of satisfaction and another tawn feather clutched in his palm. It was irregular, but every now and then, His Lady of Spring would leave them at the shrine, a thank of sorts. If Patrick felt any sort of smugness about it, that was his own business. This one, as had the last few, would go towards an arrow for hunting game. Patrick asked her one morn what he ought to do with her kind gifts, after garnering a rather nice if baffling collection, and the next day had found one of his arrows at her stony feet. It seemed a pretty clear answer to Pat.
Arthur seemed pleased with it too, noting how handsome the arrows looked with her feathers. He’d never be a worshipper, but he had come to respect the gods since that whole damned affair. How long had it been since then? Patrick frowned as they dusted off their hands. Two summers at least, though it sometimes felt as if decades had passed. His lungs, already poor, would never work in the same way again at any pace faster than a casual stroll beyond his capabilities. It was an adjustment for sure, but not the end of the world. He’d never liked running away,
Arthur was lounging in a chair, threading a needle, still not wholly awake. His eyes kept fluttering, threatening to close, but not yet succeeding. Pat drank him in, a handsome thing in the summer light. Gods, he loved that man.
A brown tom cat was curled up on his lap - Tulip, as named by Kitty and who'd asked very nicely to do so - purring away. He creaked open an amber eye to peer at Pat as they neared and raised his furry chin for a scratch. He was a cat who knew exactly what he wanted and how to ask for it, which made him a good fit for them home. It didn't hurt that he was sweet and bloody good at driving out vermin.
Pat chuckled and did as he was told, giving Tulip a good old scratch. Then, he leaned down to kiss his man, his once-upon-a-time Lord.
Arthur hummed against his lips, mouth soft and pleasantly cool. It was almost a bit embarrassing just how much Pat looked forward to this, going to sleep every night with a smile in eager wait for a morning kiss, the first of the death. Arthur was just as bad about it, which helped some.
“Morning, sweetheart,” Pat greeted when he'd pulled away.
Arthur looked up at him, smile soft and easy. “Good morning, Pat. How does your Lady fair?”
“Fine as ever, I’m sure. She’s a tough old bird.”
He raised a brow. “Is that how one should talk about gods?”
“I don't think she would mind."
It was hard to say, but he thought His Lady had a good sense of humour.
“If you say so, my dear. Pass me the blade, would you? There's a good man. I need to cut this thread.”
Pat did so, plucking it off the mantlepiece, something catching his eye as he did so. His old sword hung in pride and joy above the fireplace, gleaming starlight bright as the sun's rays finally reached it. Pat gave it a fond smile as if greeting an old friend. It rarely saw outings anymore; Pat would bring it to the May-Day celebrations and other gatherings with the Ladies and Lords, but for daily business, a dagger on the belt or a quiver full of arrows was more than enough. It served now as a reminder of how the worst was behind them and, more importantly, as a pretty little ornament. Arthur would probably scold him if Pat said that; he was more attached to the thing. More often than not, Arthur was the one to sharpen and shine it before any journey, fastidious in his work until it met his standards. He did like his swords. Or maybe it was less about that. Maybe he just liked being the one to slide it into the sheath at Pat’s belt, no longer a Lord to be served, but to serve a fellow to be loved.
The blade was handed over, the thread cut from its spindle. Arthur tied a knot and set to work on a deep red waistcoat, lovingly embroidering a rose upon the lapel.
Sophie and Humphrey were to be wed in some months, and Arthur had thought a new, embellished waistcoat for both were fine gifts. Patrick did too, though he had secretly procured a second gift for Sophie too - a fine broadsword a Gallic tradesman had been offering. The second he'd seen it, he'd known it must be hers. They weren’t terribly sure you were supposed to gift weapons for a wedding; it didn’t seem traditional, but what was traditional about their love? They were a Lord and his Hand, so it was all out the window, if you asked Patrick.
“You’ve got plenty more months to work on that, love, why not take a break?” Pat suggested.
Arthur had been hard at work all week, and Pat rather feared for the state of his hands and eyes. But Arthur never liked to make it easy.
He didn't even look up as he said, “Give me a good reason to.”
Whether it was meant as a challenge or not, which it probably was, knowing Arthur, Pat would gladly take to it. He placed his hands on the chair arms and leaned down, lips an inch away from Arthur's. He didn't move, didn't even speak for a spell, waiting as Arthur met his gaze, both breathing in the same air.
“I can think of one or two things much better than embroidery to do on such a lovely day.” He dropped his voice a little lower than natural and barely spoke above a whisper.
The joys of knowing someone so intimately was knowing all the things that made them tick. Pat heard more than he saw the way Arthur swallowed, and just as the man moved forward, they moved back.
“What are you doing? Come back here at once,” Arthur demanded, adorably petulant. His ashen face was flushed, mouth bent into a pout.
It was oh-so-satisfying to see. It was the kind of thing that would have made the Pat of the past’s head spin, but now it just made them grin.
“We've got all day, M' Lord, there's no rush,” they said in a sing-song voice.
Arthur scoffed, as he always did when Pat recalled the old title. “It's a wonder that I love you,” he said. “I thought you'd become less insufferable with my Lordship behind us, but alas.”
Patrick shrugged, grinning wider. “Alas nowt. You knew exactly what you was getting when you chose me.”
Tulip decided then she'd had enough of their flirting and leapt off Arthur's lap to sprawl on the rug instead. Which left a lovely opening for Pat.
Arthur, still shy when it came towards asking for affection, looked from his lap to Pat with a telling gaze, but would not ask nor pull them down. Another day, Pat might have drawn it out, goading him to ask, perhaps sprinkling in a silly little ‘What's the magic word’, but he didn't have the patience for that. Besides, his man's lap was a very nice place to sit. Pat settled down, legs thrown over the chair arm, cold arms immediately winding around his middle. Arthur was hardly the most comfortable of seats, cold and bony as he was, but he was less so than he had been two years ago. A steady stream of filling meals had done him wonders.
“I'm not a chair, you know,” Arthur drawled, making no move to push Pat off.
“Really? Could've fooled me,” Pat shot back. “You've got arms, a back, some legs, a good seat. Sounds like a chair to me.”
“Gods help me,” Arthur muttered.
He stared up at the heavens for support, unable to hide his smile. Pat pressed a fleeting kiss to his cheekbone because he could and glanced across to the letters strewn about on the nearby table. He still had no idea who was delivering their mail or how they got it into the house without either noticing. Pat supposed it didn't much matter, so long as it carried on coming.
“Any news, good or bad?” he asked, jerking his chin in their direction. “Neither’s gotten cold feet yet, have they?”
“Sophie may have - her letter was solely for you - but Humphrey merely seems a bit stressed. His latest obsession is the menu.”
Pat grimaced, already dreading what was to come. “Please tell me it includes at least one dish without fish.”
Arthur's grim face said it all. “You might want to say that in your response to Sophie, for I doubt I'll be able to get through to him.”
Not on the matter of food, no. Humphrey still didn't trust Arthur when it came to the affairs of the kitchen, with some warrant. When they'd come to visit - which had been very exciting, getting to host the two for a week unrelated to any holiday - Arthur had burnt the only thing he'd been in charge of. Luckily, Pat’d had bread in standby, they were all good.
“I'll see what I can do, but no promises.” Pat gave the letters a last look, reminding himself to read them later, before looking away. “Cor, can you believe it? Just a few more months until they're Lord and Lady Bone. Do you think Sophie will still carry around a sword once she'd been ordained?”
Arthur smiled at him dryly. “That, Patrick, is a stupid question, and you know it.”
“Rude,” Pat said, tugging playfully at a grey strand of hair. “You never know, she could surprise us.”
“I highly doubt it.”
“Yeah, fair enough,” he gave in.
Just as he couldn't see Sophie switching her boots for heels, he could see no title that could part her from a sword. Pat was rather counting on that for his wedding gift, though, so maybe it was partly wishful thinking.
Arthur looked away then, at some random spot on the wall, addressing that as he said, “Speaking of, have you ever… I mean, have you considered, perhaps…”
“What? Getting married?” It was the only answer that made sense to him.
Arthur nodded, still staring at the wall.
“Can't say I have,” Pat admitted. As Arthur wilted, he quickly added, “Why? Is that summat you'd like?”
The fingers on his hip tensed.
“I don't need such a ceremony to prove my,” Arthur cleared his throat, “affections, but…” He very slowly met Pat’s gaze, unwilling to finish that sentence.
“You'd like it. You’d like it,” Pat continued, teasingly, as he wound his arms around his lover's neck, “If we stood with gods above and men below as our witnesses, before family and friends, and I declare that I am yours and yours alone, now and forever.”
Though half joking, by the way Arthur's blush increased tenfold, Pat was right on the money. Taking it seriously, blimey, that was a big step to take. Though, was it any bigger than abandoning all he knew to live in the woodlands with his man and a cat? No, considering that, it was barely a step at all. Just making what already was official in the eyes of the law.
Arthur's fingers dug just a little into their hip, and he flashed his tongue over his lips. “Well- yes, yes I would.”
He'd not thought Arthur was interested in that sort of thing, shy of public displays as he was. He had been very invested in the wedding preparations thus far, much more than the rest of their friends, so maybe it shouldn't have been a surprise.
Pat raised a hand and ran it through Arthur's hair, ruffling the already sleep-mused strands and styling it how he liked. Neat, but not entirely orderly. Trailing from the hair, Pat pressed his hand against the unshaved scruff he was in a current battle over, eager for Arthur to keep. So far, Pat was winning. It had grown just enough to be soft, no longer short and sharp, digging hard into his palm. Arthur was so very pretty.
“If you'd rather not-” Arthur began, not meeting his eye.
“Never said that,” Pat interrupted. “Just thinking on it…”
He'd not thought much about finding love after Carol, and in return, hadn't thought at all about weddings at all. Even after he and Arthur had finally gotten together, the thought had never crossed his mind, not even once. He didn't need his love to be blessed by the gods, nor some official decree stamped to declare them a bonded pair. It was one thing, he thought, that was no god’s business, not even Branwen’s. But that didn't mean he was opposed. Not in the slightest, and if it meant that much to Arthur-
“Yeah, go on then,” Pat said. “Let's get married.”
Arthur laughed, loud and abrupt, eyes scrunching up in delight. “That has to be the least romantic proposal I've ever heard. That's the same way you answer to another round at the tavern.”
It wasn’t exactly the most romantic thing he'd ever said, Pat agreed. Not that Arthur really cared, if the way his eyes were a-light with mirth was any give away.
“You've got a point. Shall I do this properly then?”
Pat pushed himself off Arthur's lap and kneeled on the floor before him, legs pressed against the wood. Taking Arthur's hands in his, Pat cleared his throat. “Now, it's been some time since I've done anything of the sort, so bear with. Not sure I remember all the words… My light, my home, my hearth, for many years-
Arthur looked rather starstruck but still had the wherewithal to say, “Two years.”
Pat loved him terribly.
“Who's doing this proposal thing, you or me? Hush up and let me finish. Light, home, hearth- right, yeah, for many - how many exactly is not important,” they said, eyeing Arthur, “I have called you mine, and I yours. Now if I may, I would take this oath, as you have took my heart-”
Arthur didn't let him finish, grasping at Pat’s arms as he pulled them into a bruising kiss. “Yes, yes, by the Gods, yes,” he pleaded. “Marry me.”
There was more to say, as tradition would dictate, but Pat found he wasn't much in the mood. He was more eager to find their place back on Arthur's lap and strip him bare while the sun's light still shone. Tulip trotted away in disgust as Pat wormed a hand under Arthur's shirt, pressing against the man's fiercely beating heart. My husband, he thought, trying the words out in his head. My husband-to-be. Now that, he thought, had quite a nice ring to it.
“Gladly. And how would my husband-to-be like to celebrate our engagement?” Pat asked, mumbling against Arthur's lips.
Arthur let out a shuddering breath and, unable to speak, showed him instead.
All was well in Sycarth Cottage.