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Sometimes, Lancelot’s dreams are filled with nothing but Siegfried.
To be specific, what fills his vision is the sight of Siegfried’s back - tall and proud, his long brown hair dappled with sunlight as he stands by the edge of a towering stone turret. He is dressed in armor as dark as night, and so is Lancelot, though his is metal plate the color of the deep ocean.
The two of them overlook a scene of wide, rolling plains that stretch out in unending waves towards the horizon. Blades of verdant grass rustle in the soft breeze, dainty stalks with heads of hanging blossoms bowing with the wind. Lancelot stands here in an unfamiliar land, in unfamiliar garb, watching the image of Siegfried highlighted against the stark blue sky.
It is not the first time he’s had this dream. In all of them, Siegfried is silent, and so is he. Lancelot has tried, by the fifth, sixth time, to move his body or to force words out of his mouth; but perhaps because this is a dream, he is never successful.
He doesn’t understand the heated fervor that wells up in his chest, so powerful that it shocks him awake sometimes. It is a confusing deluge of feeling that stings and leaves him bitter, a simple longing to reach out to the man in front of him and tell him to stay.
When Lancelot eases his eyes open, he is greeted by the gentle light of the morning sun. Distant sounds of traffic drift over from the streets that run beneath his apartment. He fumbles around a moment, limbs lost in the sheets thrown over his body, for his phone which has somehow managed to slip into an awkward position between the headboard and the wall.
Lancelot grunts softly when he finally extracts it from the gap, swiping across the slightly-cracked surface to squint at the time.
It’s six-forty on a Tuesday.
He’s awake far earlier than the eight alarms he’d set the previous night, paranoid that if he couldn’t find it in himself to wake up, then neither could Siegfried. The older man has slept in till at least four in the afternoon before, Lancelot recalls, because he’d had to wake him up for dinner at some point.
Stifling a yawn, Lancelot begins summoning the will to get out of bed. His blankets envelop him in their comforting warmth, the low hum of the heater a familiar background companion during these colder months. December’s passed by in a flash, whirling from the festive season into the last week of work, filled with nothing but drinking parties and boisterous cheer as his coworkers celebrate their momentary freedom and congratulate each other for a job well done over the past year. Somewhere in the whole mess is Percival casually dropping the bomb that he’d declined returning to England for family visits, Vane wailing that his own workplace gets no off days for the new year but he’d try to make it for their annual gathering, and Siegfried laughing into his ear about how odd it was to head into January together with the three of them and not on his own.
That last thought - about Siegfried, about their promise, why he’d set so many alarms for today to begin with - is what gives Lancelot the final push to extricate himself from the clutches of sleep. He stumbles to his feet, blinking several times in a bleary attempt to make sense of his surroundings.
The first thing he registers is the way the sunlight drapes itself over piles upon piles of documents leftover from the year’s work. Almost as if spotlighting the disaster he’d left his apartment in, Lancelot is reminded of the cleaning effort that he’d abandoned a few days ago, and wonders if he should challenge it again. He can already picture Vane sighing good-naturedly about how old habits would die hard, and the crease of Percival’s brow as he asks how he’s managed the Christmas miracle of surviving yet another year living in a hovel like this.
Siegfried doesn’t mind, Lancelot thinks indignantly at imaginary-Percival. He’s never complained about it. Ergo, their apartment isn’t quite as uninhabitable as Percival claims.
Speaking of which, Siegfried is nowhere to be found. He usually sleeps on a mattress set up beside Lancelot’s bed - too small to fit two grown men, unfortunately - but at the moment, the bedding is empty and the sheets are thrown aside.
Lancelot frowns. As he scans the bedroom, his gaze lands eventually on the sliding doors to the balcony, left half-open but not by his own hand. The gap lets in a gust of midwinter chill that flutters the curtains every once so often. Lancelot slips on a pair of indoor slippers and toes his way through the mess on the floor, eventually letting himself outside.
There on the balcony, he finds Siegfried, his back turned away as he gazes out at the expansive Tokyo skyline. He’s at least thrown a coat onto those broad shoulders, rather than stand out here in his pajamas.
Siegfried does not turn around.
Something about the sight stirs a memory in Lancelot, of the vestiges of a dream he’s had throughout the whole year. It’d started ever since they reunited entirely by chance - he hadn’t expected to see Siegfried again, not since he’d vanished, all those years ago.
“...Siegfried,” Lancelot tries, and is immediately filled with a rush of relief - that unlike his dreams, he is able to speak. He’s able to call out to this man. “It’s ten degrees out here. Shouldn’t you be inside?”
And also unlike his dreams, Siegfried responds to the sound of his voice.
He turns his head to regard Lancelot with warmth in his eyes and Lancelot stills, the air in his lungs suddenly no longer enough.
“I woke up early,” Siegfried smiles. His voice is so quiet, it is nearly lost in an exhale of misty breath. “It seemed like a waste to go back to bed, and I didn’t want to disturb you.”
Lancelot huffs out a small laugh in return. Siegfried could never truly be a bother to him. Even after the dramatic string of events that had forced the older man to leave work and drop off the grid, even while Lancelot had been struggling to come to terms with that loss, he’s always admired Siegfried in some corner of his heart.
“I was planning on waking early, too,” he says.
“Really?” Siegfried moves his gaze back to the horizon, arms folded as he leans against the balcony rails. “What a coincidence, then.”
Lancelot jams both hands into the pockets of his shorts, already feeling the cold begin to bite. He’s not quite sure how long Siegfried has been out here, but reckons that they should both be indoors considering the weather.
“Oh, right,” says Siegfried suddenly, as if he’d just recalled something important. He turns again to Lancelot, smiling as he angles his face in the direction of the rising sun, its bright rays peeking out from between the gaps of towering skyscrapers. “The kind ladies I met at the grocer’s yesterday mentioned that the first sunrise of the year has some special meaning to it. Do you know what it is?”
“Well...the people here place a lot of significance on these customs.” Lancelot fidgets on the spot, unsure if he should be looking at Siegfried or at the sun. It’s hard to keep his eyes fixed on either. “It’s like welcoming in a new beginning.”
“That’s apt,” laughs Siegfried. “I haven’t done something like this in a long time.”
“What about last year?”
“I forgot.” Siegfried shrugs nonchalantly. “Nothing special happened.”
Lancelot chuckles. It’s very much like Siegfried to gloss over the finer details of his own life.
“It’s great that you could join us this year,” he says, sincerely. “We still have to meet with Vane and Percival at the train station.”
“Ah, we shouldn’t keep those two waiting. Percival is always on time, isn’t he?”
“He was late for a meeting once,” Lancelot points out, the memory surfacing alongside a casual surprise that he even remembers these things anymore. It had been such a long time since Percival had left the company after Siegfried.
Siegfried, to his credit, does not pursue the thread of conversation. He settles on an enigmatic chuckle, drawing his fingers to his lips. Lancelot chases the movement, watching Siegfried puff air into his hands.
“It’s getting a little chilly out here after all,” Siegfried says. He looks up at Lancelot, their eyes meeting. “I never realized watching the sunrise could be so distracting.”
Lancelot manages to turn away, to look at the scene Siegfried had been observing just moments before - the sight of tarred roads running like rivers into the horizon, of buildings spread out like a concrete sea before them. Far below, there is movement as cars, families, and individuals on their bikes make their way around.
“It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?” Lancelot mutters quietly.
There is something terribly familiar about this as well. He frowns, the echo of a dream still at the back of his mind.
“Let’s head inside,” he decides eventually. Any more standing around, and they would be late.
“We should,” agrees Siegfried with a small sigh. “I should warm up my hands, the wind’s surprisingly strong here.”
Before Lancelot can think through any of this - he’d blame it on lack of sleep, later - he steps forward, casually closing the distance between them. He takes one of Siegfried’s hands, clasping it in his own.
He’s so cold , Lancelot registers dimly. It almost feels like he’d just stuck his whole hand into the frozen meat section of a grocery store.
“You need be more careful,” he warns, pressing their palms together tightly. “You’re not wearing any gloves.”
“Oh. Hm. That’s true.” Siegfried actually sounds mystified at the thought. “I’m wearing socks, though.”
Lancelot casts his gaze downwards to Siegfried’s feet. They are, indeed, thankfully covered in several layers of woolly socks and tucked into his own pair of slippers. The sight of him like this is oddly amusing; this is so different from the Siegfried that Lancelot remembers from their time as colleagues, perpetually dressed in sharp suits, pressed ties and reading glasses. The sheer contrast draws a short laugh from his lips.
“There should be hot water in the kitchen,” Lancelot says eventually. He looks up at Siegfried, who is watching him with a curious look on his face and a smile curved on his lips.
Lancelot blinks.
With a small start, he feels the tips of his fingers heat up from where they are pressed into Siegfried’s skin.
Oh, okay. He gulps down a breath. Maybe he should just go.
Just as Lancelot’s grip loosens, Siegfried is the one who grabs at him this time. Lancelot almost trips over his own feet at the warm sensation of Siegfried’s hand enveloping his, and barely manages to toe the balcony doors shut as he’s pulled along, back indoors and in the direction of the kitchen.
“Come on,” says Siegfried, practically dragging Lancelot behind him by the hand, “you’ll have to teach me how to use the electric kettle.”
“Wait, you’ve never used one before?”
“I’ve somehow managed to get by.”
“That’s...that’s pretty amazing!?”
Even after the other man’s moved in with him, everyday is still an experience in realizing that the mysteries surrounding Siegfried’s life do not seem to have any end. Lancelot has in part given up on quizzing him about his odd lifestyle habits or those empty years away from work. But just as Siegfried is stubborn about his kept secrets, Lancelot himself is the same way - if he cannot learn about the past, he is adamant about making sure the future counts.
Lancelot keeps close to Siegfried when they finally manage to alight from the packed train. He motions for the other man to follow him, and they squeeze their way towards the station exit.
With some squinting, he manages to pick out Vane and Percival from the throng of locals. Vane’s wrapped today in a simple winter coat with a camper’s look to it, and Percival has on a dark jacket over comfortable knit. The two of them brush shoulders by one of the pillars in the station underground, leaning into a conversation. All around them, harried staff in their uniforms and caps continue to usher out streams of people, likely here today for the same reason that the four of them have gathered.
“Ah! There they are!”
Vane is the one who hollers across the crowd when he looks up and catches Lancelot’s eye. His loud voice carries across the space, drowning out even the mindless background chatter for an instant. Beside him, Percival winces and turns immediately to pinch Vane in the arm, a scowl coloring his features as he admonishes the other man.
“Keep it down, this isn’t a marketplace!”
“They wouldn’t be able to hear us otherwise,” Vane protests. He slaps Percival on the shoulder, beaming brightly. “I got their attention anyway, don’t sweat it. Hey, Lancey, Siegfried!”
“It feels like it’s been forever,” Lancelot laughs breezily, coming up to them. “How’s it going?”
“We just saw each other yesterday, but I get what you mean!” Vane grins. “Oh, funny story - when I reached earlier, it was really easy to figure out where Percy was.”
From behind Lancelot, Siegfried hums in amusement. “Really?”
“We all know how Percy’s super fashionable, right? But he also gets kind of intimidating if he crosses his arms while posturing.” Vane gestures to Percival, whose scowl deepens into something rather murderous. “He was just chilling, but the crowd didn’t dare go near him at all. Like, there was some kind of invisible barrier around him before I got here.”
“That’s enough, you dumb mutt,” Percival growls, reaching out to pinch Vane again. “Which part of that story is supposed to be funny?”
Vane yelps in pain, jerking his arm out of Percival’s reach. “Ow! Percy, be more gentle!”
“You should be thankful that I’ve managed to tolerate spending the last fifteen minutes with you.”
“Huh!? You can’t say things like that when you were engaged, Percy.”
“And how many times do I have to tell you not to call me that in public?”
Lancelot fights the urge to snort at his childhood friend’s banter with Percival, the once-shining star of their corporate establishment who’d later left to become his own boss - as was fitting for a man of his caliber. But whenever it came to Vane, the redhead could never seem to keep ahold of his cool, letting the flaws of his prideful nature show. There was something juvenile, almost cute about Percival in these moments that made Lancelot want to tease him to death for it.
“Lancelot.” Siegfried mutters his name in hushed tones, motioning for him to come closer.
Raising his eyebrows, Lancelot complies. He scoots over to Siegfried’s side and leans in. “What is it?”
“The last time we all met up was around...Christmas...?”
“I think so.” Lancelot frowns, thinking back to the past week. The four of them had found time on Christmas eve to gather at Vane’s for dinner. They’d all promised to see each other again on the first of the new year - this was after Percival had told Lancelot that he wouldn’t be heading back to Wales, and when Siegfried mused out loud that he usually spent such days on his own.
“I see,” Siegfried says. He turns to regard Vane and Percival. The two of them are still squabbling, now about which route was the fastest way to the nearby shrine. He chuckles at the sight. “I wonder which one of them asked the other out after that.”
“Yeah - wait,” Lancelot pauses, going over Siegfried’s words in his mind again. “Wait up. Hang on a moment there. What did you just say?”
“Aren’t the both of them dating now?” asks Siegfried, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Huh,” says Lancelot, and his thoughts crash into each other all at once.
He’s not heard a word from Vane about any of this - or perhaps Siegfried is pulling his leg, as the older man is wont to do, he’s always liked a good joke; except the problem is that Lancelot cannot reason sensibly why Siegfried would choose to fib about Vane and Percival , of all people, but he supposes he should be happy for the both of them if it were really true, right - besides, getting together after Christmas? Since when? Percival’s not the type to readily agree to such things, so that can only mean that this whole thing has been going on in the background for quite some time already -
He feels a hand fall to rest on his shoulder. Siegfried’s firm grip radiates comfort and stability in these troubling modern times, and Lancelot cannot be anymore grateful to him than he is now.
“If it’s true, I’m happy for them,” Lancelot manages to whisper. He really is. He’ll probably throw a party or something, the day Vane officially lets him in on the news.
“Likewise,” says Siegfried. He laughs, removing his hand before stepping up to the other two, sliding himself neatly into the conversation, leaving Lancelot to his own thoughts.
Not that Lancelot has any confidence in himself to not corner Vane later about this.
He narrows his eyes, studying Percival, who’s currently jabbing a finger at his iPhone and turning to Siegfried for validation that Google Maps isn’t lying to them all. Vane leans casually into Percival’s space, protesting that Google just assumes you’re brisk-walking sometimes, come on, which has Percival tilting his face back in Vane’s direction to hush him impatiently; he’s asking for Siegfried’s opinion, not his. Vane just laughs in reply, his expression like the sun on a brilliant day.
Okay, Lancelot concedes. Siegfried’s probably right about them.
Later, Lancelot nearly loses Siegfried in the crowd leading up to the shrine. Luckily for him, Siegfried is tall enough and easy to spot even amongst a large group, and he pulls the other man back into their little huddle before he’s swept away.
“Sorry,” Siegfried says, shuffling beside Lancelot. “Thank you.”
“That’s one missing person report avoided.” Lancelot breathes a sigh of relief. His hands are attached to Vane’s shoulders too, just in case the blond in front of him might also suffer the same fate. “It’s a lot more hectic this year.”
Vane laughs, and Lancelot feels the sound reverberate throughout his body.
“They’re letting everyone into the grounds in batches! Look,” Vane says, pointing to the long flight of stone-hewn stairs in the distance, leading up towards a large wooden shrine built at the top of a small hill. People are lined on every step, cordoned into sections by rope. “It might take awhile.”
“I’d estimate about an hour,” says Percival, scanning the crowd around them. “By the time we’re done, it’ll be midday.”
“Do the locals do this every year?” Siegfried asks. “That’s very dedicated.”
“It’s a cultural custom,” Lancelot explains. After working in the country for so long, he’s become a little more familiar with the annual routines over time, as have the rest of them (sans Siegfried). “It’s also a chance for families and friends to spend time together. You send prayers and wishes for the new year to the gods. Oh, and draw fortunes, if you’d like.”
“Those are fun!” Vane exclaims excitedly. “I’m going to try one.”
“Don’t start crying if you draw Great Misfortune, mongrel.”
“Why must you jinx me like that!?”
Not for the first time that day, Vane and Percival resume trading snappy retorts as Vane sulks about Percival’s harsh attitude and Percival grumbles that he’s always been this way. Lancelot listens to them with mild interest, unsure of how much time passes before his mind begins to tune them out.
“Have you decided what to wish for?”
Siegfried’s voice sounds beside his ear and Lancelot jumps, releasing Vane’s shoulders. He glances to Siegfried, who has tilted his head down to speak to him, making sure that he’s close enough to be heard over the chatter from strangers around them.
“You’re not supposed to reveal it to anyone,” Lancelot points out. “It’s all about the spirit of the thing.”
“Oh, really?” A contemplative look comes over Siegfried’s face and he nods. “What if I guess yours correctly?”
“You know I respect you, Siegfried, but I won’t tell you anything!”
“I see,” Siegfried laughs. He straightens, clapping Lancelot on the back. “I hope it comes true, whatever it is.”
The remainder of the day passes without much incident - Percival reminds them all about the proper courtesies to pay when on the shrine grounds, Siegfried makes a sound of amazement when they’re finally allowed to enter the main hall, flooded with people. Vane laughs and bumps shoulders with Lancelot and promises they’ll see more of each other over the coming year, and Lancelot grins because it’s already a given that Vane would always be an important part of his life here.
He buys Vane one of the shrine’s little charms for romantic relationships shortly after, and his childhood friend laughs nervously when he passes it to him.
A smirk spreads across Lancelot’s face. “Whether it’ll work or not, I don’t know,” he says, “but good luck.”
“Er, thanks,” Vane replies. He casts a worried glance over his shoulder at where Siegfried and Percival stand, just several meters away. Percival is caught up in explaining what the shrine has on display to the other man, oblivious to their little exchange here.
Lancelot’s smirk widens. “Let me know when you find someone, okay?”
“S-Sure!?”
“Don’t tease Vane too much,” Siegfried laughs, when they finally part ways at the station.
They walk off side by side, weaving through the crowd at a brisk pace, heading home as the evening sets in. Lancelot continues waving to Vane and Percival over his shoulder, smiling deviously when he turns back to face the front, falling in step with Siegfried as they make their way back out onto the streets.
“He deserves it,” Lancelot snorts. “I’ve known him since he was a baby, I have special rights.”
Siegfried shakes his head in silence, but Lancelot can tell from the fond smile on the older man’s face that he does not particularly disagree. Lancelot’s already spent most of his time at lunch shamelessly quizzing Vane on his love life, delighting in how easy it is to read him - they haven’t been friends for the better half of their lifetimes for nothing - while becoming increasingly amused at the growing mortification on Percival’s face.
“Vane was really surprised you weren’t seeing anyone, though,” says Siegfried, also recounting the conversation.
The topic had turned to Lancelot after Vane’s attempt to deflect attention from himself, and Lancelot had easily shrugged and admitted that he wasn’t committed to anyone in particular at the moment.
“I don’t know what he was expecting,” Lancelot says. “Anyway, you’d find out if I were attached, Siegfried. We live together.”
He pauses by a traffic light, waiting for it to turn green. They’ll be back at their apartment soon; it’s just a few blocks away now, and he still has to think about dinner - maybe they could stop by a roadside noodle joint on the way back.
“I don’t know,” says Siegfried, coming to stand beside him. “I think he thought we were in a relationship instead.”
Lancelot almost falls over where he stands.
“What,” Siegfried continues, expression impossibly calm and his smile unwavering, “you don’t like me?”
Alright, Lancelot thinks dimly, feeling suddenly faint. That’s one too many heart attacks in a day. He’s barely managing to keep himself from screeching in public here. Curse you, Siegfried. And also curse his own traitorous heart, most of all, for deciding to start hammering in his ribcage now of all times. Maybe he could just fling himself into oncoming traffic and be done with his mortal life, but there are no vehicles on the road by the time Lancelot tears his gaze away from Siegfried to check.
Damn it.
Lancelot stuffs both hands into his coat pockets. He’s suddenly hot around the neck despite the winter cold.
“All...all three of us like you,” he mutters lamely. He’s sure Siegfried can see right through his feigned ignorance. “Even Percival does, though he’ll never admit it.”
There is a brief pause, a beat of complete silence after his statement. In that split second, Lancelot wonders with no small amount of panic if he’d made Siegfried angry, even, but -
“That’s very reassuring,” Siegfried says kindly. The smile on his face eases out into something more personable now, with less mystery and unknowns to it, a look that Lancelot knows is meant to assuage and signal that he would not push this line of conversation any further.
Lancelot breathes a sigh of relief.
“How about udon for dinner?” he declares, changing the topic. He’s grateful for Siegfried’s consideration. “We have instant packs at home.”
“Home?” laughs Siegfried just as the lights blink green, signalling for them to cross the road before it changes again to red. “Hm. That’s nice. I like the sound of that word.”
“Me too,” says Lancelot. “I’m also taking that as a ‘yes’ for udon.”
He steps out onto the crossing, setting off at a brisk walk. He doesn’t need to turn back to check if Siegfried would follow - Siegfried does, of course, they’re headed in the same direction after all. He catches up to him easily, and Lancelot falls behind once they turn into a narrow street with more crowded sidewalks, brushing past strangers. His body moves on its own without too much thought. He lets Siegfried lead the way, in silence, watching his back as the winter sun slips down over the horizon and turns the dull concrete pavement into a splash of brilliant amber.
It’s somewhat reassuring, Lancelot thinks idly, to know where they are both going. To know that their destination is the same. Home, he’d called it, the word slipping out naturally as he’d asked about dinner tonight.
The apartment they share is hardly impressive. There’s a pipe in the bathroom that he swears is still leaking. But Lancelot wonders anyway, if somewhere between the piles of unwashed clothing, hastily-arranged ledgers and haphazard bookcases is a place that Siegfried has found himself comfortable returning to.