#jonalot week

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Something that Jonah definitely did not expect was how affectionate Lancelot was.

Before their relationship, Lancelot had seemed almost a deity to Jonah. He was cold, stern, and awe-inspiring, someone who Jonah can proudly call his King but hesitate to even dare wish for something more. Even before Lancelot had become King, the distance between them seemed too vast to cross. Jonah would’ve never imagined that one day he’d wake up with strong arms around him, but there he was, under the thick red canopy, gazing upon his King’s sleepy face.

Months after the fall of Amon, Cradle began to slowly repair itself, and to Jonah’s joy, Lancelot did the same. He was as diligent in his work as ever, but something about him felt softer, and almost happier. The blood was back in his cheeks, and Jonah’s heart swelled whenever he looked at him.

But even with all these new changes, Lancelot’s confession, three months later, still came as a complete shock. Jonah had stood there, gaping, while Lancelot looked him in the eyes and poured out his heart. Years upon years of stolen glances, small touches, gentle words, all laid bare. He couldn’t speak for the longest time. It didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real. And yet—

Lancelot’s soft snores caught, and Jonah knew his lover had woken up. He couldn’t stop a silly grin from splitting his face when Lancelot nuzzled into his hair.

“Good morning,” Jonah murmured.

“You could’ve woken me up,” Lancelot croaked, voice raspy from his slumber.

“I need to train the new recruits in an hour,” Jonah reminds him, regretfully extracting himself from Lancelot’s arms and sitting up. “You should rest, my King. Your meeting with the Red businessmen is not until 9.”

Slender fingers encircled his wrist before he could move to pull back the curtains of the canopy bed, and Jonah suddenly found himself to be within mere inches of Lancelot’s face. No words were necessary as Jonah leaned in and brushed his lip against Lancelot’s. He couldn’t help but let out a small breath of laughter as Lancelot huffed in frustration and tangled his fingers in Jonah’s hair, bringing him in for a proper kiss.

For a moment, Jonah basked in the attention of his King. The crimson curtains dimmed the shine of the sun, and the last vestiges of sleep urged Jonah to return to Lancelot’s arms. However, he broke off the kiss, all too soon, and smiled as the King chased his lips.

“Join me for lunch today, my King?” And we can continue then.

Jonah knew what the answer would be before Lancelot even opened his mouth, but he still swelled with happiness when Lancelot assented.

After taking one more look at Lancelot, at ruffled hair and lazy eyes, Jonah pulled back the curtains and faced the new day.

.

Jonah knocked thrice on the heavy doors, and pushed it open after hearing Lancelot’s voice, telling him to come in. His King’s brows were furrowed, as they often did when he was concentrating, but they relaxed after seeing the familiar figure of his Queen, standing in the doorway.

“Pardon me,” Jonah spoke as he walked towards the desk, glancing at the pile of documents sitting beside the King. “But I was wondering if I could accompany you to lunch.”

Lancelot leaned across the table and took Jonah’s hand in his, before looking up with keen eyes, “I thought I told you that you didn’t need to bother with the pleasantries.”

Jonah opened his mouth to apologize on instinct, but caught himself just in time. The transition from Queen to lover hadn’t been easy. In the first few months, Jonah had apologized for every word out of turn, fearful of stepping too far. But Lancelot had been patient, and eventually, Jonah stopped shying away from any form of intimacy with his King. Now, in fact, he has begun to crave it. “Is that a no, then?” he asked, looking at Lancelot through his eyelashes.

Lancelot’s lips curved, “Of course not.”

He placed his quill down, and released Jonah’s hand to stand and walk around the desk. Biting his lips, Jonah waited until Lancelot was next to him to reach out and take his hand again.

Lancelot stared down at their intertwined fingers, pleasantly surprised, and Jonah flushed but didn’t let go. He led his King to the dining room like this, grateful for the lack of soldiers in the hallways at this time to see them like this. The soldiers had a separate mess hall from the Chosen 13, and Jonah fully expected an empty dining room. But, of course—

“My, this is certainly a delightful sight,” a familiar, far-too-amused voice came from the corner of the room. Jonah scowled at the Jack, who had a plate of cake sitting before him. Now that they had an audience, Jonah attempted to free his fingers from Lancelot’s, but Lancelot held on tight.

“I didn’t expect you two to be here,” Lancelot said, taking a seat gracefully. Jonah did the same, albeit still glaring at Edgar.

“My dear protégé asked me to spar with him, and I simply couldn’t refuse,” Edgar told them, taking a bite from his cake. “We were a tad late coming back.”

“Where’s Zero, then?” Jonah asked with a frown. “He hasn’t been missing meals, has he?”

“He finished his only moments before your arrival,” Edgar said. “But I’ll certainly tell him how worried you were for him.”

Jonah sniffed. “I wasn’t worried.”

“Naturally,” Edgar smirked. He placed his fork down and stood up. “Well, if I weren’t full before this delicious display of affection, I certainly am now. I’ll see you two tonight for the meeting.”

With that, Edgar left the dining room, leaving the King behind to calm the indignant Queen.

.

To Jonah’s surprise, as he stumbled, exhausted, from the bathroom and into his bedroom at night, he found Lancelot sitting on his armchair, with a book open on his lap and a macaron in his hand.

Lancelot glanced up, and the concern is apparent in his eyes. He set the book and macaron down onto the table, and beckoned Jonah over. Jonah squared his shoulders, and blinked the fatigue away as he walked over to his King. Lancelot looped an arm around his waist, and pulled him forward. Startled, Jonah’s hands shot out to grip Lancelot’s shoulder as he straddled Lancelot’s lap.

From this angle, Jonah has to look down to see his King. It was strange, because Jonah always had to tilt his head up slightly to look Lancelot in the eyes, but he didn’t dislike it.

“Tired?” Lancelot asked.

Jonah nodded, fingers toying with strands of golden hair at the nape of his neck.

Lancelot’s hands moved from his waist to his thighs as he stood up, carrying Jonah with him. He set Jonah down gently on the white sheets before climbing on the bed with him, pulling the sheets over them both. With a flash of red eyes, the magic stones in the lamps turned off, leaving the room in utter darkness.

As he felt strong arms wrap around him and a warm body press against his back, Jonah couldn’t help it—he let out a small breath of laughter.

“What do you find so funny?” Lancelot asked. Jonah didn’t need to see him to see the bemused smile on his lips.

Jonah shrugged, “It’s just that…I would’ve never imagined you to be so affectionate, my King.”

He felt Lancelot’s arms tighten around his middle briefly, and Lancelot fell silent, as if he was thinking about how to say something. Jonah let the silence settle in around them, waiting patiently for Lancelot to gather his thoughts.

“I didn’t want to give you any hope,” Lancelot whispered at last. “I knew that you loved me, but before I became King I thought that it would be impossible for two men of our station to be intimate, and after Amon, I didn’t want you to be put into danger. But when I defeated Amon, after being under his control for so long, I realized something. I realized that if I could stand against Amon to protect what I love, then I can stand against the world if it means having you.”

Jonah twisted around in Lancelot’s arms. The moonlight, peeking through the cracks of his curtains, allowed him to meet Lancelot’s glistening blue eyes.  He didn’t say anything. There was nothing that needed to be said. He only kissed Lancelot gently once. Then again. And again.

“I love you,” Jonah murmured, somewhere in between.

“I love you, too,” Lancelot breathed back.

And Jonah smiled, and tangled his fingers in golden locks as he basked in the affection of his King.

Lancelot Kingsley is a hero.

There is no doubt that every single person in Cradle has heard of the fearsome and yet noble King of Hearts. The King who led his country into peace, who stood alone against the might of the Magic Tower, who was prepared to sacrifice himself to spare his people. People would stare at him in the streets, eyes filled with awe, automatically stepping out of his way. He is a hero.

But before that, he was a villain.

Late at night, whenever he closes his eyes, he remembers. He remembers crimson blood—his father’s blood—dripping from the raven black bridge, the chessboard in Amon’s room, and the fear in the eyes of men who, seconds later, would find his blade pierced through their heart. Of course, Lancelot always tried to save who he can, but sometimes he could only watch, silently helpless, as blood stained the carpet of his office. And after he relives all his sins, all his failings, he would either resign himself to another sleepless night or fall into a troubled sleep that somehow drained him even more. But that was before.

Now, when he finds himself sitting up from his bed, unable to lie still for a moment longer, he feels Jonah stir from beside him. Lancelot opens his mouth, about to tell Jonah that he’s fine, and that Jonah should rest, because he didn’t want his lover to lose sleep over Lancelot’s failures. However, he feels strong arms wrap around his middle as Jonah sits up, too, and he suddenly realized how much he didn’t want to face the darkness alone.

The faint scent of Jonah’s shampoo floated over as Jonah leaned his head onto Lancelot’s shoulders. The familiar weight dragged Lancelot back from the past and into the present. He let out a shaky breath, a breath that he didn’t even know he was holding, and turns to press his nose into Jonah’s hair.

“Tell me what’s been troubling you,” Jonah says, and though it sounds more of a command than a question, Lancelot knew his right-hand well enough to understand that Jonah would never force a response from him. Still, Lancelot’s fingers trace circles in the bedsheet, thinking of how to tell Jonah what he’s been thinking about. The time for secrets was finally over, after all.

“Jonah, would you consider me more as a hero or a villain?”

His voice was rawer than he expected it to be, and he could hear Jonah’s soft breaths pause as he considered the question. However, Lancelot already knew what he would say. Jonah would tell him that he’s a hero, both to the people of Cradle and also to Jonah himself, and then coax him back to sleep, and in the morning all will be forgotten as Jonah helps him tie the ribbon across his torso and he becomes the King of Hearts once more. The familiarity and the expectedness of the response gave him simultaneous comfort and dread.

But sometimes, even the King is mistaken.

Slender fingers cups his cheeks, urging him to turn and face his lover. Lancelot follows pliantly, meeting the molten gold of Jonah’s eyes. Jonah smiles, so gentle that Lancelot’s heart trembles, and whispers, “Neither.”

Lancelot feels his own eyes widen, and Jonah smile widens at that, other hand coming up to cup his face as well. “I don’t consider you as a hero nor a villain.”

“Then what would you consider me as?”

“I consider you as Lancelot.”

And Lancelot doesn’t quite know what to say to that. To his embarrassment, he feels heat behind his eyes. He tries to twist away, because Jonah, of all people, didn’t need to see him like this. But Jonah holds on firmly, eyes never straying from Lancelot’s. “I’ve been by your side for more than 17 years, my King. And—I worshipped you for the most of it. But now,” he pressed a small kiss to Lancelot’s jaw, “especially at this moment, you seem more mortal than ever.”

“And you’re not disappointed?”

Jonah’s eyes widened. “Where on earth could you have gotten that idea from?”

With something almost bordering on reverence, Lancelot covers Jonah’s hand with his own, and turns his head to kiss each of his fingers. Faint pink tinges Jonah’s cheeks, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Tell me, Jonah,” he says at last. “Since when did you become so mature?”

Jonah tilted his head, opening his mouth to ask what Lancelot meant. But instead of explaining, Lancelot leaned in and kissed him, deep and long. He felt Jonah sigh against him, melting into the kiss. Slender arms folded around Lancelot’s neck, bringing him in closer, and he follows willingly. When they finally broke off, Jonah leaned back into their pillows, urging Lancelot to lie down, too. The weight of Jonah’s arms, still wrapped around him, calmed the storm brewing inside him at last.

Of course, there would be more storms in the future. More fitful nights, riddled with memories and nightmares. But with Jonah by his side, they seemed easier to bear. Closing his eyes, Lancelot forced himself to stop thinking about the future, and concentrated instead on Jonah’s steady heartbeat.

Tonight, he sleeps peacefully in Jonah’s arms.