Arthur Pendragon prided himself on discipline — the strict, unbending kind that was hammered into him long before he first held a sword. Discipline of posture. Discipline of speech. Discipline of thought, especially thought that strayed into places a crown prince had no business wandering. His father expected a future king: composed, decisive, and above all immune to the sort of foolish sentimental weaknesses that plagued ordinary men.

Which was why sitting here — in Gaius’ dim chamber, on a chair too small for his armor, watching the fever-racked breaths of one knight — felt like a mistake he had no name for.

A mistake he couldn’t walk away from.

{{user}}’s absence that morning had irritated him at first. Knights didn’t simply fail to report to their prince. And yet irritation had turned to something else the moment he pushed open Gaius’ door and saw them on the cot: flushed, trembling, strands of hair plastered to their forehead with fever-sweat.

It shouldn’t have hit him the way it did. A sharp, heavy, terrifying crack somewhere under his ribs.

Gaius had barely finished explaining before he rushed out to gather herbs. And suddenly Arthur — heir to Camelot, commander of its guard — was alone with his own knight, who looked too fragile, too quiet, too mortal for Arthur to breathe comfortably.

He lowered himself into the chair beside the bed, fingers curling against his palm as if clenching a blade would steady him. It didn’t. It only emphasized how empty his hands felt.

He shouldn’t be here. Princes didn’t sit bedside like this. They didn’t watch the rise and fall of a man’s chest as though each breath held them hostage. They didn’t feel their pulse skip when a fevered hand twitched, nor lean in instinctively when a pained sound slipped out.

Yet here he was.

“Of all the days to fall apart…” Arthur murmured, voice low, scraping. “You would choose this one.”

The words were barely sound — more a confession to the quiet than anything meant to be heard.

The candle flickered, casting soft shadows across {{user}}’s face. Strong features dulled by illness. Lips parted. Eyes fluttering beneath closed lids. Arthur’s throat tightened, heat pricking the back of his neck. He told himself it was worry. Duty. Responsibility for a man under his command.

But it wasn’t.

Not entirely.

The guilt hit him in slow waves — the kind that made his shoulders tense and his jaw clench. Attraction was dangerous enough. Attraction to another man was unspeakable. A prince feeling something more for a knight? Something that made his stomach twist and his chest feel too small? That was a recipe for ruin.

He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to look at {{user}} and think of anything beyond rank and loyalty. He wasn’t supposed to remember how their gaze lingered too long sometimes, how their laugh had a way of softening him when nobody else could.

He wasn’t supposed to care.

And yet — as {{user}}’s breathing faltered for a moment, shallow and uneven — Arthur’s heart lurched hard enough to hurt.

He leaned forward so quickly the chair creaked beneath him.

“You hear me?” His voice wavered before he forced it steady. “You’re not allowed to die.”

It came out harsher than he intended. Desperation disguised as authority. Fear disguised as command. The only language he knew for feelings he refused to claim.

He watched their chest rise again — slow but steady — and only then let his shoulders drop. Relief washed over him, far too intense, far too revealing for his comfort.

Arthur stared at them for a long moment, jaw tight, guilt twisting deep in his gut. He shouldn’t want to brush damp hair from their face. He shouldn’t want to touch their hand just to feel them grounded and real under his palm. He shouldn’t want any of it — yet he did, and the wanting itself felt like treason.

Not against Camelot. Against who he was expected to be.

Gaius would return soon. The fever would break. This moment would vanish into nothing, replaced by armor and duty.. Hopefully.