Of course he's fucking happy for them. He loves them both and they're happy together and that's what he wants, more than anything, for them to be happy. But that doesn't mean there aren't times when it hurts, when it physically pains him to watch Arthur whispering in Gwen's ear, to watch her laugh as she turns around and kisses him.
Lancelot's never been good at hiding his emotions, so of course they notice. When Lancelot's around, Arthur holds her hand instead of wrapping his arms around her. Gwen does her best to include Lancelot in their jokes. And it's no good, because all he can think is that's all he ever had – a few days together, held hands a quick kisses, a few times she flashed that knowing smile at him.
Merlin means well, but sympathetic looks will only get you so far. Gwaine and Percival like to slap him on the shoulder (and with Percival, that hurts – in a much simpler, more physical way). Elyan tries to talk about football.
They're his best friends, but there are times when he can't stand to be around them, and he ends up at her door.
"Ooh, my knight in shining armour," Morgana says through the chain. Or, "How's life in Camelot?" or "What the fuck do you want now?"
And he always answers the same, "I'm yours to command."
The place is a tip. She never had to worry about keeping her own space clean when she was a kid and she's too busy rebelling to try to learn now. Lancelot doesn't care.
There's a flat disc the size of the palm of Morgana's small hand, black on white painted spiral, glued to a dowel that she twirls in her fingers. It isn't the disc. It's Morgana voice that pulls him in, Morgana's smile that pulls him under. And once he's there there's nothing else.
"What made you decide to come over today? Feeling bad about something?"
Lancelot wonders, tries to think himself anywhere outside this flat, anywhere other than seated on this couch, looking into these enchanting eyes.
"I don't know where I've been. I only know I'm yours."
She laughs, high and light. He isn't sure what's funny but he likes that sound, likes to think he's done something to make her happy.
Then Lancelot serves Morgana, for an hour or an evening. It doesn't matter because when here's there, fixing her sink or kneeling at her feet, eating her pussy or scrubbing her kitchen floor, that's all he's ever done. She's the only one he's ever wanted, and she wants him back.
Morgana knows how to be sharp, but she's gentle with him. She always brings him back with a hot cup of tea, not a snap of her fingers. Knowledge of the rest of the world (knowledge of Gwen, knowledge of Arthur and knowledge of Gwen) sinks in gradually, but it doesn't weigh on him like it did before.
"Thank you," he says.
Morgana just smiles.