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Arthur lost his contacts. Again.
Usually, and since it’s the weekend so he doesn’t really have to go anywhere, he doesn’t mind. He has his back-up glasses anyway, black rimmed and thick-framed and heavy.
He knows how difficult it is to own contact lenses, how stupid it is not to have some back-up, how easily they tear, all the money he had spent, spends, on the maintenance of the damn things, the eye drops he needs to apply whenever a slight breeze passes by because his eyes get easily dry, the sheer fragility and flimsiness of the things…
But he needs to wear his contacts, because ironically, he’s a horribly sight reliant, visually impaired person, and otherwise he'll be as blind as an old man. His glasses make him feel awkward and dorky, and did he mention they were really heavy and had thick, black rims? He also, absolutely, is not a “hipster” or whatever-- his glasses have been with him way before this “hipster” thing became a thing, thanks very much.
Anyway, back to the contacts. He lost them because of Merlin. Again.
It isn’t a simple case of misplacement (Merlin had-- and still has-- a habit of moving things around, much to Arthur’s annoyance. But Merlin managed to tone it down to his personal belongings, rather than both of their things, which isn’t very optimal by Arthur’s standards, but it’ll do). It’s a very complex case of irreversible, unsalvageable damage.
Arthur can always buy a new pair of contacts and wear his glasses for the time being, yes, since he isn’t going to venture outside anytime soon, but the thing is, a lens of his glasses popped off last week, so it’s still in the glasses shop. Therefore, if Arthur calculated correctly, he’ll probably be glassesless for the rest of the weekend, so Arthur’s as good as blind. (Okay, he’s overreacting a bit, but still.)
That was Merlin’s fault, too. The lens popping off his glasses, that is.
Okay, granted, they might have gotten a bit too carried away with...stuff, hands and mouths everywhere, and, okay, he should've known better than to engage in such activities while wearing his glasses, however--
He was working on a very important financial statement then, and didn’t have the time or patience to apply eye drops to his eyes every few hours, because it broke his concentration, making him lose his place in the columns and rows of numbers on his computer screen, so he wore his glasses.
How was he to know that, a few hours later, Merlin would decide to hug him from behind and nibble on his ear, breathing absolutely filthy things straight in his ear, without the barrier of distance? How was he to expect that his throat, trapping a sharp inhale, would make a noise that would cause Merlin to bite harder?
He did try to turn his head, tried to tell Merlin to get off, I’m busy, you tease, but pale hands made their way inside his shirt through the now unbuttoned top half, and Arthur unconsciously leaned back in his chair, Merlin’s long fingers burning their way through his chest, branding, owning, going down, down, down...
It's all Merlin's fault.
Arthur's sitting on the couch, doing absolutely nothing because he bloody can’t do anything, can’t properly see anything. Everything’s a big blob of blurry mass, like the world’s made up of pastel dust bunnies. He has his knees drawn up on the couch, chin on top of his kneecaps, arms around his legs.
He hears Merlin enter the flat. It’s kind of hard not to.
"So the bloke at the shop said we have to wait ‘til Monday for your glasses," Merlin chirps. He places the groceries on the counter at the kitchen, cans rattling with the crinkle of plastic bags, and putters about in the kitchen. Arthur hugs his knees tighter.
He knows it's childish to be mad at Merlin; they’re both technically responsible for the glasses bit, and it's not exactly Merlin's fault that he's a clumsy dolt who knocks things off their places.
Even if said thing was Arthur's open contact lens case, which, in all fairness, was sitting innocently beside their toothbrushes, but yeah, no, it’s not Merlin’s fault.
It’s not Merlin’s fault that Arthur can’t operate normally without his contacts or glasses, that Arthur feels inadequate and insecure and incomplete without them because his sight is shit and has been quite shitty for as long as he can remember.
Merlin enters the living room, sets his TARDIS mug and Arthur's Avengers mug on the coffee table, and plops down beside Arthur. Merlin grabs the TARDIS, starts to blow and sip on his tea, then proceeds to inhale it, while Arthur stares resolutely on his toes, or at least he thinks they’re his toes. He can’t quite distinguish which blob's his toes and which blob's the carpet.
Why did they choose beige carpets again?
Merlin must feel something's off, because he starts to slow down in his quest to inhale his tea in record time, lowers his mug to tilt his head and narrow his eyes at Arthur, who probably looks like a kicked puppy. Or something.
"Alright, something's wrong," Merlin declares.
Yeah, no shit Sherlock, Arthur thinks.
Merlin extends his arm to set his mug back on the table, turns and puts his legs up on the couch, so that he's sitting cross-legged, facing Arthur, with his back leaning on the couch's arm.
"Arthur," Merlin says.
Arthur ducks his head so that his forehead touches his knees, and closes his eyes. He hates not seeing things clearly. It makes him feel useless, and it causes his head to hurt after a few hours. He kind of hates Merlin’s 20/20 vision.
Merlin tuts. He pokes Arthur's thigh with his big toe.
"Arthuuuuuur. Look at me."
Arthur ignores him.
"Is this about the contacts thing?" Merlin tries.
Silence.
"Of course, it’s about the contacts thing. I’m sorry, okay? I didn't exactly plan to drop your contacts down the drain. It was an accident!" he adds.
Arthur hugs his knees tighter.
Next thing he knows, he’s jerking left-right-left-right, Merlin pushing and pulling at his body.
"ARTHUR LOOK AT ME," Merlin shouts, directly in his ear.
He starts to feel dizzy, he can feel the headache coming, and--
"ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT!" Arthur uncurls himself hurriedly and pushes Merlin off the couch.
Arthur has to blink several times to clear the black spots dancing and swirling around the dust bunnies. He “sees” Merlin in front of him, knows that he's sprawled out on the floor, but can't make out his expression. A quiet voice in his head hopes Merlin isn't hurt.
Damn it, Arthur thinks. Useless. Totally useless.
"What do you want?" Arthur asks, brusquely, and he shouldn't be taking out his frustrations on Merlin, but he just feels so incompetent, and Arthur detests incompetence.
Why can’t he just leave me alone?
Merlin rearranges his limbs and sits cross-legged on the floor. Arthur leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees and chin on his hands, to see Merlin a little bit better.
He can make out Merlin's features now, sort of. The shadow cast by his cheekbones, the blue blurs of his eyes, a fuzzy pink mouth... but he can't make out the exact slope of Merlin's nose, his long, delicate eyelashes, the sharpness of his cheekbones.
Merlin grabs his face, places his hands over Arthur’s hand, and Arthur jerks in surprise.
"Stop pouting," Merlin commands. He folds his legs under him, and knee walks towards Arthur, until they're a hands breadth apart.
"Can you see me properly?" Merlin inquires.
Arthur nods. Or at least, does the equivalent of nodding while someone's holding your head. He feels a bit better, now that he can actually see Merlin's face. He looks upset and determined, all narrowed eyes and furrowed brows and tight lips, eyes a stormy blue-grey. Merlin's emotions are as clear as day, written on his face, and Arthur...
Arthur reads people for a living, taking in visual clues to know whether or not this person warrants the company's trust, whether or not that person can deliver what he or she says, isn’t going to run off before the ink dries on the contract. He feels like Sherlock Holmes, sometimes.
Arthur remembers being... surprised, to say the least, when he met Merlin, all those years ago. He was surprised on how disgustingly easy it was to read him, not caring if the world knew what he was thinking, full of honest intentions and guileless expressions. He was intrigued, and maybe a bit dazzled, by this man.
Four years later, Arthur still hasn’t stopped being awestruck by Merlin's...Merlin-ness.
"Alright, now that that's out of the way, I'll say it again. I'm sorry for washing your contacts down the drain, I know how much you can't stand not seeing properly, and I'm really, really sorry, okay? But Arthur...you have to stop sulking over it, yeah?” He shook Arthur’s head.
“It's just us in the flat, you don’t have to 'read' me or whatever it is that you do all the time. It's just us, and…," he pauses, stares intently into Arthur's eyes, and Arthur almost goes cross-eyed from staring at Merlin at close proximity for so long, when Merlin continues.
"And, not all of us are emotionally stunted prats who can’t say what they feel," Merlin grins, wide and cheeky, and Arthur has to try and stop the smile attempting to break out of his own face because he’s still pissed off at Merlin, god damn it.
He doesn't do a good job, apparently, because Merlin starts to laugh. He darts forward to peck Arthur’s lips, does it again, and again… and again, even if the angle is all funny and slightly uncomfortable and weird, until Arthur decides to forgive Merlin just a bit, grabs the back of Merlin’s head to get him to stop moving away bloody hell, and Merlin gets off the floor to straddle Arthur's lap, and how they manage to do that without unattaching their lips is anyone's guess.
After a few (or more) minutes, Merlin leans back to disconnect the kiss, and Arthur opens his eyes. Merlin sits upright, his face a tad too far for Arthur's comfort, and Merlin laughs again. He bends down to briefly suck on Arthur's bottom lip, nips on it before releasing. He touches their foreheads together.
"Gods, you sure pout a lot," Merlin chuckles, breath warm on Arthur’s face, tracing his thumb along the seam of Arthur's lips.
"I do not pout," Arthur protests.
"Shhhhh, we're having a moment," Merlin replies.
Arthur's brows furrow. "A what?"
"Well, now you've ruined it," Merlin buries his face in Arthur's neck and yawns.
"Merlin?" He sniffs, nuzzling and burying his face further in Arthur's neck. Arthur shivers.
“'M tired, gon' nap," comes the muffled reply. He wiggles his bum, snakes his arms around Arthur's waist, and makes himself comfortable on Arthur's lap. "Don't move," Merlin adds.
"But--,” Arthur protests.
But Merlin's already snoring lightly, so Arthur sighs, and wraps his arms around Merlin.
He starts to close his eyes, a fond smile plastered on his face, because really, at the end of it all, Arthur does rely on his sight too much, and the gods and powers that be may have done this to him for the irony or whatever, but…
But he decides that Merlin’s right. Arthur stops hating his bad eyesight a little, because right now, it’s just the two of them, in their home, and Merlin’s the only one worth looking at.