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i. What’s in the brain that ink may character
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit?
The first time he opens the sketchbook, he’s not snooping. They’re going to a play by a man Merlin once knew who goes by the name Shakespeare. (He just barely refrains from telling Merlin this is a stupid name; no one shakes a spear.) Anyway, Merlin forgot the tickets in his desk somehow, and asked Arthur to go get them while he started the car. So it’s a complete accident when he opens the bottom desk drawer and sees a large, leather-bound book.
It’s not quite an accident when he opens the book to find a drawing of himself staring back at him. He’s in full Camelot armor with a fierce look on his face and Excalibur raised above his head. Is this how Merlin saw him? (He assumes it’s Merlin who drew this, because who else could it be? His people have turned him into a fairy’s tale, his reign all but forgotten, not to mention his face.) Or—how Merlin sees him, seeing as the page looks much newer than all the old crusty documents Merlin made him look at in that museum last week. Interesting.
He turns the page, eager to see what else Merlin drew. Whatever he’s expecting though, it’s certainly not what’s on the page in front of him. A (frankly inappropriate) drawing of Gwaine looks up at him, wearing a shit-eating grin instead of a tunic, and with his breeches open and his cock hard against his stomach. How would Merlin—
Oh. Oh.
He may or may not stare at it in shock until Merlin presses the horn on the car and yells, “Hurry up you prat we’re going to be late!”
Well he’s definitely not going to let a drawing of Gwaine be the last thing he sees in this book. He turns the page, and is gratified to find a rather nice drawing of himself and Guinevere laughing together in their rooms. He swipes his thumb reverently over his wife’s face, taking in all the details. Sweet, lovely Gwen. He misses her, but from what little Merlin’s told him, she lived a long and happy life, as she deserves. Deserved. She's dead now.
His eyes are wet as he shuts the book and places it back where it came from. And oh, there are the tickets, right on top of the desk. He must’ve missed them before. He widens his eyes to remove any trace of tears, and runs out the door to where Merlin is now apparently laying on top of the car horn.
--
ii. What’s new to speak, what now to register,
That may express my love or my dear merit?
The second time, he’s definitely snooping. Yes, he’s man enough to admit it. It’s just that Merlin doesn’t leave him alone very much, claiming he’s worried Arthur will mistreat his not-silver silverware.
(“This is all silver? How rich are you, Merlin?”
“No, it used to be silver but—”
“Did you magic it into something else so no one would steal it? That’s almost smart!”
“Er, no, there was a time when it was made of silver and only the rich had them, but now they’re made of stainless steel but still called silverware.”
“Stainless steel? They should make clothes from it, it would save people so much—why are you laughing, it cannot be that funny!”)
Merlin is in the shower now though, and so Arthur is given a few minutes to look through the sketchbook again. He takes a precious few seconds to admire the first drawing again, attempting to determine what Merlin is trying to say about him. That he’s a good warrior? A good king? Or is Arthur just reading into a non-descript drawing of himself that Merlin drew when he was bored?
The next drawing is still Gwaine, no matter how Arthur wishes it weren’t, and well, that meaning is clear enough. He always thought they had an extremely close relationship, but—well, Merlin did keep a lot of secrets from him back then.
There doesn’t seem to be anything besides happiness written (drawn?) on his and Gwen’s faces in the next picture, so he moves on.
The fourth page appears to have been ripped out. Maybe Merlin was planning on giving him a drawing of Gwen for the anniversary of his return day? His heart leaps into his throat at the thought, and he forces himself to consider that Merlin simply didn’t like that particular drawing. He’s not sure why his body reacted that way (except he does know, deep down).
To distract himself he thinks about how Merlin will be out of the shower soon, that he needs to be ready to put the book away at a moment’s notice, but his traitorous mind then pictures Merlin in the shower, his hair finally tamed flat against his head, the rivulets of water cascading down his strong, lean body. He means to stop thinking about it, he really does, except the rivulets are running over his pert little arse, and he’s understandably distracted.
When he stops wasting time thinking about Merlin, he focuses on the next drawing: Gwaine again. This time he’s (thankfully) clothed, sitting in the tavern with a pint, gesticulating like he’s in the middle of a hair-raising tale. This drawing too, is obviously done with affection. It’s in all the details, the individual hairs on Gwaine’s head, the scar on his forearm that’s just barely visible from that angle, but there all the same. He really must have loved him.
Merlin turns off the shower, and Arthur knows he only has a minute or so left before— He turns the page quickly.
There’s a sketch of Percival and Leon sparring, followed by one of Arthur besting Gwaine, and these look rushed. Not only because they’re the first unfinished works in the book, but the feeling Arthur gets from looking at them is one of urgency. No one is fully detailed in these, but there’s a sense of desperation. Were these distant memories? Something that happened at training that day? Was someone hurt? He hears the bathroom door open and quickly shoves the book away.
--
iii. Nothing, sweet boy; but yet like prayers divine
I must each day say o’er the very same,
The third time, he’s tipsy. Possibly drunk. Who’s to say, really? Not Merlin, who passed out ten minutes ago on the couch, and whose unconscious body Arthur had to drag to his bed so the warlock could sleep properly. (It has nothing to do with the fact that the couch is too small for Arthur to join Merlin without crushing him.) They’d been reminiscing on Camelot and his time as king, and he’s feeling nostalgic so he sits at Merlin’s desk and pulls out the sketchbook again.
He flips to the urgent-feeling sketches, and turns to the next page. His heart nearly stops as he takes in the faces of his closest knights and council, seated around the round table. Everyone looks tense, and when he squints he can see battle plans on the table. Something niggles in the back of his brain, but he’s too drunk to think about it too hard. He is concerned that everyone looks so on edge. He remembers Round Table meetings as something fun, the highlights of his days as king. But perhaps he just saw what he wanted. There’s no way to tell anymore, they’re all dead. Except Merlin. Maybe he’ll ask about it tomorrow.
He's hoping the next page reveals a drawing of Camelot. He misses his home so much…
He stops himself from finishing that thought. He can’t wake Merlin up sobbing about a home Merlin himself was forced to leave behind a thousand years ago. It wouldn't be fair. Maybe another drink?
When he finally turns the page (after checking that Merlin looked comfortable in bed and wasn’t going to be sick), he’s glad he grabbed that extra drink.
It’s Avalon.
There’s a caption on this drawing: “One Year Later.” He doesn’t need to ask what event Merlin is referring to, it’s fairly obvious.
Poor Merlin. Poor, dear, tenderhearted Merlin. If Merlin were looking over his shoulder right now, he would try to laugh it off, call him a girl. He probably would have failed, if the choked feeling in his throat is any indication.
He downs his drink in one, and flips to the next page. He has to take advantage of a sleeping Merlin to see what else is here, especially if it’s going to make him feel this way.
The next one is Avalon as well. “Two Years Later.” It doesn’t look much different, a new tree branch or two perhaps, but nothing major. As would be expected.
It’s no less devastating though.
He braces himself before turning the next page, deciding against another drink. He’d be dead before he reached the end if he took a drink before each new page.
There’s a ripped page before another Avalon drawing. “Five Years Later.” The shoreline looks slightly different, but that’s not what worries Arthur. How many more of these will he find? Hundreds? Will he be able to bear looking at the deterioration of his grave?
And how did Merlin feel, he asks himself, visiting every few years and waiting for a sign of Arthur’s return? He feels bile rising in his throat and barely makes it to the toilet before throwing up. How could he stand it? How is this Merlin, snoring on the bed behind him, still alive? Physically, he knows, but mentally, how did he survive? Arthur knows with a certainty as he washes his mouth out, that he would never have survived what Merlin went through.
Miraculously, Merlin is still asleep when he returns to the bedroom.
He turns the page, and sees “Ten Years Later.” Best to get this bit over with now. He’s about to turn the page when he sees markings on the back of “Five Years Later.” Five marks, to be precise. Did Merlin…?
Oh gods, Merlin. Wonderful, strong, beautiful Merlin visited Avalon every year on the anniversary of his death.
Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, forty, forty-five, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety, one hundred. Arthur flips through them quickly, wanting it to be over. There’s another missing page in there as well as some old papers he doesn’t pay attention to. He has to get through this tonight.
One fifty, two hundred, two seventy-five, three fifty, five hundred, five hundred and six, five hundred and seven, six hundred, six thirty-seven, seven hundred and two, eight hundred, eight hundred and ninety-eight, one thousand and twelve. He watches the effect of the years on his resting place, aging in less than a minute instead of almost a thousand years.
“Fifteen Hundred And Two Years Later.” The last one. He knows this because he’s there, napping on the shore as if he’d just fallen asleep instead of died for over a thousand years. The opposite page is so covered with marks that it's practically black. It's a wonder Merlin was ever able to count them all.
(“You want me to sleep? You tell me I’ve just woken up after thousands of years and you want me to sleep?”
“For the last time Arthur, it’s been one thousand five hundred and two years, and yes, I need you to sleep! I need to—I need to process this!”
“Merlin! Merlin! Stop that, you’ll tear your hair out! Merlin are you-? Merlin!? Fine, I’ll sleep, alright? Just calm. Down. Please. I'll be right here.”)
Now he sees that Merlin needed closure. To see Arthur there, breathing, in front of the lake he spent so many years staring at. And he’d been a prat about it. Again.
He closes the book heavily, consumed with guilt and grief. How could he possibly apologize to Merlin? There wasn’t a gesture big enough, words strong enough to express how sorry he was for his friend.
But there was one thing he could do, he thought as he climbed into bed and hugged Merlin to him. He could make sure Merlin was never alone again.
--
iv. Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallowed they fair name.
This time, he’s more prepared. Merlin’s run to pick up some curry for dinner, so he isn’t sure how long he has. But he remembers seeing old pieces of parchment stuffed in between the drawings of Avalon, and he needs to see them. They might be important. (Who is he fooling? Of course they’re important, or Merlin wouldn’t have kept them.)
And if he has any extra time, he wants to go back to the beginning and look at the drawings again in order. He’d realized (after his hangover went away) that what he’d seen meant the drawings started from the Camelot days. Merlin clearly had spelled the book to remain ageless or some other magical nonsense.
He closes the bedroom door and pulls out the book. The old papers are stuck in between “Twenty Five Years Later” and “Thirty Years Later,” and he pulls them out carefully. He forces himself to lay out all three papers before allowing himself to focus on the content.
They’re portraits of Arthur, Leon, and Gwen.
He looks so young in his portrait with Gwen. They're in the woods, her head resting on his shoulder. She still has servant’s garb on, but they look so happy and free. Before he was king then, before the weight of the crown bore down on both of them. They’re looking at each other, and the love is palpable. Pouring off the page. Arthur’s love for Gwen, Gwen’s love for Arthur, Merlin’s love for both of them.
And it hurts. Oh, it hurts. He wants to go back to those halcyon days, when he didn’t have to worry about anything important.
He turns the first drawing upside down, unable to look at it anymore, to think about why it was torn out, what it means that the other two are of Gwen and Leon…
Leon is the only adult in the second drawing. He stands tall in his noblemen’s clothes, happier than Arthur ever remembers seeing him. There’s a child on his shoulders, a child that looks like Gwen. He moves on quickly to the next one.
The third drawing is of Gwen on the throne, Leon standing just behind her. It must’ve been done just after he— There’s no reason to suspect a relationship between them just from this drawing, but seen together with the second one…Gwen looks regal, as she always did. There’s a certain sadness in her eyes, but her lips are turned up slightly, as if she’s thinking of something bittersweet. Leon is looking at her with reverence that Arthur now knows goes beyond knight-to-sovereign devotion. The whole drawing seems to convey a mixture of love and grief.
He turns back to the second drawing, curious about Leon and Gwen’s child. He has short curly hair, like Elyan used to, but there’s something about the shape of his face that reminds Arthur of Leon. The child wears Leon’s determined expression as well, pointing off to the right side of the page, his other hand clutched in Leon’s curls. There's such joy in the image, Arthur finds himself smiling at it despite the prickling of tears in his eyes.
He blinks and gathers up the papers. He’s seen enough for today, and Merlin will be home soon. He has no idea how much time has passed since the other man left, but Arthur needs a few minutes to collect himself again, to act as usual when Merlin gets home.
It’s as he’s putting the pages away that he thinks to match them to the tears in the book. A masochistic part of him wants to know exactly when Leon and Gwen became a couple. He assumes the first rip is associated with his and Gwen’s portrait, even though at that time it would have been a memory, since the drawings seem to have started after he became king.
He places the first drawing where he saw it first, not wanting Merlin to know he’s looked at this yet, and is able to match the drawing of Gwen as queen to between “Two Years Later” and “Five Years Later,” and Leon and the child between “Ten Years Later” and “Fifteen Years Later.”
When Merlin comes back with the curry, it’s to Arthur sobbing into his arms the way he's kept himself from doing since he returned.
“Hey hey hey,” Merlin whispers, pulling him up off the desk and bringing him to the bed. “Arthur.”
Arthur clutches at Merlin, trying to steady himself. He’s not entirely sure how he got here, weeping in Merlin’s arms like a woman. He was thinking about Gwen moving on with Leon, finally having the child she wanted, and he realized he was happy for her, for both of them. They deserved a long, fulfilling life. But then his thoughts had turned to Merlin, living through the end of Leon and Gwen’s lives, through the life of their child (children?), through the lives of their grandchildren and great-grandchildren, through the fall of Camelot, the rise of new kingdoms and empires, through the end of traditions and religions and the beginning of new ones. All alone. Waiting for him.
“They’re gone,” is all he can choke out before his throat closes against the words. It’s not what he wanted to say, it doesn’t get his real message across: how did you bear it all these years? But he doesn’t know how to say it now. Anything he can think of is too little, too late.
“I know,” Merlin replies quietly, thickly, and Arthur knows he’s crying now too. “I’m so sorry, Arthur. I’m so sorry.”
They’re both silent for a little before Merlin says, “They loved you, Arthur. Until the very end, all of them.”
He squeezes Merlin tighter. "Were they happy?" Were you happy, he wants to ask.
"Yes, after a while. You weren't the only one of our friends who lost his life then."
Arthur pulls back to look questioningly at Merlin.
"Gwaine."
Gwaine. He thinks of the drawings of Gwaine Merlin had put so much time and love into. It must have been devastating for him. "I'm...sorry, Merlin."
Merlin nods. "It was a hard time for everyone. I tried to make sure everyone was looked after, though. I thought that would be what you and Gwaine would have wanted."
“And you? Were you taken care of? Looked after?”
“While Gwen lived, yes.” He turns away, and his answer is too short, brings up too many questions about what Merlin went through, but one still bubbles in Arthur’s throat.
“How did you do it? How did you...live?”
“I had to,” Merlin says, and his voice has taken a hard edge now. “There was no other choice.”
Arthur thinks about those three pages, so worn and well-loved where the rest of the book is pristine. Did Merlin pull them out when he missed them? Or did he stop looking at them after a time?
They hold each other for a long time in silence, their curry getting cold in the kitchen.
--
v. So that eternal love in love’s fresh case
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
After his breakdown, Merlin doesn’t leave him alone for a while. They resolutely don’t talk about Camelot or the past, and it’s fine, but Arthur is still curious about the drawings. There seemed to be plenty more after the Avalon series (Merlin told him about artists painting or sculpting something called a ‘series’ in an attempt to culture him; he assumes it’s the same with drawings), but he isn’t sure what he’ll find.
Finally, almost a week later (and yes, Merlin did shower in that time, but Arthur wanted to be more careful what with all his emotions being wrung out of him the last two times), Merlin finally agrees to go grocery shopping without Arthur.
He’s careful not to look at the Avalon pages too closely as he turns to a new drawing, a portrait. The man in the drawing looks familiar, though Arthur swears he didn’t see him in Camelot. Maybe Merlin has a picture of him somewhere around the flat? Or Arthur saw him on the telly? Whoever it is, there are a lot of drawings of him: in bed (thankfully clothed); in some kind of room, pointing and talking; hunched over a desk towering with papers; grinning in what Arthur knows immediately are court clothes, despite the difference in style. A king? That would explain why Arthur recognizes him. (It was the part of Merlin’s culture lessons he actually paid attention to, the old kings.)
King or not, his clothes are ridiculous. That collar looks like a fan Morgana used to flaunt at banquets, and the tunic looks puffy and unflattering. And did he have to show so much leg? It’s practically indecent, how closely his clothes fit his calves. The man doesn’t seem that fit, either (at least not as fit as Arthur). Really, did Merlin find this man attractive? Or was it just that he was the king? But he can feel that feeling of Merlin’s love for the subject in all of these, so it can't just be obligation.
He can feel himself getting angrier, and he knows he needs to calm down before Merlin gets back, so he keeps going until he gets to a drawing that’s not this other king.
Not for the first time, he’s shocked by what he sees there. It’s undeniably Arthur, but now he’s in that ridiculous collar and ridiculous outfit, in the same wooden room as that other king. Not only that, but he has a second pair of ears sticking up out of his head and a besotted expression on his face. It’s eerily similar to a scene from the play he and Merlin saw not too long ago, where the fairy turned the man’s head into a donkey’s and made the fairy queen fall in love with him. Well. That would explain why Merlin was so excited to take him to this particular play. He thought it was because of the donkey ear fiasco back in Camelot.
He thinks maybe the next drawing will give it some more context but it’s just him again, in a different strange outfit. He seems to be wearing next to nothing, just a sheet that goes across one shoulder and falls just above his knees. Is it—a dress? Merlin!
The following drawing is, if possible, worse. There is an extremely short tunic and very tight leggings that show…everything. There are even And the hat! Is this payback for the ridiculous outfits he’d made Merlin wear as his servant? (He has no clue as to why else Merlin would draw him in such horrific clothes.)
They are going to have a talk about this.
--
vi. Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page,
“Merlin, when did people wear giant collars, like this?” he asks during dinner later that night, gesturing with his hands next to his ears.
Merlin stares at him for a second, then says, “The Elizabethan era. During the reign of Queen Elizabeth I,” he adds at Arthur’s blank look.
“Oh. What were you doing back then? How long ago was it?”
“It was in the late 1500s. That was the time when I met Shakespeare. Remember when we went to see Midsummer Night’s Dream? He wrote that.”
That drawing—bloody Shakespeare. He remembers now, it was on the back of the program for the play, the image of the playwright, nearly identical to Merlin's other king. Who clearly wasn't a king after all.
Not that that mattered to Merlin, apparently.
“Oh your friend, Shakespeare? How close were you two?” There’s a cruel edge to his voice but he can’t help it. He’s just so frustrated.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly how it sounds, how close were you to him? Were you lovers?”
“Why would you think that?” Merlin’s voice is raised now, and Arthur is sure he sees his eyes flicker to the bedroom, as if all the proof is there in that stupid sketchbook.
“Well you seemed to really enjoy his play when we went to see it, kept going on about how he used to do things—”
“Arthur!” Merlin’s stood up now, and Arthur can see he’s shaking.
“Well?” He grips his fork and knife as tight as he can to stop his own body from shaking.
“You—! I—! What if we were?” Merlin’s spitting the words out like they’re poison. “Despite your royal opinions, some people actually find me charming!”
Of course they were lovers, who could resist Merlin? The fight goes out of Arthur, and he crosses stiffly to their bedroom door before the slump of his spirit affects his posture as well. “I need to— You’re not to disturb me until I come out, do you understand?”
“Yes, sire.” Merlin doesn’t even look at him, still glaring over his plate at Arthur’s empty chair.
He locks the door behind him, not that that will keep Merlin out, but he needs to make his point. He paces the room trying to calm down, because he knows this is the perfect time to look at the book while Merlin is...busy.
He pulls it out and stares down at the drawings of Shakespeare. Not a king, but bloody well might've been, for all his fame. And Merlin knew him, loved him, may still love him. Maybe if Arthur was different, more artistic like Merlin and Shakespeare, Merlin would love him.
Eventually he takes the sketchbook over to the bed and curls up with it, trying to find some comfort in the pillows and blankets (it's nothing to do with the smell of Merlin in the sheets, of course).
Comfortable, he looks past the Shakespeare drawings and finds more drawings of himself in strange clothes. Several include tight trousers and a long coat with long white hair similar to Gaius’ (although without the accompanying wrinkles, thank god). A few also have frilly fabric at the neck and sleeves of the coat, and some show a bow tied around his neck as if he’s a present to be given during Yule. There are a variety of ridiculous hats as well.
Later still, others from Camelot also make an appearance in these strange clothes, including (to Arthur’s dismay) Gwaine with ridiculous curling white hair and tight trousers. Some show the knights, Arthur and Gwen sitting together drinking tea or playing cards or something, as if they'd really all been together after Camelot. Gaius and Hunith make an occasional appearance as well.
Slowly he can see the clothes looking more and more like what Merlin gave him to wear in present day (although Gwen's dress styles change the most, drawing to drawing). The later group drawings include an armchair eerily similar to Merlin's, soon joined by the couch and loveseat pair (albeit in a different pattern), and some of the art that still graces Merlin's walls. This should mean something to him, but he's having to pry his eyes open every now and then to keep looking...
--
vii. Finding the first conceit of love there bred
Where time and outward form would show it dead.
Arthur wakes up curled against Merlin’s body, warm and content. He almost drifts off again before thoughts of last night have him bolting upright. Merlin is staring down at the open sketchbook on his lap, eyebrows furrowed. He’s been caught.
“Don’t ever do that to me again.” Merlin’s voice is choked with emotion, but he still stares at the book.
“I won’t,” Arthur immediately promises, and then- “Er, I won’t do what exactly?”
“Lock me out, push me away.”
“But you could’ve gotten in with your,” he waves a hand vaguely.
“I didn’t want to invade your privacy, but you—you weren’t answering and I may have….overreacted.”
Arthur follows Merlin’s gaze to the- well, what was left of the bedroom door. “You destroyed it.”
“I was so scared. I thought maybe you had, that you’d—died again.”
Merlin is back to staring at the sketchbook, tracing an outline of Arthur’s face in a sketch Arthur hasn’t seen before in the book. He’s back in Camelot clothes- court clothes this time, and Arthur doesn’t recognize the drawing.
“I didn’t. I’m still here.” Everything is inadequate again. “I’m sorry I looked at your sketchbook without your permission.”
Merlin sighs. “It’s okay. I should’ve shown you a while ago, but…it brings up a lot of old memories I don’t like revisiting.”
Arthur nods against Merlin’s shoulder. “I can see that.” Then he sits up. “But I do have some questions. Starting with ‘why did you think it was okay to dress me like Shakespeare?’ and ending in ‘why didn’t I know you were sleeping with Gwaine?’.”
“That’s all you want to know?”
“For now. Now answer the questions.”
“I…told Will—Shakespeare—about you and how I wished you could be here—there—and he told me to draw you in modern day as if you were there with me. And then to dress you in whatever era I wanted. Women’s fashion is so much more interesting than men’s though, so I added Gwen and then the knights, trying to figure out who would wear what. And when that wasn’t enough, I put you all in my living room.”
“They seem like they must’ve taken a while.”
“Not really, and I only did them every time I got something new or the styles changed. Mostly I drew you.”
“Me?”
A sigh. “Yes, you. Look here.” Merlin flips to the back cover and turns the page backwards to reveal the last page, full of several drawings of Arthur’s eyes and brow. “You look, I’m going to go make some breakfast.”
“No,” Arthur’s hand shoots out to grab Merlin’s wrist. “Stay, please.”
Merlin is silent while Arthur looks, feeling the love pouring off the drawings of himself. He wonders, though, whether the love is just platonic, servant-to-king love in Merlin’s case. Or if it is the love in Arthur’s eyes for Merlin. There are hundreds upon hundreds of drawings, here at the back of the book.
“I don’t…why?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I love you.” It’s so simple when Merlin says it, although his voice shakes a bit on the admission. Arthur has to grip Merlin’s hand tighter because the world is tilting beneath him. Merlin loves him.
“But—I—why didn’t you tell me? Or just give me one of these or something?”
“Well clearly seeing these didn’t spark anything in that tiny brain of yours. And we can’t all be bloody Shakespeare!”
“What the hell does Shakespeare even have to do with anything?” Arthur forgets that he’s confused, forgets that Merlin just declared his love for him, because he wants to throttle Shakespeare, dead though he may be.
“He wrote multiple sonnets – poems, Arthur I thought we went over this already – to each of his lovers so they knew he loved them. And I- I don’t have the words to express how much,” the pitch of Merlin’s voice gets higher and higher and suddenly Merlin’s lips are on his in the middle of the sentence. But it doesn’t matter because Merlin loves him.
A few minutes later, or perhaps an hour by the way Arthur’s stomach is growling, he pulls back. “You still didn’t answer my other question.”
“What question?” Merlin’s mouth is shiny and pink from where Arthur had nipped at it, and he almost forgets what his question had been, mesmerized as he always is with Merlin.
“You were sleeping with Gwaine?””
Merlin’s mouth twitches, trying to hide a smile. “Why, you jealous?”
“No,” he says with all the authority he can muster, but Merlin just laughs.
“Yes, I was sleeping with Gwaine.”
“Why didn’t I know? I thought we were friends.”
“It was just a few times, I didn’t think it was important enough to mention.”
Arthur groans in frustration, but it comes out sounding like a growl. “Was there anyone else?”
“When, in Camelot?” Merlin narrows his eyes. “Do you really want to know or are you just going to be jealous of a bunch of dead people?”
“So there have been others. They’re all dead?”
“I wouldn’t tell you even if they were alive,” Merlin answers primly. “You’d just beat them up, and Harry doesn’t—uh, nevermind.” He turns pink and shuts his eyes tight before jerking his head towards Arthur’s, their noses bumping painfully.
“Ow,” is all Arthur can get out before Merlin’s head has adjusted and his lips are covered in Merlin’s soft ones. He knows the sudden kiss is an attempt to forget the name of Merlin’s lover, but he can’t bring himself to care.
After all, Arthur is the one whose face and body are lovingly and painstakingly rendered hundreds or thousands of times in the sketchbook, not anyone else’s.