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Summary
“Merlin?” He said, and Merlin realized then that he'd forgotten his voice.
“Arthur,” he said again, because couldn't think of anything else to say. His head echoed finally and safe and so long, so long, so fucking long-
Merlin reached out, just to make sure this wasn't another dream, that Arthur wouldn't be ripped away; wouldn't disappear into the ether—
Arthur’s hand came up to mirror his until they were palm to palm. His skin was sure and steady on Merlin's, damp, a little cold, flaking at the knuckles and real. Real.
Arthur said, "Merlin—"
And Merlin laughed a laugh that felt like a sob, tangled his fingers with Arthur’s, and pulled him to his chest.
Or
The one where Arthur returns, Merlin's door throws a hissy fit, and his apprentice really needs to stop messing around with his books.