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Tis the middle of the night in the perilous lands. Nearly, but not quite, past the point of no return.
"We can always turn back," the option is out there, now; screeching of what Gwaine had referred to as a pheasant notwithstanding as a pair of men sit beside a spitting fire, shrouded in crouching mist and deepest darkness. To think that Arthur is somewhere out here, all alone... "...why are you doing this?" Merlin asks suddenly. Blurts out, really; he cannot help it. He is stubborn and certain of his need to help Arthur because it is his destiny, but honestly, what is Gwaine doing here with him? Why has he come?
"Same reason as you. To help a friend." It's so simple, how he says that. Open and sweet. The gentility and generosity of Gwaine, shifting in shirt and trousers alone; no armour, no protection save for how strong he is and how well he fights with a sword warms Merlin's heart, particularly as he had said on a previous occasion that no noble, no king was worth dying for.
"Arthur's lucky to have us." Merlin nods as he speaks thus, as though satisfied. Yet Gwaine does not let that be. Merlin should know.
He expels a breath, opens his mouth and looks steadily at Merlin. "Not Arthur," he speaks more quietly this time, and in the light of the fire Merlin looks back at him, registering Gwaine's meaning. At first Merlin is startled and then the warmth increases within him, nearly causing a lump to fill his throat.
"I'd do the same for you," he says, and something shoots through the other man's dark eyes. Relief, it seems, and something else. He almost laughs, at himself.
"I would hope so. You're the only friend I've got."
The warmth in Merlin's chest turns to fire at that moment, burning with his appreciation for Gwaine's words, but also empathy for that underlying sentiment he hears, the one that says because I don't deserve them, I don't deserve you. Tis a voice like the one within Merlin making him wonder as he grew whether he was a monster or not. Yet he knows Gwaine, knows to balance serious words with lightness, and so even as he shifts closer, "I'm not surprised," Merlin says, resting his hand on Gwaine's nearer arm.
Gwaine laughs, catching between his teeth his tongue, and the shrieking screech to chill the marrow sounds again. "That sounds like three pheasants," Merlin's voice is steady and conversational yet his lean body tenses beside Gwaine.
The other feels as well as registers it, and claps his hand over Merlin's, lacing their fingers together for a reassuring squeeze. "At least," Gwaine agrees.
Merlin gazes at their hands, joined in the ruddy light of the little fire, his thin pale fingers and Gwaine's broader rough ones. Seems as if he means to lift his hand away, feeling Merlin's gaze, but Merlin parts his lips and whispers "Don't," without planning to. The apple of his throat bobs as he glances back up at Gwaine and licks full lips, still feeling that warmth within his body, now settling lower. "It's alright."
Gwaine nods, his expression soft as he handles Merlin's stiffness, sees the pounding pulse point in the young fellow's neck, and wanting to comfort him, if he can. Shaking out his hair, Gwaine shifts and opens his left arm, lifting it with their hands still interlocked and offering his side for Merlin to lean on. He flicks his eyes and jerks his chin in a budge over, if you like, expression, and an answering smile splits his face as Merlin smiles and comes in to nestle against his side, shoulder resting upon Gwaine's chest.
He'd offer his shoulder for Merlin's head, but he can't stop gazing into those bright eyes, so clear and blue like the high summer sky, and his sharp cheekbones in such pale skin. He's like some sculpture in the light, or an ephemeral being sent to do good and be kind, to help others without a thought of anything in return. Friends or not; because Gwaine can see the places where Arthur is not Merlin's friend, the certain words and actions that put Merlin down, take advantage of him. Yes, he is Arthur's manservant, but he has so much skill and wit and willingness. Princess ought to see that.
Gwaine holds his friend close and tightly in his arm, pressing his bearded cheek to Merlin's head for an instant.
"You're a wonder," is said, whispered into the crackling fire and slight wind, the shrieking calls of those pheasants, the drumming of Gwaine's heart. And of Merlin's, as he shifts, turns his face to Gwaine's, almost burying himself in the other man's neck, breath ghosting warm across Gwaine's throat and collarbones.
"You're really something too," and Merlin chuckles, that deep rich sound like water pouring from a full-bellied jug, a sound that could make anyone smile, no matter who they are. It makes Gwaine grin now.
"Thanks, yeah, something mad and foolish," he says, but Merlin doesn't laugh at that. His eyes are gentle and understanding, and kind. He reaches up with one elegant long-fingered hand, Gwaine cannot think any word but elegant, and strokes his cheek, pads of fingers and thumb brushing through the bristles of Gwaine's beard, and he may expel a gasp at that - if he does, who can blame him?
But "No, Gwaine," gentle and serious and kind as ever are the following words "Lively and strong. Those things are what you are."
He speaks with such surety, Gwaine is astounded. It's in saying such things that he thinks there is something truly special, uncanny about Merlin - something of old, of elements, of fate and time; as if he knows what others do not or cannot.
So he accepts it, and says "Well alright then, Merlin," with a smile as he shakes out his hair again. Voice almost cracks "Just hope you know how brave and loyal, how wonderful you are. Truly."
He looks into Merlin's face, and sees something there, some burst of emotion before the other expels a sort of wrenching sound, like a sob, and buries himself in Gwaine's arms further, a difficult task to undertake as he'd already been so close, but clearly that is not enough for the slim man. As Gwaine grunts and turns to him, leaning his sword beside himself where he can easily grab hold of the hilt again, Gwaine feels Merlin's cool lengthy hands cup his bearded cheeks, and then his mouth is captured in a searing kiss from those wonderfully plump, and as he registers now, soft giving lips.
Gwaine responds enthusiastically in kind, wrapping his arms around Merlin's back and practically lifting him onto his lap and legs. His hand is in Merlin's hair, fingers spread to clutch on tight as he practically bends him back with the strength of his returned kiss. Merlin gasps, and at last withdraws, high cheekbones glowing bright red in the light of the fire. He licks his lips and leans his forehead against Gwaine's, almost panting it seems, one hand having shifted to clutch the cloth at the opening of Gwaine's shirt, thumb running across his skin.
A smile and a soft kiss on the tip of Merlin's nose precedes Gwaine asking if he'd like to cuddle before Merlin can open his mouth and overthink the situation entire, as the slight crease between his brows is a definite precursor to a mind pinwheel, Gwaine senses it. So Gwaine chooses to let feelings do the work, and strokes Merlin's hair as he pulls the thin fellow to half-sit, half lie against his chest, Merlin's cheek pillowed on his pectoral muscles, listening to Gwaine's heartbeat slow.
They rest together by the fireside glow, listening to the sounds of the night seeming now to simply mutter and mumble low. Pheasant screeches are no matter to them anymore.
They are here, together, in order to help a friend.