Work Text:
Merlin doesn’t know what wakes him.
He opens his eyes, noting that the only light coming from the window is the cool light of the city at night, and that, besides the light noise from the heating system, the flat is quiet. So it’s nothing obvious. His sleep-addled mind wonders if maybe it’s his bladder, but then he thinks that if it’s not obvious that it’s his bladder, then it’s probably not.
Looking at the clock on the side table, he can only just make out a time of 2:27 am before the electric red irritates his eyes enough to make him look away. Still the middle of the night, then. It’s harder to tell, these days, as the days get shorter and shorter.
Merlin groans, then, at the revelation, turning on his other side only to see the place beside him empty. For a second, the lack of another solid body beside him doesn’t even register, and he stretches his arm out to seek the well-known warmth, only to (unsurprisingly) find the place there cold, as if it has been empty for the whole night.
An anxious swirl starts gaining speed at the pit of his stomach, and, running a hand down his face, Merlin sighs. Right, he thinks. He’s never slept well when stressed.
He pushes the blanket aside, refusing to shiver in the cool air, and makes his way out of the bedroom. There’s no point waiting, anyway. Sleep’s not coming, and neither is Arthur.
The large flat feels larger and emptier in the night; something weirdly unfamiliar, though it’s been just over a year, now, since he moved in. Something about it makes him pause, almost making him feel stuck in the empty space.
He doesn’t linger for too long, though, too impatient.
Merlin pads across the floor, footsteps light and just about silent, only to pause, again, in the entryway to the kitchen. His lips twitch in a smile, and he’s entirely too tired to approach this with any tact.
Cold blue light spills from the open fridge door as Arthur digs restlessly through it, though Merlin doesn’t know what he’s looking for, because the only thing he’s allowed to have is water. Making his way towards him, Merlin lets his arms wrap around Arthur’s waist, pulling his body back against his own.
Impressively, Arthur barely even jumps at his sudden presence.
“Come back to bed,” he whispers into the side of Arthur’s neck, just before kissing it and hooking his chin over Arthur’s shoulder, “the doctor said you can’t eat anything after eight, anyway.”
Arthur grunts but, besides leaning back into him, doesn’t move.
“Can’t sleep,” he says instead, refusing to look at anything that’s not the top shelf of the fridge. Merlin squeezes him a little tighter to his body and stares at the glowing, blue, empty shelf with him. He knows this is the closest Arthur will get to admitting he’s nervous.
Merlin murmurs his name before nudging him to turn around.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Arthur sighs, though it’s muffled by Merlin’s shoulder.
“Don’t be daft,” he whispers, kissing his hair. And then, as a truly pitiful last attempt to ease the tension radiating off of Arthur, says, “not everything’s about you, you know. Maybe I just wanted a sandwich.”
The replying snort makes him grin and cling a little tighter. It’s been weirder to wake up in bed without Arthur than with him for a long time, now. He doesn’t know how he’s going to handle the next few days when he has to go to bed without him, too.
Arthur tsks, pulling back a bit, but Merlin’s pleased to note more teasing mirth in his eyes than calculatedly controlled anxiety.
“You’re going to eat a sandwich in front of me, knowing I’m starved and unable to do anything about it?” Arthur asks, voice brimming with mock-offence. Merlin feels his grin widen before he rests their foreheads together, just barely resisting the urge to thoroughly embarrass himself by rubbing his nose with Arthur’s.
“I’ll think of you with each bite,” he swears solemnly, then cuts off Arthur’s sputter of protest with a deep, long kiss, unable to hold back anymore.
Arthur cups his face with one hand and grips his forearm with another, sighing into the kiss. Merlin palms his back, pulling him closer still, and gently nips at his lower lip, making Arthur let out a breathy moan.
Merlin’s not sure how much time passes before they pull back, but even when they do, he doesn’t go very far.
“It’ll be fine,” he says, leaning against the counter while he watches Arthur’s silhouette be framed by the cold light, “they’re the best of the best, Uther made sure of it. You’ll be in and out, complaining and high on the medication, before I even have a chance to breathe a sigh of relief for finally being rid of you.”
Arthur chuckles, and Merlin can’t help cataloging everything about him at this moment: the way his hair looks almost silver, without the sun to weave in between the usually gold strands, and how it sticks up on random sides of his head; his rumpled grey t-shirt, now that he can’t sleep shirtless because of the biting cold; how soft and tired and extremely lovely he looks, standing there in their kitchen in the middle of the night.
“Eager to get rid of me, are you?”
Humming, Merlin looks away. No, he really isn’t, not at all. But Arthur doesn’t need to hear about his fears right now. He’s the one having a six hour surgery in five hours, not Merlin.
“Come here,” he says instead, reaching an arm out between them. It’s just like he did earlier, in their bed, but this time his hand isn’t left reaching for empty space. This time, Arthur’s here to take his hand with his own, slightly colder, one.
Grasping his fingers and pulling him close, Merlin hooks one arm around Arthur’s waist again, and takes his other hand, beginning to sway and pulling Arthur with him.
“Merlin,” Arthur starts incredulously, but he’s pleased to note that he wraps his own arm under Merlin’s armpit to hook his own hand around Merlin’s shoulder, “what on earth are you doing?”
“Dancing,” he replies, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world - which, it sort of is, so it’s warranted - “and actually, that’s a team effort. So it’s more like what are we doing. To which the answer is still dancing.”
“God, shut up. I meant it more in a ‘why are we dancing’ sort of way. Obviously.”
“Well then why didn’t you just ask why, you clotpole?”
“You can’t call me a clotpole this week,” Arthur reminds him, not sounding too bothered either way. Merlin hums, smiling to himself, and raises his hand, silently nudging Arthur to twirl.
Arthur, of course, is always difficult and a clotpole, so he just raises an unimpressed eyebrow and forces Merlin’s hand down again.
“Absolutely not,” he refuses, moving his feet until they’re no longer just swaying, but moving in a slow circle.
Merlin pinches his waist, making him jump. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m also not a girl.”
“I twirled for you at Gwen and Morgana’s wedding,” he points out.
“That’s because you are a girl,” Arthur replies reasonably, as if he’s ever reasonable. Merlin just rolls his eyes and pinches him again, this time making Arthur both jump and scowl.
“Careful, I’ll tell Morgana what you said and she’ll kill you,” he threatens, but then completely belies the sentiment by brushing a quick kiss against his lips.
“Tattletale,” Arthur accuses, making him grin again.
“Mm, I’m helping you be a better person.”
“Can’t be a better person if I’m dead,” Arthur argues, grumbling, and it’s almost enough to make Merlin miss the fact that he’s not talking about Morgana at all, but not quite.
Merlin slows them down again, and looks at Arthur until he looks back. His eyes catch the light of the still-open fridge, making them a startling blue - a stark contrast to the otherwise dark kitchen. He closes the fridge door, mourning the loss of how easy it made it to see Arthur, and then waits for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
When they do, he can only just make out Arthur’s features, and only very vaguely. It’s not ideal, but it’s enough.
“Everything is going to be fine,” he says, after a bit, trying to reassure him, and uses the hand at Arthur’s waist to rub small, soothing circles at the base of his spine.
Arthur looks away, tightening his hold on his shoulder, and Merlin watches helplessly as he clenches and unclenches his jaw, as if forcing himself to get it together. He wants to say, it’s okay, you don’t have to be brave with me, and, I can take whatever you throw at me if you need to get it out, but doesn’t. He knows Arthur knows it all, already.
“Arthur,” he starts, but cuts himself off when Arthur turns to look at him, eyes almost pleading him to stop. Merlin nods, almost to himself, minutely, pulling him even closer, and starts turning them in circles again. He's not going to push Arthur. Not tonight. Not about this.
“You never answered, you know,” Arthur says, after a minute of silent swaying. “Why we’re dancing.”
“Maybe I just want a redo of the dance we had at Morgana and Gwen’s wedding,” he replies, raising his eyebrow, daring Arthur to call him out. It’s not the truth, of course, not really. Mostly it’s because he’s nervous for the fast-approaching morning - because he knows Arthur is, too - and because he just wants to hold him.
“I’m offended, Merlin. Every one of my dances are nothing short of excellent,” Arthur sniffs haughtily, and Merlin can’t help but grin, again. Yes, it had been rather perfect, that dance. All of the dances they shared that night. It had just been a perfect day - they were surrounded by family, drunk on disgustingly expensive wine, completely mad for each other, and it was all during a very, very happy (and long-awaited, really) occasion.
“Well, maybe my standards just aren’t as low as yours,” he shrugs, grin turning into a smirk when Arthur glares in reply.
“You're right, mine must be pretty low if I’m still with you.”
Merlin feels his jaw drop, and lets out an offended, “oi!” before pinching Arthur’s waist once again. Arthur laughs, trying to get away, but Merlin’s not about to let that happen. He bites his earlobe as well, just for good measure, and revels in every answering chuckle.
After that, it’s mostly silent besides their shuffling feet and occasional breathy laughs. Merlin manages to coax Arthur to twirl once - though it’s with a completely over-dramatic eye roll - which makes him almost unreasonably giddy, and Arthur keeps stepping on his toes on purpose, because he’s a clotpole and a prat.
They have to get ready to leave for the hospital in a few hours - no sense in going back to sleep, now - because Morgana’s picking them up, and she has absolutely no patience to be kept waiting. They had told her over and over that, really, they will be fine, but she had insisted, saying she didn’t trust either of them to drive. Merlin, secretly, thinks her insistence is because she wants to be with her brother, because maybe she’s a little scared, too.
For now, though, they can stay in this little pocket of time for a little while longer, so Merlin holds Arthur even closer, and doesn’t let him go.