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Merlin took a deep breath, watching the way it created a gentle fog when he exhaled. The winter air was biting—ruthless and harsh and unforgiving. Merlin didn’t wear a coat, though. He never did.
He liked the cold.
Liked the numbing effect it brought upon his limbs.
The starry-eyed children and bright-souled adults alike looked forward to the winter for Father Christmas and his gifts each year, but Merlin always found himself praising Jack Frost and his punishing, icy winds. It was distracting. Kept him inside, for the most part. It forced him to stop visiting the lake.
And if he did visit, like now, it was without a jacket or gloves or scarf—no, it was with a simple black tee and denim shorts. It was taking the punishment from the weather in full. He breathed in deep and relished the burn the frosty air left in his lungs. His hands reddened and trembled, and his legs felt weak and frozen, and he loved it, in a sick, self-destructive way.
Merlin kicked a rock into the water, a morbid shiver of pride running cold down his spine when he barely felt it. The splash as it hit the water was loud in the silence of the evening. Everyone had turned in so early.
He didn’t blame them.
It was Christmas Eve, after all.
He let out a soft sigh as he stared out at the still water. It was dark and he couldn’t see beneath the surface, but he knew what—or rather who—rested in its frozen embrace.
He didn’t know how long he stood there. Maybe minutes, maybe hours. Eventually, though, his lips grew numb and if he looked in a mirror, he was sure they’d be starting to blue. Deciding he’d tortured himself enough, he turned around and made his way to the pavement. Thoughts lingering on the lake, he walked slow.
Merlin dragged his feet, not sure where he was going, but knowing it wasn’t home. He didn’t want to go home—couldn’t bear to sleep another night alone. Five-hundred forty-seven thousand and eight hundred sixty-three [give or take] was too many as is. One more, many would say, would be nothing in comparison.
Many aren’t Merlin, though.
Many aren’t the ones who have had to do it.
The yellow light of a small diner caught his eyes across the street and Merlin stopped, staring at it for a moment. Then, figuring he had nothing better to do, he crossed the street and made his way inside. He was surprised it was open so late on Christmas Eve…
A bell chimed as he opened the door and stepped past the threshold. The few patrons who were there—one older man at the bar with greying hair and tired eyes and two young women huddling in the corner with red, puffy eyes and tear-stained faces—glanced over for a moment before returning to their business. It was silent, so much so it was unsettling.
Merlin found he liked it…
There was no hostess to greet him, but a bored looking server leaned against the bar on the other side of it from the older man, on her phone. She glanced up, a look on her face that screamed she’d rather be anywhere else and sighed.
“Sit anywhere,” she told him, voice quiet but carrying easily in the silence.
Merlin nodded slowly and looked around a moment before walking over to a booth in the back corner—the opposite side of the room from the two younger women. He tried not to cringe when his freezing legs and numbing feet made him stumble onto the stiff bench seat rather than smoothly sit down. A small snort echoed out as he righted himself and he resisted the urge not to glare at the old man who’d been watching the whole thing.
He told himself the flush still burning hot on his face was completely from the cold and not even an ounce of embarrassment.
He looked down at the table in front of him, taking in its glossy red paint with chattering teeth and blue-tinted lips. It was chipping, just slightly, but the red was deep and rich. The resemblance it bore to the cloak buried in his closet was impossible to ignore and his dry eyes burned with hot tears.
They hurt—stinging his eyes as they filled his waterline.
Merlin nearly leapt out of his skin when a white ceramic mug was placed in front of him with a clank. He blinked rapidly, grimacing as the tears burned his eyes further at the action, before looking up when his vision was cleared. The bored server from before stood at the end of the table, a startlingly sympathetic smile on her lips.
He looked back to the cup in front of him. Hot chocolate. Steaming hot chocolate. Confusion flitted over his freezing features, and he turned back to the server, lips parted and ready to question her when she took the initiative and answered preemptively.
“You looked cold,” she said, voice soft but firm. She nodded her head back towards the girls across the diner, high ponytail bouncing at the movement. “It’s from them—said you look like you’re having just about a good of a night as them.”
Her lips quirked up in an amused smirk. “Apparently hot chocolate is a cure all.” She paused a moment, then added, “I… Let me know if I can get you anything else.”
It didn’t sound like what she had wanted to say, but before Merlin could say anything else, she turned and walked back to the bar. He watched with a frown as she fixed herself back in her corner and slumped down on her phone, a strange look in her eyes and her eyebrows drawn tight together. He couldn’t help but wonder what her story was.
With a sigh, he shook his head and looked to the drink in front of himself. It looked warm and thick and delicious. His eyes flicked up and his gaze landed on the pair of women across the room. The taller one, her hair red and braided, was slumped down with her face pressed into the shorter one’s neck, clinging to her shirt. The shorter one, however, with dark and curly hair, was staring straight back at him. Her hands gently rubbed circles into the redhead’s back, a comforting action, but her eyes stayed locked on Merlin.
Knowing.
It was unsettling. Yet at the same time, not.
He gave a small smile, the best he could, and nodded his head in thanks. Her lips pulled into a matching smile, tight but real as it could be, and she nodded back before turning her attention back to her partner. At least, Merlin assumed that’s what she was, by the way she pulled the redheaded woman back gently and kissed her forehead, murmuring something he couldn’t hear.
Feeling like a creep and intruder watching them, Merlin exhaled slowly and looked out the window. It was dark and dreary, and Merlin didn’t understand how anyone could be cheery on such a sad night. Gentle rain pattered against the window—something that made Merlin grateful he’d gotten inside when he did.
Christmas Eve or not, it wasn’t a time for cheer. Not to Merlin. Never to Merlin. It was just a reminder of all he’d lost—another year gone and passed without the one person who mattered most.
He took a deep, shaking breath—desperately holding back a cough as warm air flooded his frosty lungs—and wrapped his numbing fingers around the ceramic mug of hot chocolate. The warmth radiating through it from the liquid burned but he didn’t care. Eyes locked onto the gloomy weather outside, he raised the mug to his lips and sipped.
The chocolate was scorching as it slid down his throat, and Merlin wanted to drop the mug and shout, but he kept drinking. He let the hot liquid burn his mouth. At least it helped warm him up.
A bell chimed, soft and twinkling, and Merlin knew it meant someone else had walked in, but he didn’t look up. Didn’t care. He let his gaze shift back to the chipping but vibrant paint on the table as he set his hot chocolate back down. He was fine to mind his own business, until he heard the server’s worried voice.
“Sir?” she asked, a slight waver to her voice. She didn’t sound scared, but worried, and that was enough. Merlin looked over to her, alert and attentive. She gripped her phone tight in her left hand at her side and her brown eyes were wide and startled. “Sir, are you okay? Should I call an ambulance or—or something?”
Merlin’s brows furrowed at the words, but he didn’t take his eyes off of her. He scanned her for any sign of distress, ignoring the patron who had just entered—not even sparing them a glance.
“Are you hurt? Lost?” she pressed, leaning a little forward. The longer Merlin looked, the more he realised she wasn’t worried for herself but for the patron. Then, he heard it.
Words long dead, but painfully familiar to Merlin echoed in the silence—frightened, frantic, and confused.
Merlin watched as the server’s face turned to one of blank confusion, and his heart leapt in his chest. She started to say something else, but her words faded into the background as Merlin slowly dared to look towards the door, breath quickening.
He was soaking wet—absolutely drenched—like he’d just gotten out of the shower he’d taken fully clothed. His shirt and trousers were old and aged and fading, and he wasn’t wearing armour, but his hair was just as blonde as five-hundred forty-seven thousand eight-hundred sixty-three days ago [give or take] and his eyes were just as blue.
Trembling, Merlin pushed himself to his feet.
There was no one else it could have been…
“Arthur?” he asked, voice rough and weak and barely louder than a whisper.
He spun around in an instant, the moment Merlin’s voice reached his ears, and cerulean eyes met sapphire. A sob lodged itself in Merlin’s throat as those eyes he’d thought he’d never see again widened in recognition.
He scrambled out of the booth, stumbling and tripping and rushing like if he moved two slow, he would disappear.
“Arthur,” he breathed, ignoring the way the name shook as it left his tongue. He nearly ran across the diner to him, not stopping until he was standing right before the soaking man, hands shaking at his sides with the desperate need to touch. And so, he did. He reached up slowly, terrified he wouldn’t be able to feel him, and pressed his hands against his face. Cradled his cheeks like he was fragile porcelain.
And he sobbed.
It tore from his throat loud and broken and relieved the moment his fingers pressed against cold, wet skin. “Arthur—Arthur,” he choked out, “It’s—you’re—Arthur…”
“Merlin…?” Another sob wracked his body at the sound of Arthur’s voice saying his name again, hoarse and rough and raw from fifteen centuries of disuse but his. And he couldn’t stop himself. He surged forward, pressing his lips against Arthur’s as he wept.
They were cold and chapped and wet. They tasted like lake water and sand and death. They were Arthur’s lips, though, and they were pressing back against his own hard and desperate and really, he couldn’t help it went he laughed against them. The sound pulled from his chest, laced with a sob, wet and sounding more like a cry than a laugh.
Two cold, wet hands gripped his waist—not harshly, but tight enough to feel. His own right hand slid from Arthur’s face back to his hair, tangling in it, while his left made its way to his throat. His fingers brushed over his pulse and his own heart fluttered when he felt the fast beating of Arthur’s beneath the skin.
Slowly he pulled back to look at his face, still feeling his pulse—as if it would stop beating the second he pulled his hand away. Arthur…he looked—he looked so real. So tangible. He could feel him.
He was there.
He was alive.
Merlin inhaled slowly. Pressed their foreheads together and closed his eyes. His face was wet with tears and his front was wet with the lake water that transferred from Arthur’s front. He didn’t know how long they stayed like that. He was aware of the four sets of eyes locked onto them, confused and startled and strangely touched, but he didn’t care.
He finally felt like he could breathe.
“Merlin?” Arthur asked in a murmur.
Merlin’s heart leapt in his chest, still unused to hearing his voice again, and his eyes fluttered open to meet Arthur’s. He looked confused, still, but happy.
“Arthur?” he responded, quiet. He felt the way Arthur’s heartbeat sped up when he said his name and a rush of pride and love flooded him.
“I’m—hungry,” he told Merlin, thousand-year-old words music to his ears. Then, as if to prove his point, his stomach growled, loud and angry and Merlin…
Merlin laughed, gleeful, head tilted back. He laughed. For what felt like the first time in forever, he laughed so hard his sides hurt because of course. Of course, that would be the first thing his husband said after coming back from the dead.
“Come on,” he said, struggling to compose himself, as he finally let his hands drop from Arthur’s neck and head. Instead, he grabbed one of Arthur’s hands in his own and laced their fingers before dragging him over to the booth he’d sat at.
Arthur looked confused and unsure about it all as Merlin sat him down before sitting across from him, giddy grin spread across his face and painfully wide but never leaving or wavering. Footsteps approached them cautiously and Merlin looked to the server with nothing but pure joy when she stopped in front of their table.
“Whatever you got, we’ll take it,” he said, “please. Just—surprise us. Anything is good.”
She nodded slowly, looking like she wanted to ask questions but was restraining herself. She scribbled something down onto her notepad, hesitating every few moments.
“You wouldn’t—you wouldn't believe me if I even tried to explain,” Merlin finally told her, taking pity on the poor girl. She just shook her head, a small smile on her face as she tucked her pen into her apron and straightened up.
“No need to explain, I know a reunion when I see one,” she said softly, “your food will be right out.” The server paused a moment and tapped the edge of the stable before winking. “It’s on the house. Merry Christmas, you two.”
Merlin watched her walk away with wide eyes, happy but startled it had been that easy. Then, he looked back to Arthur. He resisted the urge to laugh as he stared hard at the table, rubbing at the paint with his hands gently.
“Merlin, look,” he whispered, and Merlin made a note to remember to teach him English [or at least write him a translator spell] as soon as possible. “Look at this strange wood… It’s red.”
Fond warmth spread over his chest, endeared by Arthur’s curiosity of the new world.
“Well,” he murmured back, the old language rough on his tongue, “first of all, it’s not wood… Second of all…a lot’s changed since you—slept—” he couldn’t bring himself to say the word so close to his return, “—and there’s a lot you’ll have to learn.”
“With you?” Arthur asked, looking up with wide eyes. He looked so innocent, so hopeful, Merlin couldn’t help but reach across the table and take Arthur’s hands in his own. Because he could do that now. He could touch him. Hold him. See him.
Merlin let out a shaking breath, grinning impossibly wider. “With me.”