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Merlin stares at the heavy blobs of snowflakes piling high and raging just beyond the entrance of a small cave, and shivers beside Arthur where they crouch on the ground inside said cave. Nature just had to choose today, of all days, to begin winter when Arthur and him were in the middle of a hunt and severely underdressed.
Earlier that morning, orange and copper coloured leaves still littered the courtyard when Merlin had crossed it. The air had been nippy but at least the sun shone, as if winter still had weeks to go before arriving. But it came unannounced, uninvited, and certainly unwanted.
“I-it doesn’t look like it’s g-going to stop snowing anytime s-soon,” Arthur mutters, rubbing his arms and glaring at the unrelenting snowstorm outside.
Merlin agrees, hands shoved under his armpits to try and keep his fingers from freezing solid. “P-prat! I t-told you we shouldn’t have g-gone hunting alone!” he says for the second time that afternoon. “N-nothing good e-ever comes out of it!”
“S-seemed like you needed to g-get out of the c-castle,” Arthur says back, angling his body towards Merlin so his back faces the entrance.
“Me?” Merlin squawks, although grateful that Arthur changed positions. It doesn’t seem as cold when they’re turned towards each other. “Y-you’re the one that was e-eager to leave!”
“I t-thought we c-could use a breather,” Arthur says, shoulders visibly shaking as he huddles closer to Merlin, their foreheads nearly touching.
At these words and the close proximity, Merlin’s heart pinches uncomfortably. In all honesty, he is relieved to be out of the castle and in this moment, this close, with Arthur. They haven’t exactly been on the best terms all week. Not that Merlin knew why. One day, Arthur just didn’t banter with him anymore or throw various impossible tasks for him to do. When they were alone, the blond would just be curiously silent all the time, staring at Merlin as if waiting for him to speak. Then when Merlin did speak, asking him what was wrong, Arthur would always say “nothing.” Which was nothing to go by, really, and this frustrated Merlin even further. Arthur would have asked him for advice on anything that troubled him by now, but only awkwardness has grown between them.
“A-are you really n-not going to say what’s on your mind?” Merlin asks, drawing his knees closer to his chest and taking advantage of Arthur as his wind shield.
“A-aren’t you the one who has s-something to say?” Arthur questions instead and narrows his eyes. Merlin would have sputtered if his teeth weren't already chattering.
“I’m not the one t-that’s been m-moody all week!”
Arthur sighs heavily and shivers even more. “This is r-ridiculous. Stop your s-stuttering and light a f-fire so we both d-don’t freeze to death!”
“Clotpole,” Merlin mumbles, rubbing his hands together before he can unfold himself, but then cold hands clamp over his own, stopping him from rising. Startled, Merlin glances up and meets an unexpectedly stern face.
“From here,” Arthur says and tilts his head just enough in the direction of a pile of twigs two feet in front of them.
There is no warmth that comes from the physical touch and Merlin’s body suddenly freezes at Arthur’s implication. Lips trembling, he barely holds Arthur’s gaze as he whispers, “W-what?”
“Start a fire from here,” Arthur repeats firmly.
“I’d need b-both my hands to s-start a fire, Arthur,” Merlin stutters, frantic now and breaking their eye contact. He tries to pull his hands away too but Arthur holds him fast.
“Start a fire,” Arthur says again, inching closer, “like you did in my chambers last week with just one look.”
Arthur’s fireplace had run out of flint at that time and Merlin didn’t want to run all the way down to get another one. No one was around to see him—but Merlin now knows he had been sorely wrong. Was this why Arthur had been so strange and quiet? Was he plotting all week on how to get rid of him now that he knows that he’s a sorcerer?
Suddenly, Arthur’s hands are like a heavy vice, a chain made of cold iron, over Merlin’s own.
Nauseous and swallowing with a dry throat, Merlin shivers, his thin clothes sticking against his skin where sweat has broken out and frozen over. “I-I’ve meant to tell you,” he chokes out, not daring to look at his king, “that I was born this way—”
“Merlin—”
“—that I’m still the same person,” Merlin rambles, shrugging in towards himself, “that I’m still loyal and that I’d never hurt you—”
“Merlin—”
“—even though you’re a prat and a clotpole and a—”
“Merlin.”
The name is spoken in such a steady and final tone that Merlin looks up at last. His breath catches in his throat at Arthur’s unwavering stare.
“Start a fire, Merlin,” the blond repeats with pale blue lips, “and then we can talk.”
Remembering the direness of their situation, Merlin blinks back tears, slowly turns his head towards the twigs, and obeys. A familiar swell of magic ignites his blood and soul before he releases it. Sparks flicker awake on the twigs in front of them and flare up in large steady flames.
“Your eyes…”
Merlin closes them, turns away from the fire, and does not dare to look back at Arthur to see the anger and the fear surely there.
“…Will you say nothing more?” Arthur’s voice is strangely calm. Sad. Not anything at all the rage Merlin expects.
“....What do you want me to say?” Merlin asks, confused and hurt, hands trembling in Arthur’s. “That I’ve lied to you all these years so I could protect myself and you? Why don’t you tell me how you plan to get rid of me instead?”
Arthur squeezes Merlin’s hands. “I don’t want to harm you—”
“Then you’ll banish me?” Merlin finishes, unable to understand why Arthur would try to comfort him if he’s just going to throw him out of Camelot.
“…For the past week, I’ve been thinking—”
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Merlin reflexively says but the words leave a bitterness in his mouth. He bites his lip in self admonishment—they can’t have this banter anymore.
“…I’ve been thinking of lifting the ban, Merlin.”
Finally raising his head and startled to see how close Arthur has leaned in, eyes so earnest and determined, Merlin whispers, “Why?” while his heart thuds heavily in his chest—in his ears—
“Because more than the hurt I felt when I learned of who you really are, I realised my best friend must’ve been ten times as terrified and lonely,” Arthur answers quietly, thumbs rubbing over Merlin’s knuckles, “that he might never tell me his secret himself, no matter how long I wait, and that he’ll feel like he’ll never belong when he does. At my side. Always.”
This time, Merlin can feel the warmth seeping from Arthur’s hands. The air between them suddenly feels hot, burning Merlin’s lungs as the fire by them melts the cold from his limbs.
“Really?” Merlin breathes out, glancing down at their hands before looking back at Arthur. “D-do you really mean that? I can keep being your servant?”
Arthur’s lips, now a healthy rose colour, gives him a small smile. “Yes.”
But Merlin can scarcely believe that things can be that easy. “Just like that?”
And Arthur’s gentle smile turns teasing. “Unless you want to be punished for lying to me and practically being a walking criminal—”
“No thank you!” Merlin rushes to say, shaking his head and unable to contain the short laugh of relief that escapes him.
Silence follows again, less awkwardly, as the world outside howls and crackling noises from the fire fills the cave. Arthur releases his hold on Merlin and they both turn their body towards the flames, stretching out their legs before them.
After a while, Merlin clears his throat, calmer now that the worst is over, though his eyes dart back and forth between Arthur and the fire. “I…really did mean to tell you. It was just…never the right time.”
“I can’t imagine when a good time would have been,” Arthur agrees and smiles wryly, which Merlin returns in kind.
Looking back at the fire, he asks, “So…what now?”
“Now we wait for the storm to end and then we’ll head back,” Arthur murmurs, hip and thigh aligned with Merlin’s as they lean against the cave wall. “In the meantime,” he says and glances at Merlin with a raised brow, “you can tell me all about how you survived for this long.”
Merlin stares at him, never thinking that he could sit down side by side with Arthur and civilly discuss any matter about magic, but there’s a first time for everything and being stuck in a cave seems fitting to do just this. Sagging against Arthur’s side, both relieved and truly comfortable in his own skin, Merlin begins with, “Well, I’m not the idiot you think I am—”
“I beg to differ,” Arthur interrupts with a snort.
Merlin takes a deep patient breath before opening to retort that there’s a reason why Arthur has so many nicknames. Arthur lightly shoves him on the shoulder in retaliation and Merlin shoves him back, a warm glint in their eyes as they stare challengingly at each other.
Then they bicker, as they have always done, forgetting the world of snow and storm raging outside the cave as they settle into their own realm of familiarity and camaraderie. Eventually, their bickering simmers into confessions of things done and regretted, and all of the things that have been left unsaid from the years they’ve known each other.
Well, not all have been said, some will be saved for later. Tired and mutually agreeing they should rest for now, they curl around the fire on opposite sides. Merlin glances past the edges of the flames, sees Arthur blinking drowsily at him, and blinks slowly back. They fall asleep in that way, watching each other watch the other and knowing that when the morning comes, they will still be there. Merlin is surprised, nonetheless, when he sneezes awake and finds himself tucked in Arthur’s arms and against his chest, the light and warmth of the fire already gone in the cave.
“That was disgusting,” Arthur mutters just above the crown of his head, but does not let him go otherwise.
It’s too cold to move out of the cocoon of warmth that is Arthur’s body, so Merlin stays where he is, heart thumping all over the place and at risk of escaping from behind his ribs and into Arthur’s. Forehead pressed against the king’s chest, Merlin feels another heartbeat, as fast as his own, and recalls how Arthur warmed his hands, not letting them go even after Merlin had lit the fire; how they gazed at each other until they fell asleep. Even now, Arthur could have woken him up to relight the fire, or lit it himself with a flint—he didn’t have to keep them warm this way.
Holding his breath, hoping he’ll get this right, Merlin wiggles his arms out between them and slowly wraps them around Arthur, who stills before relaxing. Feeling braver, Merlin tilts his head back to look up at Arthur, wanting to retort at his comment and—sneezes into his neck instead.
Arthur glares down at him.
“Er—good morning,” Merlin says innocently, sniffling and grinning and squeezing Arthur’s waist.
With a sigh, Arthur shakes his head with a helpless looking smile. “Light the fire again, Merlin, and then we can talk.”
And talk they do until the snow stops and not a single secret keeps them apart.