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Merlin shivers as his eyes graze over the horizon, taking in the pale wash of sun. The bitter air is dappled with soft beams of light and the goldfinches twitter in the bushes, gently squalling amongst themselves. He is a quaking aspen, thinned out and trembling in the quiet breeze.
The crisp air slips beneath his collar and it makes him smile a little to think of his mother scolding him for leaving the house in his ratty green jumper with the holes in the sleeves. Or perhaps Gaius' brisk annoyance at the thick beard he knows he doesn't suit. His jolt of laughter crystallises in the air and he knows that he ought to go home hoping not to catch a chill for his recklessness; the cold tips of his ears reminding him just how deep into autumn it is.
One of the little finches, tiny from the distance, catches Merlin's eye as he's about to turn to leave. He watches it, captivated, as it flits through ivory sunbeams, joined after a moment by another, two tiny bodies diving and dancing around.
There is a rustle in the bushes, loud as a shot in the quiet morning, and the whole charm of them takes flight, a scattering of dark stars across the sky. The cold is forgotten as Merlin tips his chin to watch them, the new warmth of the rising sun high on his cheeks. The frost crunches beneath his heels as he turns along with the twisting flight of the birds, his back turned to the mouth of the forest.
There is a lake through those woods, a smooth mirror of water surrounded by pale birches and alders. Once, the lake had been a place of magic, a reservoir suffused with real power that took and gave with the mellow tides. Once, twice, countless times, the lake had become a grave.
He keeps his back to the forest.
'Though it's not Camelot-'
The thick heat of shock hushes the sounds of the country, the static shriek of bloodrush ringing through Merlin's ears.
If asked, Merlin might have said that he has forgotten the once-dear voice, that he would not recognise it if he heard it anew. He might have even believed it. Here, in the misty air of a new day, he is forced to know that he would have been terribly mistaken.
His throat is suddenly remarkably dry, words sticking in it like thick mud.
Arthur shifts on his feet, the familiar, twinkling sounds of his mail sharp in Merlin's ears.
'-It is quite nice here.'
There is a moment where the only sound is of two men breathing, neither quite able to look into the other's eyes.
'I'm not quite sure I love the beard though.'
Merlin's head spins, a kaleidoscope of thoughts bursting behind welling eyes. He thinks to reach out, but his arms feel bulky and numb at his sides, hanging useless from heavy shoulders. The murmuration of finches is a halo behind Arthur's head, wingbeats breaking the silence between words.
Merlin can't quite understand how the phantom in the field can be such a perfect copy of a man whose eyes Merlin can only rarely picture anymore. How he can say only a few words and have Merlin sixteen again, falling in love in the sunlight.
Merlin needs to touch him, needs to feel warm skin and chainmail so cold it turns damp, needs to feel the cloth-of-gold hair between his fingers and tug him close.
His arms stay heavy at his sides.
'Merlin?'
The icy air claws at Merlin's throat as he heaves it in, flinching forward, drawn in.
'Will you say something?'
Without the touch of light to his voice, Arthur sounds more like an ancient thing, tired from his sleepless death. A tear finally tracks its warm path down Merlin's face and Arthur tugs off a glove, hand moving toward Merlin as if he might startle. The movement makes Merlin feel like a hunted hare waiting to be bludgeoned with a stone, cracked on the skull with cold reality and an empty field.
Except-
Except Arthur's fingertips are clumsy and rough when they swipe at Merlin's tears, and his ruddy cheeks burn against Merlin's cold palms. Except Merlin clutches Arthur close and doesn't end up with a fistful of nothing.
Arthur pulls him tight to him and though the cold of the mail is unbearable through Merlin's worn jumper, they have their foreheads pressed together, their breath hot against each other's faces, and Merlin can't think anything but closer.
Their grapple for connection has them tumbling to the grass, the frozen earth hard beneath Merlin's knees. Frost melts into dew, melts into the denim of Merlin's jeans. It's absurd how little it matters to him when he can grasp handfuls of golden hair, when he can feel his jumper stretch with the force of Arthur's grip.
In the end, the kiss simply feels like an inevitability.
Merlin lifts his head from the warmth of Arthur's neck to find his eyes soft and glittering in the thin light, to find his lips just close enough to press to his own. In the trees, the goldfinches pick up their song.
Later, perhaps a minute, perhaps an hour, Arthur will grimace as Merlin worries the flush of friction on his chin and will try to sound stern when he says the beard has to go. Merlin will laugh so loudly that the finches scatter once more and they will walk all the way home hand in hand.