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1.
He could not forget about it.
Nor the steady breath warming the sensitive skin of his nape. Nor the feeling of strong arms securing two bodies together. Nor his wild heart beating more with each new points of contacts. Nor the fierce desire to clutch, grasp, hold on for dear life, until time stands still.
This embrace had felt like a stolen moment from the very beginning. Beyond the burden of etiquette, Merlin had flung himself at Arthur as soon as the king visited him after recovering from his injuries. For one blessed moment, he had felt safe, like falling asleep in the warm summer sun. Falling deep, deeper than reasonable.
But when had reason ever overuled the quintessential feeling of Merlin ?
2.
"What do you think about her ?"
Being King entailed many responsabilities, and while Arthur was born to bear the lot of them, there was one in particular he never got around to frankly integrate.
Turning his head and seeing the familiar twinkle in Merlin's gaze did not aleviate his inner conflict, quite the opposite, actually.
"She is beautiful, I guess," he sighs, triumphally resisting the urge to roll his eyes or do something equally unbecoming of his station. Merlin does not seem convinced, though.
"You do not seem very worried about your duty on this fine day, sire," his friend quips, smiling around every word.
Arthur takes a few steps. "You need'nt worry for me, Merlin."
Why couldn't he stop doting on him ?
"I always worry about you."
But could Arthur even recover Merlin not doting on him anymore ?
"Seems like your problem to deal with." With an ill-disguised curl of his lips, Arthur continues towards the throne room, effectively fleeing the awkward conversation.
3.
Middle of the night whispers, almost-secrets spilled and kept under the cover. The air is warm, kept cool only by the soft breeze travelling down Arthur's bare legs. Why did this feel so foreign yet familiar at the same time ?
"Can you take off your tunic ?" he hears himself request in a soft breath. His mind is half-awake but somehow, it’s bursting with unborn possibilities. Chanting,
Why not ? Why not ? If I so desire !
If Merlin says yes, then— but instead his friend asks, "Why ?" The words are muttered in bewilderment but without any trace of judgement. Arthur imagines the outline of Merlin's body, senses the warmth mere inches away and almost whimpers. It's a strange kind of yearning (he can name it now, he realises). It flows through his veins, hardens his intentions but he does not yield.
Instead, Arthur confesses, "I want to feel your skin on mine."
Somehow, right there, the fight for secrecy and pride leaves him. The cage is open, and he wants Merlin to seek him out. He smiles.
In silence, a growing point of contact is made, as Merlin scoots closer to softly press his back against Arthur's. For a few seconds, everything is right with the world. For a few seconds, Arthur's heart is open and willing, running along the sim of their connected bodies.
Warm. Warm. And— "Arthur"
As Arthur wakes up, the feeling does not evade him, choosing instead to hold his heart in a painful grasp. When he turns his head, Merlin is still here, his figure standing out in contrast with the morning sun. It sets aflame the upperskin of his ears, and Arthur grapples with the sudden desire to reach out and touch. But Merlin is too far away, remaining unreachable and Arthur's heart breaks a little.
"Arthur," he repeats, more softly now that he is awake, "Are you alright ?". His voice is strangely neutral, which does not sit right with Arthur, not at all.
Already, he feels the last remains of sleepy bliss leave him. Suddenly, he hates Merlin for talking softly, hates him for not understanding what just didn't happen. But most of all, he hates himself for his sudden desires, wild and dangerous. For the weakness of already nursing the sting of this loss and trading dream for reality.
He wants desperately to be left alone.
"I can fend for myself, Merlin. Go away."
It's a lie, and he is being short, he knows but what other solution does he have ? He cannot act like his usual self when all he wants to do is lick his open wounds. He dares to shoot a quick look in Merlin's direction, and regrets it immediatly. His friend looks dejected, hurt written all over his features.
The following silence, Arthur will admit, is worse than a shouting match.
Until Merlin, too understanding for his own good, finally nods curtly with a muttered, "Yes, sire." and leaves at once. With each further echoe of his steps, Arthur's loneliness deepens. He sighs while grabbing the clothes Merlin had chosen for him and lazily laid across a chair.
It was going to be a long day.
--
Indeed, do the days feel heavy, despite the cooler temperatures, despite the hard training afternoons and steady progression of his knights, despite the fooling around at the tavern, despite having regained a sense of normalcy between him and Merlin.
Most importantly, the days remain long, because Arthur's sleep keeps tormenting him to no end. He simply cannot contain the anguish of these dreams, filling him with the outmost happiness just to leave him bruised in the morning. The issue is, Arthur's mind seemed to have developed a maddening obsession with filling his night with tender touches and he could not bear it anymore. His blood turnt to ice just thinking about it.
He wished with all of his might that he could just go back to dreamless slumbers.
"You're going to break the crossbow if you go on like this."
Arthur turns to glare at Merlin. The latter only beaming at the attention, which is bad news, because Arthur's hands start to itch with affection. Crap.
"It's made of the finest wood in Camelot, Merlin, it cannot be broken by my grasp alone."
As per usual, Merlin retorts quickly, "Are your saying that you're not strong enough to break it ?" Infuriating. Arthur thinks. Stupid. Sodding— Beautiful fool of a friend. Ah.
There goes the normalcy again. Arthur's smile slips, Merlin notices and closes his mouth at once.
Not for long, it would seem.
"Arthur, I know you don't like me talking about such things—"
Arthur stops in his track, alert.
"—But you are King now, and," Merlin looks sideways, unsure, "A king needs someone, not only an advisor but also a, uhm, a person to share his life with".
Arthur cannot help it, his stomach drops. Is he suggesting— No. He fixes his gaze on a heavy branch, swooning lazily with the wind. He needs to clear his head from unbecoming thoughts. He swallows and forces a smile, but doesn't meet Merlin's gaze.
"I appreciate your concern, Merlin. I truly do," he can almost feel the eyeroll he gets for this answer, "But trust me, you can drop it." He wants his tone to be final. Truth be told, he does not know if he has the will to reject Merlin's request one more time.
Soon, he feels an aggravating hand on his shoulder and he does not, cannot, really, resist the silent plea of his friend. Merlin is worried, after all. It is only Arthur who cannot seem to control his emotions anymore around him. He has to, though.
Arthur lifts his eyes. Merlin's expression is open, not unlike the dream version of him, drinking him in, stripping him of any pretenses. The king had not gathered the courage to really take in Merlin's presence in weeks, only now, with the attentive blue eyes fixed on him, does he remember why.
"You are lonely, Arthur", Merlin states, voice filled with an unnamed emotion. It’s not phrased like a question, because they both know it’s true. The intensity of it feels like a blow, and Arthur almost steps back as if to withstand a heavy blow.
"I still do not see how that is your issue." Coward. He sees it written in the tense line of Merlin's body, as concern clearly turns into annoyance. His eyes do not yield, he is ready to make him see reason. And it is revolting how I adore him for it.
"I'm your friend, no matter what you say. I'm close to you." Merlin stops, something akin to regret pooling in his eyes. He fidgets with the hem of his tunic, but his hand closes into a fist as he utters,
"I hear you, uhm. Sometimes, in the morning."
Oh.
Arthur wishes for the floor to open wide and swallow him whole. Not since he was a young boy, humiliated by the public abuse Uther inflicted upon him, had Arthur felt such a need to hide away. Because Merlin getting so close to his beast of a longing changed everything.
He feels the beginning of a headache already, paving the way for a sleepless night. However, he does try to keep his composure. He really tries, but he feels it, the uncomfortable warming of his face and sees the responding softness in his friend's eyes. Him being the king never mattered to Merlin, he reminds himself. As always, Merlin was a master at preserving his pride whilst prying him open.
But, somehow, he manages to ask with a clear voice, "So, what exactly do you hear in the morning ?", already nursing a specific fear. What if he is disgusted by me ? What if he hates me for it ?
Witnessing the sudden palor of the king, Merlin steps forward and takes ahold of his hand — his hand — softly, like he is afraid to break him. Arthur feels the heat of his palm through the leather.
"It's alright ! It's alright, I promise," Merlin reassures. His gentle smile settles as he further explains, "But, honestly, you do sound quite upset, sometimes, in the early hours. Tossing and turning. And, uhm, when I reach out to wake you up, you tend to—"
No!
Arthur clasps a gloved hand on Merlin's mouth, almost on instinct.
"I understand. No need to tell me more. I— I can't bear it. I embarassed you, I—", but Merlin, always the provocator, removes Arthur's hand in a swift movement. Before he can speak, Arthur hisses an alarmed, "Please, Merlin," which is enough for his friend’s mouth to shut yet again.
A brief squeeze of his right hand manages to calm Arthur's unrest. Until the king's mind painfully on one particular detail he neglected to notice until now.
Merlin had not removed his hand.
"Arthur, Arthur, look at me." He does. Merlin smiles, unguarded.
"I just want you to know it's not shameful to want company," he pauses, eyes darting all over Arthur’s face, "and I can lend an ear if you want to, ehm, to tell me about these things."
Arthur almost stops to breathe. He can tell the lack of response makes Merlin more nervous than necessary because his friend hastily adds, "If you so wish. Of course."
Thankfully, the hesitance breaks the tension and Arthur laughs. How could a man deliver, unprompted, such heartfelt speeches, while being a bumbling idiot the rest of the time ?
He detangles their hands, because the contact does still represent a solid menace to his sanity. And God knows he needs a clear mind right now. With great interest, he watches Merlin flex his now empty hand. In regret of the loss, Arthur’s mind supplies, cruelly. He takes a deep breath.
"Well," for lack of better to do, he clasps Merlin on the shoulder, hard enough for his friend to fall into step with him, "That was heartwarming, Merlin. You do have some sense of observation when you want to." The banter is familiar, but he is sure Merlin has noticed too. The lack of denying. The false bravado. Merlin grumbles while adjusting his dark blue neckerchief, but does not comment on Arthur’s pratish demeanor, because he is a good friend.
The king realises he is not in the mood for hunting anymore, feeling like he already caught something dear to his heart between the ancestrial trees.
Merlin understands Arthur. His hand feels good in his. He wishes to burn every single pair of gloves he owns.
4.
The problem with training knights in the arts of paying attention on the battlefield is that they tend to notice things at the most unfortunate of times.
Lancelot is the last one to come by him after a training session, when the sun paints the landscape gold, and, coincidently, when Arthur's heart is most unguarded.
"Sire !" he hears, and with a flutter of lucious brown hair, Lancelot is standing before him, smiling in the private way he’s mastered over the years.
Arthur grants him a small smile and motions for him to go on. Lancelot looks nervously to the side before locking eyes with his king.
"Uhm. You see, for many moons, I’ve had the intentions of telling you about my, well, my courtship, Sire".
Arthur's eyes go round and he lets out a breath of relief. Lancelot, ever the romantic, he thinks. "Well my dear friend, congratulations." Lancelot offers him a bright smile in return, eyes alert and glowing with mirth.
Wait, mirth ?
The knight steps forward, smile turning sly and cunning. "I wanted to be sure about your feelings towards Gwen, was scared of hurting you, actually." Arthur lifts an eyebrow. "Now, I know for sure that your heart is taken by someone else. Might have been for a long time, actually." He laughs and Arthur can only stutter unkingly in respond, taken aback.
"I— I don't know what you are implying." His friend's eyes grow fonder, which makes Arthur say with more confidence, "I trust that you and Gwen will take care of each other as you both deserve a sincere, uh, kind of love", he concludes, a firm hand grasping Lancelot’s shoulder. The answering smile is blinding and Arthur revels in the beauty of his friend.
"Thank you, Arthur."
The sun is almost down, Arthur notices. Lancelot takes the opportunity to ruffle the distracted king's hair as a goodbye and blindly flees towards the citadel, his laugh echoing far and wide. Arthur fakes outrage as he tries to race the long-haired idiot, the weight of the conversation dissipating with daylight.
--
The Rising Sun vibrates with drunken poems and warm laughs as the day turns into night. The king is here, celebrating Lancelot and Gwen's courtship and trying to satisfy every inquiring bystanders. Gwen and Lancelot look happy, he thinks to himself, beautiful, even. A welcome distraction to what’s been taking him the better of his brainpower these last few months.
Talking about the subject of his unrest, his alcoholised brain had been concentrating on Merlin for a major part of the evening. Somehow, Arthur could not stop staring at him. What a deeply annoying habit. They did not have any heart to heart since that day in the forest. However, he does think the incident, as embarassing as it was, settled some heavy feelings between them.
Unfortunately, it also served to make it harder to be at his friend's side without feeling somehow enamored.
To be honest, it was excruciating to look at Merlin's sincere eyes, how they morphed into half-moons when a joke amused him, or how they filled with worry as soon as he noticed pain in another being. It's was almost impossible for Arthur to hold his friend's gaze, these days, to feel the yearning distract him from all important matters at hand.
A pressure on his leg suddenly interrupts his inner monologue. A foot, to be precise. He jerks away and looks up, noticing a familiar face, marred in drunken joy. And here are those eyes, how did one escape those again ?
Arthur does not waste time and retaliates, of course. He searches blindly for Merlin’s boot and attacks with approximative aim. Merlin laughs, red cheeked and beautifully alive. The sound fills Arthur’s heart to the brim with silent joy. Stop thinking about that. Another kick, another smile.
The sun has not set, it is shining right in front of me.
Another kick, another smile.
--
Later that night, when Merlin's golden eyes fade into obscurity in time with the candlelights, the urge to reach out is enough to make Arthur cry. It's a deep feeling, he is aware, but its strenght keeps surprising him. He feels like a new born baby, begging for love. And when it reminds him of his own birth, the loss of a mother in flesh and a father in spirit, the pain becomes almost unbearable.
In the darkness of his room, Arthur imagines a hand running down his scalp, a soft voice talking in a foreign language and the ghost of a touch at the center of his neck. He feels his worries melt under the warmth pressure of magic and, for the first time in months, he happily surrenders to sleep.
5.
Arthur was not the sort of man to drown his sorrows. However, these last weeks seemed to have forced his mind into the bottom of wine cups, reason be damned. With his head spinning, the stupid ideas he fixated on — like how everyone but him in this kingdom was able to give and receive tenderness — became more distant. His feelings, though, tended to taint his entire mind, filling it to the brim with a longing so strong nothing could tame it.
This was the predicament the king of Camelot was facing during a rainy night, an exasperated servant staring down at him.
"No."
"Please, you oaf, I don't like seeing you like this", Merlin pleads. The candle light sharpens his soft features, painting him in a fearful, yet regal, light. Even hidden in the shadows, Arthur can read desperation in the searching gaze. His heart lurches. Moments ago, Merlin suggested to help him with the headache, hand stretched, ready to heal. But Arthur had swatted it away, prefering by far the nurturing of the self-depreciation expanding in his chest.
Which is why the next excuse leaves his tongue with ease. He know how to handle a stubborn Merlin, doesn't he ? With a measured confidence, he states, "Leave me be. I'm the king, so—"
"The hell you are !", Merlin growls, so unlike him. Arthur stomach turns to knots. He observes how his friend edges forward, without moving closer, as if showing a great restraint. Finally, Merlin seems to come to a decision and steps forward.
"If you want me to listen you as a subject to his king—" he takes another step, and, and he is right here, Arthur could easily reach out, smooth out the tense lines of his face, "—Then act like one".
Hurt pierces through him like an arrow. But he recognizes the invitation behind the finality of Merlin’s tone, deep and persuasive. The plea of a friend who knows best than him what he ought to do, a kind of plea he learned not to ignore many years ago. Then and there, he decides that he owes Merlin the outmost honesty. He swallows and meets Merlin's awaiting gaze.
"How many times have I looked into your eyes and— how many times have I thought—" Arthur swallows, notices the wild beating of his heart. It's hard, but his lips are unsealed, letting cancealed feelings, shameful words, slip from them, "—I want to embrace this man until he knows how much he means to me." He hears Merlin's sharp intake at the confession, but does not dare interpret it.
Arthur's hands close into shaking fists and he tries, tries very hard not to bend his neck, not to show such weakness.
"And I never did it !", the room closes in on him, and he distantly hears the ruffle of Merlin’s clothes.
Light dances behind his eyelids as he spits, "I felt powerless in that simple act, how come ? How come I could not be honest with you, the most deserving—"
The sudden warmth comes unexcepted, though, in retrospect, Arthur should have known better. Merlin's touch sends tingles down his spine and, Gods, his heart doesn't know how to beat any longer. Air leaves him at once as he is pressed against Merlin's body, gentle arms keeping them together, not even a breath apart. The smell of home engulfes his being, dark strands of hair swim in his vision. Finally, a whisper reaches his ear, "Are you crying ?"
Arthur’s limp arms slowly rise to rest on Merlin's back. Just as he registers the lack of rain drops drumming against the window, he senses the moisture on his own unmarked face and thinks to himself, This is how it feels to surrender, and then, immediately, it feels so good, no wonder Father lied to me.
"It's alright, Arthur." Merlin's words hit the soft end of his resistance, and succeed in breaking the dam. In between heavy sobs, the king is clutching, grasping, holding his dear friend like destinies of entire kingdoms are on the line. He is trying desperately to take in the presence of Merlin, mumbling incoherent words in the crook of his neck, feeling the heat of a flush travel the length of his friend’s shoulder. He feels Merlin's trembling hands card through his hair in response as he, too, is talking in a hushed voice, words lost in the fog of alcohol and epiphany. Merlin caresses the side of his face, like it is the most natural thing in the world, and maybe it is. The king's last coherent thought falls like a prayer, May I never forget what it means to be loved like this, and it soon lules him to sleep.
--
They don’t talk about it. Arthur wakes up in his bed, with a spectacular hangover which Merlin puts to rest in a flash of gold. If the king blushes slightly at his friend’s gentle, magical touch, Merlin does not comment on it apart from a self-satisfied smile. And if the next days are filled with lingering touches and attentive stares from both parties, nobody dares to go beyond knowing glances and poorly cancealed amusement.
At the present moment, both Merlin and Arthur are hunched over some legal documents. A frown mares Merlin’s face, contrasting with the relaxed expression on Arthur’s own. He’s lost track of which disputes require which specific set of laws an hour ago, prefering the adorable devotion Merlin displays to the people of Camelot over anything else. Arthur gazes at him, chin nestled in the palm of his hand, as a string of words comes out of his mouth, unabiding.
"Merlin, when you touched my boots at the tavern the other day—", Merlin hums disctractingly without lifting his head. Arthur recognizes his slight annoyance at being disturbed. He smiles.
"—Did you mean anything by it ?", he asks honestly, because the ghost of Merlin’s touch has not left him, and it’s become agony to let silence fall over their bond.
At the question, Merlin drops his quill unceremoniously and ruins his work, but his eyes are fixated on Arthur, an unknown emotion swimming in them, as he answers.
"I always mean something."
Arthur’s heart jumps, so of course, he snorts, "Girl".
At which Merlin replies, unbothered, "Did you mean anything by clutching my jacket and telling me you could not live without me ?", his eyes shimmer with fain innocent and Arthur can only stare in utter mortification.
"I— I certainly did not !", but of course, he can’t look at him when he says that, because whilst it is true he did not use these exact words, he nevertheless knows they accurately describe his feelings.
"Felt like it", Merlin whispers, amused. Arthur dares to look at him and see an infuriating smile curve his friend’s lips. In a heartbeat, something shifts in Merlin's eyes and he leans over the table to take ahold of Arthur’s hand, thumb rubbing against a sore patch.
"What are you doing ?" Please don’t ever stop.
"Testing the limits," he answers coily, turning Arthur’s palm over and intertwining their fingers. Arthur tightens immediatly their hold, not caring to hide his longing, not this time. Merlin smiles in a particularly sweet way and Arthur feels lovesick.
"I understand now that you dont mind my touching you. I’m just wondering," he takes a shallow breath, "how much of my affection you do want."
All of it.
"What do you mean ?"
There is a whole world in Merlins eyes as he licks his bottom lip and Arthur cannot help but follow the wet path with a pulsing heart. His right hand hovers for a split second before cupping the side of Merlin's face. A lone thumb makes its way accross his cheek and stops right above his parted lips. Arthur drowns in the raw emotion he sees reflected in Merlin’s eyes and lets himself touch the insulting — treasured — mouth. An insolent grin takes over Merlin's face as he licks the pad of Arthur's thumb, which is definitly a small revolution for the latter who takes his hand back like burnt by a flame.
"You're flushing," Merlin points out, further torturing the king, "It's getting worse," he singsongs.
Arthur huffs, trying to calm his tremblings fingers, "Of course it is ! If you keep— keep—", his words evade him because he can’t help but notice Merlin edging even closer, his mischievous expression melting into a tender one as he tilts Arthur's face and reciprocates the touch, thumb gracing Arthur’s lips.
"You do like to be touched by me, don't you ?" God, Merlin was always so awfully earnest in his provocations.
But he is right. Once more, his friend’s touch feels like a balm to his heart.
However, he can't help the creeping doubt coming to the surface yet again. What exactly does Merlin know about the depth of his feelings ? Would he take back all his tender touches if he knew of them ? Arthur’s insides crumble at the thought.
As if on cue, the hand leaves him at once and Arthur follows it without a thought, registering only the loss of warm fingertips. For a few moments, the silence stretches. Merlin studies him with great care, studying his anxious expression.
At once, he comes to a soundless conclusion, which Arthur tries, in vain, to read in the now glistening gaze.
"Oh, Arthur. You must know about it." Arthur’s anguish mixes with confusion as he furrows his brows, unsure about what to say. Merlin laughs bitterly, running a restless hand through his hair. Arthur wants to help him flatten them, but he refrains, anxiously gnawing at his lip.
"Surely, you must know." Merlin repeats, almost wildly, as if talking to himself.
"Know about what ?", Arthur inquires, heart in his throat.
At the question, Merlin's demeanor changes. Arthur recognizes the same sharp, intelligent eyes that always lock on him when his friend is about to spill these ridiculously wise speeches about destinies, dragons and magic, the ones during which Arthur can feel the depth of his loyalty. But, his attentive mind supplies, he cannot recall a flush adorning Merlin’s face in any other of these instances.
"About the love I carry in my heart. You know, my love. For you."
The last words are mumbled, maybe because of the horrified look Arthur knows he is wearing.
"And you did not think to tell me before ?!", it comes out in a rush, matching the manic smile splitting his face in two. The mad thought of Merlin expressing such feelings had felt like a distant dream, albeit one that visited him every night. He was certain it would take years of courtship to win Merlin’s affections, not one evening hunched over bloody villager disputes. How wrong and foolish he had been !
Merlin is glaring at him, though. In his eyes, Arthur reads clear as day I did tell you, in a million ways and he knows it’s true. He notices the clenching and unclenching of his friend’s hands, as if he wanted to strangle him. I will take the risk, Arthur thinks right before kneeling to Merlin side, hands framing his pretty face. I will set things right. Their noses are pressed together and Arthur can see Merlin's pupils dilate from the loss of light, the annoyance fleeing his features.
"I want you to kiss me." Arthur says under his breath, trying to convay the weight of his yearning. "I want it so much that it hurts. Do it." Merlin senses his urgency and helps him stand up just before crowding him, hands jumping to his neck. Arthur closes his eyes and his tone turns desperate as he utters a final, "Please," half swallowed by Merlin's own lips, moving against his and leaving a devastating trail of promises accross his entire face. His hands roam over sweetly across Arthur’s body as the king starts to fiddle with the dark curls at the back of Merlin's neck. I could die, Arthur seeks his mouth again, and lets out a whimper as tongue meet tongue. I could die in his arms. The taste of his friend is already so dear to his heart, he never want to forget about it. They both gasp for air and Merlin leaves a small kiss on his cheeckbone. Arthur opens his eyes, not sure about what one could read in them, but not caring, because the one is Merlin, and he trusts him with his life.
"You look beautiful like that," he thinks gazing at Merlin’s messy hairdo and glazed eyes, but the words actually slip from Merlin’s smiling mouth. He kisses it, because he can. And before retreating, with his face as close to Merlin's as possible, hiding in plain sight, he finally tells him.
"What did you just say ? Didn’t quite catch that." Lying twat!
"I said," he swallows, clutching Merlin's tunic, "I love you, too." Merlin cheeks turn pink and he releases a breath as he strokes the soft skin of Arthur’s side. That is, right until he hears Arthur add, "More, of course," just because he won’t give Merlin the satisfaction of having the upperhand. Merlin holds him tighter and laughs soundly. His eyes light up brightly as hundreds of flowers sprout and invade the king’s room, startling him to no end.
"Sure you do," Merlin whispers, smiling against Arthur’s neck, as a lone petale graces their joined hands.