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“Merlin!” came the horrified exclamation from behind him—Arthur, of course—and Merlin bit back a groan and threw his arms over his face, wishing the cool stones under his back would part to swallow him. Was five minutes alone really too much to ask for? “What are you doing up here? You’re supposed to be resting.” And Arthur was supposed to be entertaining himself in town with cheap ale and even cheaper wenches in the company of several knights and visiting lordlings, not fussing like a nursemaid—again. It seemed they were both doomed to disappointment.
“I am resting,” Merlin sniffed petulantly, carefully shifting to better angle his gaze at the glowering prince towering over him. His back twinged a little at the motion, the healing tissue still frustratingly sensitive, but Merlin just grit his teeth and bore it. Any sign of discomfort and Arthur will have persuaded Gaius to consign him to his bed again in no time flat. Bastard. “The ground is very comfortable, thank you.”
“I hardly think,” Arthur sneered, arms crossing, “that Gaius meant for you to sprawl out in the middle of the battlements on your injured back where anyone could trip over you in the dark and damage you further. Is that mental condition of yours acting up again, or are you just that stupid?”
Annoyance progressed to anger and then rage and then fizzled out completely when he noted the tightness around his friend’s lips and the dark bruises under his eyes, somehow more stark in the flickering torchlight than in the light of day. The past few weeks had been hard for them both, but perhaps moreso for Arthur. Merlin’s wounds were physical. Arthur’s cut much deeper.
“The ground is cool.” Merlin smiled softly, patting the place beside him in invitation. “And the stars are bright. Why don’t you join me?” He grinned. “I’m sure no one would dare trip over the Crown Prince, so I would be safe by association.”
For a moment Merlin thought he might refuse, might upbraid him for foolishness and drag him back to the physician’s quarters regardless of his wishes, but then Arthur sighed, unbuckled his sword, and settled down beside him, tucking one arm under his head.
Silence settled between them, palpable and a little awkward, but, then, struck by a sudden inexplicable need, Merlin slowly reached over to nervously meet Arthur’s free hand and held his breath. Without a word, Arthur accepted his tentative touch, entwining their fingers, and something warm and happy coiled in Merlin’s belly. “I’m not angry with you, you know,” Merlin said, because it bore saying—and because maybe, just maybe, Arthur needed to hear it. “I can’t forgive you, because there’s nothing to forgive.”
Arthur squeezed his hand gently.
They lay like that, together, late into the night and did not speak again.