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The tattoo on his shoulder aches. That’s how he knows. The tingle under his skin, the sparking in his brain, like embers flaming to life: they’re all signs. He’ll see Arthur soon.
He’s waited for twenty years, watching and wondering, never knowing how long it’s going to be. He tries to lead a semblance of normal life, but of course, it’s a lie; real life doesn’t begin until Arthur comes.
At first the tattoo is invisible. Only he knows it’s there, under the surface. Then, as his reunion with Arthur draws closer, a faint image appears on his upper arm, becomes darker and more clear. Merlin touches it at night, fingers tracing the ancient symbol. He remembers a time of woodsmoke and dark, endless winters, fear and superstition, when the threat of evil magic was real and constant, and mysterious creatures haunted the forests.
One night, the ache becomes a burn. He walks the streets, restless and yearning. At a club, he throws himself into the dancing throng, anonymous and intimate at once. A broad, warm chest presses into his back, an arm snakes around his waist; their hips join in rhythm and the tattoo scorches like a brand.
Merlin turns, breathless. He barely has time to take in the sweep of blond hair and strong jaw, the blue eyes, before Arthur kisses him with a rush of heat and passion, their mouths slotting together, long-lost pieces of a puzzle finally joined. The crowd falls away and all Merlin can do is think Arthur, Arthur, wrapped in Arthur’s arms and inhaling his familiar, comforting scent. His hand gravitates to the tattoo on Arthur’s shoulder, the skin as fevered as his own, and he whispers into Arthur’s ear, “You’re here.”
Later, Arthur traces the tattoo with his tongue, soothing the burn, and presses Merlin into the sheets. “Mine,” he murmurs, fusing Merlin’s body with his own.
“Yours,” Merlin sighs, as his heart melts with happiness.
It’s time for life to begin again.