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Merlin finds Arthur in a stretch of castle that’s rarely visited by daily on-goers. Time is nearing late evening, leaving the natural light from the sun to be close to none, casting them in soft pinks and gray shadows.
“Why are you mad at me?” He calls out to Arthur, causing the man to stop in his tracks at the other end of the corridor. He doesn’t turn, keeping his back to Merlin. Merlin doesn’t try to move any closer, scared if he does it’ll just make Arthur inch further away from him.
“I’m not,” Arthur replies, his voice wavering from the lie he’s trying to force. Merlin's heard this inflection in his tone before, has fought with it, dreamt about it, let it unravel his thinking until he finally had to ask for certainty. He can’t tell if he prefers this unknowing of his wrongdoing or the silence he’s been met with up until now.
“You are,” Merlin argues. “For the past week you’ve been avoiding me whenever you can. I don’t think you’ve ever walked this side of the castle your whole life.” He tries to make his latter sentence sound humorous but it fails even to his own ears. The childish disappointment is undeniable.
He gets no response, only an irritated sigh in return. Merlin furrows his brows, stepping forward until the tight line of Arthur’s shoulders, the straining in his neck from the clench of his jaw can’t be ignored. “What have I done wrong?”
Arthur turns around finally. Part of Merlin wishes he hadn’t; the anger Arthur’s feeling is obvious. His eyes are dark, even with the stray ray of sunlight coming in through the dirty window emphasizing the normal blue of them, and his posture is distant, limbs twitching like he can’t wait to leave Merlin’s presence to wither by itself.
And when Arthur speaks again, Merlin thinks he hates the sound of his voice, rotten with the reminder that he’s taken it upon himself the last few days to go on like he wished Merlin was anywhere but by his side. Though Merlin is aware this isn't something he can believe because he knows hate is never a word that he’ll truly associate with Arthur. Even if it seems at this moment that hate may be the only thing Arthur has for him.
“Oh, I don’t know, Merlin,” Arthur says, eyes locked on his, venom dripping from the gaps of his teeth, “how about being your usual, idiot self?”
At the beginning of his service to Arthur, idiot was a word that would make Merlin jump as it was usually accompanied by something being aimed at his head but over the many years Merlin began to think he could confidently say the insult slowly became a term of endearment (yes, I’m calling you an idiot but you know I mean the exact opposite.) He can’t say that now, he thinks, as he flinches like the name has actually pierced his skin and left blood dripping down into a puddle of sadness below him.
“What…” Merlin tries, everything about him not so different from the picture of a little kid getting bullied for no other reason than being who he is; he shuffles where he stands, wringing his hands together as he looks to the ground and away from the eyes he’s missed so much but now regrets wanting. “What do you mean?”
With no answer from Arthur, a silence has built around them, lasting long enough Merlin would have just assumed Arthur walked away if he couldn’t see the pair of boots in front of him on the floor he’s turned his gaze to. Merlin figures he’d be smart to take the lack of answer as one before more daggers disguised as words land themselves in the depths of his chest.
He turns away awkwardly like he may get scolded for the action. “I see,” he makes himself say, “I guess I’ll leave you to it then,” and then he walks away as fast as he can before the tears threatening his eyes roll down his cheeks in front of Arthur, making him feel like an even bigger fool.
***
Merlin wakes to the sound of his wooden, frail bedroom door creaking open. Through his tired eyes he watches a figure slip past the threshold–familiar but worrying for this isn’t something that they have done before–and shut the door with a gentle click, so as to not wake his mentor on the other side of it.
“Arthur?” Merlin sits up in his bed, his thin blanket pooling around his waist. The moon shines in from the small window near the ceiling, helping the adjustment of his vision to the darkness. He hopes the redness leftover from his earlier crying isn’t obvious with the streak of moonlight entering through his window. “What are you doing here? Is something the matter?”
“No,” Arthur answers, voice wavering on something that tells Merlin the opposite, “nothing important.”
Merlin frowns. Because yes, it is important if it’s the reason for his weighed down shoulders, the furrow on his forehead, the vulnerability shining through his distant eyes.
Arthur rounds the side of his bed and sits himself down slowly near Merlin's ankles, the heat of his body spreading into Merlin's from that small point of contact, even through the material that separates them. He keeps his gaze down on his folded hands that sit in his lap, leaving Merlin to his growing concern. But when Arthur speaks next, the concern isn’t from fear but for understanding. “I…I had a bad dream,” he confesses in a trembling whisper, “about you.”
Then, very quietly, so gentle anyone but Merlin would have excused it to be the shuffle of a bug between the floorboards, Arthur adds, “again.”
Movements quiet, Merlin untangles himself from his bedding, scooting up behind Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur acknowledges him with a tilt of his head but seems to refuse looking at Merlin directly. His posture is wound tight like he’s preparing for his bones to collapse on him at any second. Merlin lays a hand on his upper back, intent on keeping him together. “Do you wish to talk about it?”
“No,” Arthur answers immediately, shaking his head like he can’t bear the thought.
“Okay, alright,” Merlin gentles. Under his hand he can feel tremors building up in Arthur’s body. “Arthur,” he says, moving closer in an attempt to catch his gaze, “what do you need from me?”
A choking sound leaves Arthur. He turns his head to the ceiling, eyes squeezed shut like he can force the memory of his nightmare from his mind with just enough pressure. “I,” he tries, voice cutting out with the beginning of a cry.
The sound reverberates through Merlin, sadness settling over him like a second skin. “Oh, Arthur,” he says, wrapping his fingers around the muscle of his arm to pull him further on the bed. “C’mere,” he murmurs.
Arthur complies, shifting himself towards Merlin, too emotional to think of doing anything else. If anything he’s eager, like a dam has broken within him and any distance he was trying to force earlier has been replaced by an urgent need to be wholly aware of the warmth coming from Merlin's body, the feeling of his chest moving in and out with air; reassurance of the life that moves through him. He tangles his legs with Merlin's and folds himself against his chest, harsh sniffles escaping him as he tucks his forehead against the revealed skin of Merlin's neck. Merlin doesn’t hesitate to situate his arms around Arthur, hoping his embrace bleeds comfort into him.
There’s a curious worry in him at the ease in which Arthur has accepted–encouraged, really–this physical affection but it’s a fleeting one at that. In the past, he would have deemed this moment uncharacteristic though in truth it’s only such to the eyes Arthur has to perform before. Merlin cradles the fact that he knows Arthur better than anyone and because of this he can say that there’s always been the human need for physicality in Arthur simmering under the duty wrenching him away from it.
And he thinks now that he may understand why Arthur has been acting the way he has because he himself can’t say he hasn’t been an initiator of the same actions too; pushing someone away because you care for them too much that it terrifies you; trying to sever yourself from them so maybe when they inevitably die, your sorrow won’t be so inclined to eat away at your already torn soul.
He returns his focus to the present, heart clenching at the pure sobs that are being muffled against his neck. “I got you,” he speaks into Arthur’s temple. “Breathe, Arthur.”
It seems that no coaxing will subdue the emotion pouring from him, though; deep, tortured noises are uncontrollably landing against Merlin’s throat, tears mixed with the heat of breath pooling in the dip of his collarbone. Merlin just holds him through it, speaking words fixed with his love to Arthur (I have you, Arthur. Just let it out. I’m here, alive and real. Right here, okay? I got you), until eventually the trembling of his limbs calm and the crying turns into small, stuttering breaths.
“Arthur,” Merlin tries, his voice a shock against the silence they have begun to fall into. “How are you?”
The vibration of Arthur clearing his throat reverberates against the crevice where Merlin’s neck meets his shoulder. “I, um,” he starts, pulling his head away from the mess of tears and snot he made of Merlin, though he doesn’t move farther than that. “I’m okay.” His head is pointed down towards their legs and there's a crease in his brow that tells Merlin all he needs to know.
“No, you’re not.”
Arthur sighs. Merlin is sure he means for the sound to be filled with his normal annoyance but all Merlin hears is what’s true; relief and appreciation for the reminder that Merlin knows him so well. Arthur looks back to Merlin after a heavy moment, his eyes red and full of vulnerability that’s breaking through the cracks in the walls he’s built since birth. “No, I’m not,” he replies, a sad smile shaping his mouth.
“But, Merlin,” Arthur rasps, the softness of his tone swimming with shame, “never do you deserve someone to be so horrible to you and for that I’m sorry, from the very depth of myself. I guess I thought that if…If I forced silence between us that maybe when I lose you the hardest part would already be over.”
Merlin sighs sadly. He watches a single tear roll down Arthur’s cheek and doesn’t think twice before he brings his thumb gently to Arthur’s face and wipes it away. After that he doesn’t move his hand, instead cups the side of Arthur’s face with his palm, the weight of his touch almost as absent as if he were handling a flower that’s been left in the sodden ground for far too long. “Arthur,” he murmurs, returning his eyes to the others, “no matter what ever happens to us, know in life or death, I am with you.”
Arthur’s eyes widen, something like affection brightening them, and his lips quiver.
Brushing his thumb against the dark circle under Arthur's eye, Merlin continues, unbridled love shining through each word. “In every possible moment of existence–anything you could ever imagine–I am there with you, exactly where I belong.”
It’s a silent thing but his own tears have begun to form in his eyes, trailing down his face before dropping off the curve of his mouth, landing on the mountain of limbs that are the two of them. His voice is thick with emotion when he speaks, something too strong to be cleared away. “No matter if it’s with my feet on the ground, standing right next to you or,” he draws his hand away from Arthur’s face (missing the put out expression it causes on Arthur) and drags it over the sliver of skin of his shoulder before stopping it on his chest, right where his heart resides. “Or right here, in your heart. Where I’ve always found home.”
“Merlin,” Arthur chokes. His name is pulled from Arthur's throat with pain built upon loving something too much. Merlin wishes he could let Arthur dip into his mind and soul to show him that they are the same. That no matter what he says, he too is weaved together with the fear for the day that loss will be permanent between them.
“But I’m here, Arthur. We're together. Right now. Let’s just feel that, okay?”
Arthur nods. A small smile, grateful and sad, shapes his mouth. “Okay,” he says. He brings his hand to the one Merlin still has on his chest. Every nerve in Merlin warmths at the contact of Arthur lacing their fingers together and bringing their joined knuckles up to his mouth for a kiss. “Thank you,” he whispers, right where their touch melds.
Merlin hears everything that it means. Thank you for standing up to me that day in the market. Thank you for staying with me even when my words are harsh. Thank you for understanding me when I myself can’t begin to grasp who I am. Thank you for being you. Thank you for–
“–loving me,” Arthur says.
Of course. Merlin can’t say that he’s surprised the confession of his love for Arthur was wrought from the very man's lips and not his. But that’s how it always goes with them, isn’t it? Knowing what the other is feeling more than they know themselves.
He tugs Arthur to him with the joint of their hands and positions them both so they are laying down, their heads on the same pillow. It’s a tight fit in Merlin’s small bed but it works for them. Like this their warm breath mingles and they are touching from their foreheads to toes. Merlin can’t even remember what being cold feels like. “Thank you for letting me,” he replies.
***
That night, Arthur dreams of a farm where Merlin is there with him, right by his side every day and night. He’s bathed in sunlight as he wakes up in their bed, cooking in their small kitchen while humming a tune Arthur will have stuck in his head for days to come, out working in their growing garden with dirt under his fingernails and on his cheeks, rolling around in the field with their dog that stumbled upon their freshly grown strawberries and decided they were her dinner one evening, kissing Arthur goodnight and good morning.
And most importantly, he’s home in Arthur’s heart. Always and forever. In life and death.