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Arthur comes striding out of the lake, dressed in the clothes he’d died in, with Excalibur at his side. His eyes have a far-away look to them, and Merlin fears suddenly that Arthur won’t remember who they are, what they’ve done.
But then Arthur’s gaze fixes on him, and Merlin knows without a doubt that this is his Arthur.
Arthur keeps coming, soaking wet and undeterred by the mud sucking his boots down. His eyes never leave Merlin, not even when a lorry whooshes past on the motorway just behind them, technology Merlin dreads explaining to Arthur, who had such pride in the knowledge of his kingdom.
When they’re close enough to hear each other, Merlin says, “Arthur,” something desperate and vulnerable in it. Arthur doesn’t say a word. He grabs Merlin’s face and kisses Merlin like his life depends on it.
Merlin makes a soft sound, taken aback for all of a second before he’s able to respond, arms going around Arthur and holding him close, lips moving against each other reverently. Arthur’s tongue swipes over Merlin’s bottom lip but doesn’t push, and when they finally break apart to breathe, Arthur leans against him, head on Merlin’s shoulder.
They don’t speak on the way back to Merlin’s farm, but Arthur reaches for Merlin’s hand, holding tight as they journey through the countryside. The only press of the modern world is the faraway sounds of cars, and Arthur doesn’t startle, managing not to stumble on the uneven ground despite giving Merlin his full attention.
Merlin’s heart doesn’t stop banging against his ribs.
He’d feared many different outcomes. That Arthur remembers him is reward enough; that the first thing he’d done after sleeping for a thousand years was kiss Merlin breathless is a different beast altogether.
Arthur doesn’t take much notice of the farmhouse Merlin can’t quite bring himself to call home, accepting a dry change of clothes and settling himself at Merlin’s rickety kitchen table as if he spent every day in this new place filled with strange machinery. Once he’s mopped up the lake Arthur’s dripping clothes created on his kitchen floor, Merlin sits across from him and just stares, taking in the planes of the face he thought he might never see again and waiting for Arthur to make the first move.
“When did you awaken?” Arthur asks, and Merlin is unable to speak for precious seconds. Arthur misinterprets the pause. “Did you wait long for me?” he asks, his voice softer.
“I did not sleep,” Merlin manages haltingly. “I waited a thousand years, for you.”
Arthur’s expression is one of horror, and he stands up from his chair and comes to kneel before him. “Merlin,” is all he says, and when Arthur reaches up to hold him Merlin collapses, letting Arthur take his weight. Once the first tears escape his eyes he can’t stop, shaking with sobs and Arthur just holds him, one hand rubbing circles on Merlin’s back until the well finally, finally runs dry.
“I’m sorry,” Merlin whispers, bent almost double to rest his face against Arthur’s shoulder, ashamed to straighten up and face him. “I wanted to be strong, for when you returned. It’s just been — so long—“
“I know,” Arthur murmurs, hand stopping its movements and just resting there. “Have you got somewhere we can sit, Merlin, or are you still a commoner after all this time?”
Merlin laughs, a snotty thing that makes Arthur grimace and hold him at arm’s length. “Sure,” Merlin says. He leaves Arthur on the couch while he cleans up in the bathroom, reminded by the tap running that he has dozens, if not hundreds, of technological improvements to explain to Arthur. He’d prepared, of course, but though Arthur wasn’t stupid, he was certainly stubborn.
He reminds himself sharply to begin thinking of Arthur in the present tense.
Arthur is not on the couch when he returns, making Merlin’s heart rate spike in fear, but he’s inspecting the television, examining how it’s attached to the wall and starting to poke at the buttons.
“Oi,” Merlin says. Arthur’s automatic response is to scowl at him, and then they both laugh at the absurdity of it all. Merlin sits down, emotionally wrung-out at 7am, and Arthur eventually comes to sit beside him, throwing the TV a suspicious look. “That’s a TV,” Merlin says before Arthur can ask. “But I have more important things to explain to you. Are you hungry?”
Arthur frowns, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “Starving.”
Merlin heats up soup on the hob, not wanting to invite any complicated questions. He explains gas cooking, likening it to heating a pot over a fire, and Arthur nods, though his eyes are alight with curiosity. Merlin just hopes he doesn’t accidentally turn the gas on in the middle of the night, and disguises his shudder by asking Arthur to fetch the bread.
“You have a cook?” Arthur asks, turning the plastic-wrapped bread over in his hands.
“I bought it from a shop,” Merlin says. “People don’t really… there’s a lot of things they don’t bother cooking, nowadays.”
“So they sell them in strange packets.”
“Yeah,” Merlin says with a shrug. He opens the other cupboards to show Arthur the contents.
“And these are readily available?” Merlin nods. “So none in the kingdom go hungry,” Arthur surmises, pleased.
Merlin thinks about explaining austerity and politics to Arthur for all of a second, and then decides against it. “No,” he says glumly. “There’s a lot of waste.”
Arthur eats quickly, stuffing his face like he hasn’t eaten in years. Only then, sated and comfortable and already at home in Merlin’s bright little kitchen, he asks, “Did you know when I’d wake up?”
“I worried that I wouldn’t,” Merlin says. “I stayed here at first, hoping it would be only ten years, perhaps twenty. But a town sprung up here, and they were beginning to ask questions — I wasn’t ageing. I left after that, going to a new place each lifetime, and leaving before the inhabitants became suspicious. I’ve been all over the world.” He feels almost out of breath, part of him still stumbling over the fact that Arthur is here, listening to his story. “I learned how to gradually age myself, of course. Two years ago, I felt a great disturbance of magic, and I knew.”
Arthur is biting his lip as though conflicted, but he doesn’t speak.
“I came here for the first time in centuries,” Merlin says, looking down. He badly wants a cup of tea, but doesn’t want to freak Arthur out with the kettle. “I bought… this is a farm, not far from the town. I thought it would be — familiar.”
“For me?”
“For you,” Merlin says, unable to meet his eyes. “I didn’t feel that disturbance again, but I could feel something stirring. Beneath the earth, as if something was waking from a deep sleep. I woke before dawn this morning, and I knew it was time.”
He’d dressed in a hurry, discarding jeans for dark trousers, casting a quick glance over the house no one but himself had seen, and left for the lake. Not many would consider it walking distance from his farm, but Merlin had had a lot of practice, and he would not fail Arthur. Not again.
“I woke underwater,” Arthur says, as if it had been a dream. “But I could breathe. I rose to the top, and I walked. And there you were. You look—“ His breath catches. “You look exactly the same.”
“So do you,” Merlin says. The chainmail is gone, strangely enough, but Arthur’s clothes are familiar, fabrics that Merlin himself had washed and hung to dry. Sometimes it feels like yesterday, and other times Merlin feels every second of the thousand years he lived without Arthur by his side.
He isn’t sure what to do next, if he should go through every item in his house and explain its use to Arthur, or if they should dip their toes into the town and learn by doing. He knows which one Arthur will prefer.
They end up in Merlin’s favourite café, Arthur dressed somewhat more presentably in trousers and a soft cotton t-shirt that matches his eyes. Unwilling to leave Arthur alone, they wait in the queue until Merlin orders a pot of tea and leads Arthur to a table in the back, far from any potential eavesdroppers. Arthur, thankfully, saves his questions for when they’re alone, but the way he looks around at the furniture, the machines, even the fashion of other customers, marks him as different.
Conversation becomes somewhat stilted, both of them conscious of other customers passing their table, but Merlin can tell Arthur feels more settled being around other people, as if reassured that the two of them aren’t alone in the world. Merlin forces himself to chatter, telling Arthur things that will surely go in one ear and out the other, about his neighbours and friends in the village, and when he mentions thinking of getting a horse, Arthur perks up.
“You’d get two, obviously,” he says.
“You’d have to pitch in, then,” Merlin says, smirking. “Have you ever actually mucked out a stable?”
Arthur opens his mouth to say something — probably ‘Why would I need to when I’ve got you?’ — but closes it and turns his grimace into a smile. “I’m sure it’s perfectly pleasant,” he says, “considering how often I would find you asleep in there.”
“Once!” Merlin exclaims indignantly. “And that was Cedric’s fault, anyway. He put me to sleep, somehow.”
Instead of creating the levity Merlin had hoped for, Arthur’s face drains of colour, and he looks down. He doesn’t speak his mind, but Merlin can guess — Arthur’s thinking once more of all the situations he couldn’t explain, and realising that Merlin wasn’t just a lousy servant after all. Cedric was a particularly bad memory; Merlin shudders when he remembers the absolute power Sigan had offered him.
“My tea is cold,” Arthur complains instead, as if he couldn’t have been drinking it while Merlin talked his ear off, and Merlin automatically leans over, waving his hand over the mug to reheat the liquid inside. Arthur’s eyes are wide as dinner plates when he looks up, mouth set in a firm line, and Merlin swallows and chuckles self-consciously.
“Force of habit. I’m—”
“Don’t be sorry.” Arthur’s shoulders are stiff, but his finger taps restlessly against the table. “You don’t have to hide from me.” Anymore.
When they return, Merlin tries to make Arthur comfortable in his house, making up the spare bedroom he’d feared might never be used and putting the heating on rather than using magic. Arthur’s sodden clothes are in cold water in the sink; Merlin had doubted the homespun and hand-sewn cloth would survive the washing machine. Arthur looks like he regrets asking for a bath when he sees the tub, plastic and unfamiliar. Merlin winces and turns to leave instead of apologising for the hundredth time.
“Merlin,” Arthur says, and he’s dropped the steady tone he’d been maintaining all day, sounding hesitant. As if Merlin would — as if he could deny Arthur anything. “Stay.”
He doesn’t need to say please; Merlin can hear it in his voice.
“Of course,” he says, perching on the closed toilet and waiting for Arthur to emerge from the bedroom.
Arthur lowers himself gingerly into the bath, and Merlin sucks in a breath when he sees the scar on Arthur’s side, a large, ugly wound. It is thicker and rounder than the stab of a sword, and Merlin feels sick when he thinks of Mordred twisting it inside Arthur, sick with guilt and horror, for he had seen the wound fresh and somehow forgotten its contours.
When he drags his eyes away at last, he realises Arthur had been watching him the whole time.
“I suppose you are too old to bathe your king?” is what he says, though, and Merlin occupies himself with trying not to hack up a lung. Arthur smirks.
“Never, sire,” Merlin manages eventually. Careful not to spoil the lightness Arthur’s comment had created, he says, “I meant it, you know. I’m happy to be your servant.”
“There aren’t servants anymore, you said.”
“No,” Merlin says, standing at last, stretching, and dropping to his knees beside the bath. He pretends not to see Arthur’s eyes widening, an expression Arthur quickly covers by rubbing tiredly at his face. “But I’m yours.”
They both have to take a moment then, and Merlin concentrates on keeping his breathing steady. He doesn’t take it back. It wasn’t a lie, both in and out of context.
Merlin fills the time with inane chatter once more, a skill he hasn’t lost and something that comes even easier when he’s trying to hide something from Arthur. He wondered if over a thousand years’ distance would make him reluctant to be a manservant again, perhaps more inclined to serve Arthur through protecting his king, but it soothes something in him to take care of Arthur in this way.
Arthur doesn’t voice his complaints about the bath, succumbing to modernity without a fight, but he does scowl when Merlin asks him to turn, drawing up his knees to avoid knocking them on the tub. Merlin can’t remember the last time he saw a round bathtub; he had long fallen out of the habit of considering how Arthur would react to each new advancement.
“Lemongrass and mandarin?” Arthur questions, his back to Merlin as he reads the shower gel bottle. Merlin works up a lather on the sponge and starts scrubbing at Arthur’s shoulders. Were they always this broad? Did Merlin always have to tamp down on the heat pooling in his stomach while he did this?
It was easier, Merlin thinks, when Arthur was off-limits. When Merlin felt like he was deceiving Arthur, he knew nothing could happen between them. When Arthur fell in love with Gwen, Merlin knew he couldn’t compare. When Arthur married her, Merlin had just wanted them to be happy.
Now, Merlin’s catching himself referring to the farm as home for the first time. Because Arthur is here.
“Smells like oranges,” he says, remembering too late that Arthur has never seen an orange in his life. “I’ll show you tomorrow.”
Merlin lets Arthur dry himself off in the spare bedroom while he fetches a pair of pyjama trousers, turning the heating dial down with nothing more than a gesture down the hallway. He feels an outdated frisson of fear as he does so, reminding himself that Arthur knows, and hasn’t rejected him. Not this millennium, anyway.
Arthur’s back is to him once more, a towel around his waist as he peers out of the window, no doubt seeking out the barely-visible pinpricks of light, car headlights in the distance. Merlin traces familiar scars with his eyes, some part of him still not believing that Arthur Pendragon is standing just metres away from him.
“Here,” Merlin says, holding out the trousers and clearing his throat so he stops lingering like a pervert in the doorway. Arthur lets the curtain swing back into place, turning to face him, and his smile is frayed at the edges. Merlin doesn’t comment as Arthur changes, busying himself with peeling back the freshly made duvet and re-plumping the pillow.
“Goodnight, Arthur,” Merlin says when he can dawdle no longer, afraid to leave Arthur’s side and afraid, somehow, that Arthur won’t be here when he wakes up.
“Merlin,” Arthur says suddenly, and he crosses the room in two long strides and catches Merlin’s arm before he can leave.
“Yes?”
“Thank you,” Arthur says, blue eyes earnest, and Merlin nods, ducking out of the room before his heart hammers out of his chest.
He lies awake for what seems like hours, but it’s only been forty-five minutes when the knock comes. Merlin doesn’t think Arthur’s ever knocked at his door, having always had the confidence, the surety to just burst in.
“Come in,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows. He didn’t bother pulling his curtains closed all the way, and Arthur glows silver in the moonlight. “You okay?”
“I can’t sleep,” Arthur says. His jaw is tensed like he’s expecting a hit. “Can I — would it be alright if…”
Arthur doesn’t want to take, so Merlin gives.
He doesn’t say anything, just flips back the covers. Once Arthur is settled beside him, a familiar silhouette lying on his back, Merlin feels safe enough to speak. “It’s been many years since I shared a bed.”
Arthur looks at him sharply, seeming to realise too late that the movement is accusatory and attempting to soften his gaze. “Did you take many lovers?”
“A few,” Merlin says, turning onto his side and looking Arthur in the face. “In the early years, before I knew the pain of caring for someone and watching them age, while I could not.” His first few centuries had taught him much about his soft heart, and Merlin had forced himself to become cold and hard for his own protection. As for sex, well — he supposes he could have separated love and desire, but Merlin found that he didn’t have much of an appetite.
Once Arthur was gone, his mind adds.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur says softly, and he grasps Merlin’s hands for a moment, eyes full of something Merlin can’t comprehend. “How long you’ve waited for me. How much you have sacrificed.”
“You’re here now,” Merlin says in a whisper, closing his eyes. He feels cold when Arthur lets go. “It was worth it.”
Arthur’s huff of breath tells Merlin that he believes the opposite, but Merlin doesn’t dare tell Arthur why he’s worth over a thousand years of waiting. He fears what will come out of his mouth; the truth is too much for Arthur to bear. How can Merlin tell him that he’s loved him all this time? When pressed, could he admit that he fell in love with Prince Arthur? Would Arthur believe Merlin’s tales of prophecies, that they are two sides of the same coin, when he knows that Merlin’s truth is irreversibly influenced by love?
He wants to lie awake some more, to think of how to tell Arthur the entire sordid tale, but too soon he finds himself drifting off, fingers curling around nothing. He shivers suddenly, almost clawing his way back to waking, but the duvet is drawn up over him by a kind hand, and Merlin falls into blessedly dreamless sleep.
Merlin wakes warm, his bed stifling for reasons he can’t fathom until he shifts and feels the weight of Arthur’s arm around his waist. Oh, Merlin thinks when he shifts some more, because the whole long line of Arthur is pressed up against him, legs twined with his and breath stirring his hair. And his breath isn’t the only thing stirring.
“Arthur,” Merlin whispers, knowing as he says it that he doesn’t really want Arthur to wake up. He wishes he could pretend to be asleep, to enjoy the intimacy of this a little longer, but it feels fraudulent to let Arthur hold him like a lover.
They hadn’t spoken about the fervent way Arthur had kissed him when he came out of the lake, a kiss like a homecoming, like something long-awaited and overdue. Merlin has to assume it wasn’t meant for him. He couldn’t bear it, otherwise.
“Mm?” Arthur mumbles. His arm tightens around Merlin, and Merlin abandons his plan of wriggling free. Arthur sounds as if he’s going to say Merlin’s name, but what comes out is, “Muh.”
“Mm-hmm, yep, great,” Merlin says to himself. He closes his eyes for a long moment. At least Arthur knows who he’s in bed with. Sharing a bed with. For convenience only. Not because Arthur wanted to go to bed with him, oh no, Merlin’s just helping him sleep. Merlin tries not to think about how he laid awake, too, thinking of Arthur in the next room.
“Merlin, it’s the crack of dawn,” Arthur says, shockingly lucid, and Merlin yelps.
“I have to milk the cow!” he all but shrieks. So Arthur’s awake. With his arm around Merlin. And his cock half-hard and conspicuous against Merlin’s arse, covered ineffectually with nothing but thin pyjama trousers. And Arthur isn’t pulling away.
“I bet you do,” Arthur rumbles, voice hoarse with sleep and maybe the sexiest thing Merlin’s ever heard and oh my God I have to get out of here—
“Her name is Bess,” Merlin says, determinedly not thinking about what Arthur actually meant.
“That’s such a cow name.” Merlin had forgotten how nonsensical Arthur could be in the morning.
“Unhand me, you brute,” he says with as much indignation as he can muster, tugging fruitlessly at Arthur’s arm with the ghost of a smile on his lips.
“Ugh, if you insist,” Arthur says, scowl evident in his voice. Merlin has less than a second to note that they’d kicked the duvet all the way to the bottom of the bed before he’s standing and looking at Arthur, who rolls onto his back heedless of — well, heedless of the way he’s filling the trousers Merlin lent him.
Merlin doesn’t think about it until he lets Bess out, her happy to graze in the field and him happy to watch her for a few minutes while he sorts through the jumble of thoughts and emotions crowding his head. Two days ago, Bess and his chickens were all he had to worry about. He thinks again about adding horses to his collection, having long thought about it and missing the days when they were the fastest mode of transportation, but now Arthur is here, it’s a necessity. Merlin knows nothing clears Arthur’s mind like a ride out in the woods, across the fields.
For the first time, Merlin aches to return to his little farmhouse.
Arthur is in the kitchen, dressed in the clothes he’d borrowed yesterday. Merlin takes a moment to be impressed that Arthur managed the facilities on his own this morning, and then observes that Arthur is turning the kitchen tap on and off, apparently for his own amusement.
“I have to pay for that, you know,” Merlin says, affecting a scolding tone.
Arthur is affronted. “Pay for water? It comes from the ground!” He looks Merlin up and down expectantly. “Thought you were milking the cow?”
“Oh, she’s not actually pregnant,” Merlin says, deciding not to get into the water issue. “Just had to let the animals out.” And get away from the spectacle I made of myself this morning, he adds silently.
Merlin steps into the kitchen and becomes acutely aware that something is burning. “Did you cook something?” he asks suspiciously.
Arthur narrows his eyes. “Your machine is defective.”
The blackened toast is in the general waste, and Merlin plucks it out with care, holding back laughter at the way it crumbles in his fingers. “Food bin,” he says, pointing it out. “Though I don’t use it much; most of my leftovers go to the chickens. Also, the numbers on the toaster are how many minutes you plan to burn it for.”
“I didn’t plan to burn it, Merlin,” Arthur says, and for a moment Merlin feels twenty years old again, bickering with Arthur across the old oak table in his chambers over the quality of that morning’s breakfast. “You do it, if you’re such an expert.”
Merlin makes him picture-perfect toast with butter and jam, setting the plate down with a flourish and returning to the counter to fill the kettle. “You want some tea?” he asks. He feels like he’s dithering, and leans against the counter. From Arthur’s expression, he can tell he’s not nailing the casual lean.
“No,” Arthur says dismissively, starting on his toast with gusto. He watches keenly as the kettle boils and Merlin pours water over his teabag, grabbing milk from the fridge and sugar from the pot, and when Merlin sits down, he’s hardly taken a sip before Arthur appropriates the mug.
“Hey!” There isn’t much more important to Merlin than his morning cup of tea — besides the person holding it, that is. He watches Arthur take a sip and mull it over.
“Hm,” is all the reaction he gives, and then, “Shouldn’t you make a cup for yourself?”
“We can share it,” Merlin says, scowling at him. “I have things to do today. We have to make sure you can move about in the world.”
Once breakfast is over and done with, Merlin fetches a sheaf of paper as well as his own passport, driver’s license, and his current birth certificate. He’s lost count of which edition this is. Usually he gives a false name, but this time around, moving back to the lake in preparation for whatever magic was stirring beneath it, he was Merlin once more.
Arthur is sceptical of his mobile phone, but Merlin convinces him it’s no different to sitting for a portrait, something Arthur had done from time to time. Merlin wonders absently if any of those paintings had survived, or perhaps made it into a tapestry. Once he has the photo, he transfigures the paper into the necessary documents, letting Arthur keep his real name but changing his parents’ names. Any similarities to legend might arouse suspicion, and Merlin has flown under the radar for this long by being careful in this age of surveillance.
It’s been a while since he used magic for a complicated task, and Arthur watches him with fascination and no small amount of trepidation. Merlin has to fight his nerves, goosebumps rising on his arms as Arthur watches magic flow from his hands, words writing themselves as Merlin intones the necessary spell under his breath. Whispering spells has become second-nature, even centuries after England resumed and then discontinued burning witches at the stake.
Arthur’s birthday is as close to real life as they could figure it, both of them screwing up their faces working out how many days before Christmas Arthur was born. At eight o’clock, Merlin takes a break to call the doctor’s surgery, saving them a trip by printing the necessary forms at home.
Arthur doesn’t want to go to the doctor, bruised pride finally lashing out at the one thing he can control.
“Gaius said I was healthy as a horse, just weeks ago,” Arthur exclaims, and then his face goes white. “Gaius… Merlin, I’m so sorry.”
Merlin manages a smile for him; he’s had a long, long time to think about what he lost, after all, and while it hurts no less, the sting of impact has lessened. “It’s alright.” He sighs. “Anyway, you were healthy — for a thousand years ago. It’s different now.”
He takes Arthur with him to drop off the forms, a huge help when the young receptionist is reluctant to give him a same-day appointment, but her eyes dart to Arthur when she thinks he isn’t looking. “You won’t be in the system yet,” she argues.
Merlin elbows Arthur in the ribs, startling Arthur into giving a thousand-watt smile. “It’s just a check-up,” he promises, lowering his voice so she has to lean in to hear him. Merlin looks at the reflection of her computer screen in her glasses, gesturing subtly with his hand to make it clearer.
“Three o’clock would be perfect,” he says with a grin.
“Three — well, that lines up just perfect. I’ll book you in, then—?”
“Arthur,” Arthur says smoothly. “Arthur Pendragon.”
Merlin tells the GP that Arthur has just returned from backpacking in India, using magic to smooth away any suspicion and putting a rush on results. Arthur side-eyes him, but says nothing. “The full battery, please,” Merlin says cheerfully.
Arthur gets through the tests, including having blood drawn, by staring daggers at Merlin the entire time and mouthing threats when the doctor isn’t looking. Merlin, in turn, lets Arthur pick what they have for dinner and doesn’t complain when Arthur gets under his feet in the kitchen.
When it gets late, it’s taken for granted that they’ll sleep in the same bed, and Merlin’s glad to avoid an awkward conversation when they both want the same thing. They take turns in the bathroom, and Merlin falls asleep faster than he has in years.
“I kissed you,” Arthur says, a few days later, “when I came out of the lake.”
Merlin was a fool to think their domestic bliss would last forever. He says nothing, casting his eyes down, unwilling to be the one to burst the bubble. They’d fallen into step easily, habits re-adopted so quickly it was hard to believe they’d ever been separated. Sometimes Arthur struggles to find his way in the new world, but Merlin has never been so glad to serve, to be needed.
“I wanted to,” Arthur continues. “I… I saw you, and I didn’t think of all the things in our way.”
Merlin thinks of all those years he’d spent closing his heart. Arthur had broken down centuries of hard-won defences in a matter of minutes, let alone in the four days past. “Perhaps you should have.”
“You kissed me back.” Merlin finally looks at him, and regrets it: Arthur’s eyes burn into him, demanding his attention, and Merlin’s chest goes tight. “Why won’t you talk to me about this?”
Arthur’s expression shutters suddenly, perhaps thinking—
“Merlin,” he says, a plea this time, and like he’d read Merlin’s mind. “You keep so many secrets from me.”
“I am trying not to hurt you!” Merlin snaps, unable to take it. He digs his fingers hard into the sofa cushion, fantasising about storming from the room. But Arthur would just follow him, to the ends of the earth if need be, and Merlin knows the time has come to talk. “Don’t you understand I can’t tell the truth? I can’t tell you that I—”
He catches himself just in time, but Arthur is frowning. “That you… what?”
“That I love you,” Merlin says, and he thinks he might sob from the relief of it. “I always have.”
He feels himself flushing a dull red, prickly and uncomfortable as it crawls from his cheeks to his ears. Arthur just stares at him, mouth open in surprise. His hands are slack by his sides; Merlin is grateful they haven’t curled into fists. He wonders whether Arthur feels preyed upon, whether he’s wondering if Merlin connived his way into Arthur’s life, shaping it with his magic and his love.
As the silence stretches on, tears prickle at Merlin’s eyes, terrible fear winding its way into his heart. He wants to say sorry, for already breaking Arthur’s tenuous grasp on their new normal, and he’s so deep in thought he startles when Arthur takes his hand, his expression telling Merlin that he’s ready to speak.
Merlin prepares himself for the speech. Arthur’s never been one for delicacy, even with those he cares about, but Merlin knows Arthur will make it as painless as he can.
“I love you,” Arthur says.
“No,” Merlin says immediately. A familiar furrow appears between Arthur’s eyebrows, one Merlin had frequently thought of kissing away. “No, Arthur.” He glances at Arthur’s hand in his and drops it quickly, jumping to his feet.
“Yes,” Arthur says stubbornly. Merlin gasps for air and goes to the window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass and shutting his eyes. “Merlin, I don’t understand—”
“You love Gwen,” Merlin chokes out, feeling the sword in his heart press ever deeper, a thousand needles dragging sharp across his skin. “I know you do, Arthur, I watched you fall for her, years in the making. It was beautiful — you were happy!” I couldn’t make you happy, Merlin wants to add, but it’s hard to admit, even to himself, that he isn’t enough for the other half of his soul.
“I loved Gwen,” Arthur interrupts. Merlin bites his lip at the use of past tense, doubtful; it had taken him many years to fully comprehend that all his friends were lost to him. “I will always have love for Gwen. But you… it was always different, with you.”
“Don’t try to make me feel better,” Merlin says, leaning heavily on the windowsill and staring into the darkness. “I can’t take your pity, your lies.”
“It is the truth,” Arthur insists. “When was I to tell you? When my father lived, or when I fell in love with Gwen, or when I became king and required heirs?”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Merlin says abruptly. He doesn’t want to think about lost chances and missed opportunities, about how they would have been together in a castle where Merlin washed their clothes by hand and Arthur fought with a sword, how he could have loved and lost Arthur in an entirely different way. He doesn’t want to consider a thousand years knowing what it was like to kiss Arthur, to be loved by him, and to not know if he would ever have it again.
When he turns, Arthur is staring into his cooling cup of tea, looking as miserable as Merlin feels. These things had to be said, it is true, but Merlin feels raw, struck by Arthur’s uncanny ability to reach through the heart of him and grasp his soul. He joins Arthur on the sofa with some reluctance, sitting as close as he dares.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur murmurs without looking at him. “All this time, I’ve… hurt you.”
“I hurt you, too.” Merlin reheats Arthur’s tea with a thought, steam curling once more from the surface, and waves his hand to make images appear, things that Arthur recognises and smiles at. Not a dragon, though. Merlin had given up thinking of dragons long ago.
“I understand…” Arthur says slowly, staring at the fading images with wonder, “why you hid it. I don’t know what I would have done. I wouldn’t — couldn’t have turned you in, but I… I don’t know how I would have felt about it. About you.”
Merlin blinks back tears. “I didn’t want you to have to choose. Your father, or me. Your kingdom and the laws they’d always known, or me and the magic that wrought such destruction in your life.” He hesitates. “Everything I did was for you. For…” He can’t bring himself to say it, to centre himself so selfishly in Arthur’s plight.
“For us.” Arthur’s voice is tremulous, and he sets down his tea. “Let me do something for you, now.”
It’s a shock to realise Arthur is looking at him, the forgiveness and acceptance Merlin had dreamed of as a boy tangible in that steady gaze, and Arthur telegraphs his movements, giving Merlin time to pull away from the fingers Arthur touches to his jaw. Merlin just looks at him, taking in the matching tears in Arthur’s eyes, and when he can’t take it anymore, he closes the distance between them.
It feels right in a way nothing ever has, Arthur’s lips moving against his, one hand curling around the back of Merlin’s neck and holding him there. Merlin fights for the upper hand a moment more before submitting, letting Arthur lick into his mouth and trail fire in his wake, his own hands coming up to find purchase against Arthur’s shoulders.
One of them moans into the kiss and Arthur’s grip turns insistent, trying to pull Merlin closer, and Merlin curses the both of them for starting this in the bloody lounge when they could have been in bed all this time. He isn’t sure he wants to let this discussion go, unsatisfied with the words exchanged, but he knows he wants to believe Arthur wants this, that he’s telling the truth. Perhaps he can let Arthur take care of him, just this once. Perhaps Merlin can even convince himself that he deserves it.
“Arthur,” he gasps, freeing himself from Arthur’s demanding mouth and sighing as Arthur kisses along his jaw instead, “Arthur, c’mon—“
“Bed?” Arthur rumbles against his neck. Merlin whimpers in response, following Arthur when he stands up and yelping as Arthur’s arms go around his waist and lift him bodily off the floor.
“You bloody brute,” Merlin exclaims, feigning irritation even as his heart thunders a mile a minute down the hallway, and his breath hitches as Arthur tosses him on the bed and climbs right back over him, pausing only to divest them both of their shirts.
“I don’t see you complaining,” Arthur says, and he’s grinning but it feels more real now, horizontal in a bed with the curtains drawn and the lamp casting a soft glow over the room.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Merlin asks, kicking himself but unwilling to break either of their hearts, to push too far.
Arthur looks nervous but resolute, gaze dipping between them, where their trousers do nothing to hide the fact they’re both hard. “I’ve never lain with a man before,” he admits quietly. “I don’t know what to do.”
“We’ll start slow,” Merlin promises him. He tries to disguise his quick intake of breath, some irrational smugness that he’ll be Arthur’s first, and blinks up at Arthur, feigning innocence. “Kiss me?”
Arthur obliges with a smirk, clearly feeling like he’s doing Merlin a favour, and Merlin licks at the seam of Arthur’s lips until he opens for him, the kiss turning hotter until Merlin feels brave enough to slip a hand between them and rub the heel of his hand against Arthur’s cock. He gets a curse for his trouble, Arthur pulling away from the kiss and gasping into Merlin’s neck, surprisingly undone for such a simple touch.
Merlin doesn’t do Gwen the disservice of wondering about their sex life, but he does ask in a murmur if Arthur’s okay.
“You have no idea,” Arthur says, “how long I’ve thought about you touching me like this.” Supporting himself with one hand, he runs the other through Merlin’s hair, smiling and loose-limbed and relaxed, the way Merlin had wished to see him in their previous lifetimes.
“I always wanted you,” Merlin says, and then he gets somewhat of a lump in his throat and returns his attention to more important things. Arthur is wearing the boxers Merlin bought for him, an incongruity quickly settled when Arthur wriggles out of those too, discarding them beside their trousers. Merlin’s underwear quickly joins the pile, and Merlin holds his breath as they drink each other in. Nudity is hardly a revelation to master and servant, but being allowed to really look, let alone to touch, is a pleasure. Stolen glances can’t compare to tracing Arthur’s chest with his eyes and then his hands, fingers finding old scars and moving lower.
Before Merlin can push onwards, Arthur kneels between his legs, fingers tracing Merlin’s stomach. Merlin jumps, ticklish, and tries to squeeze his thighs together in defence, finding this difficult with Arthur’s body between them.
Arthur’s hand smooths over his rib cage, and Merlin holds his breath. “You’ve put weight on,” Arthur says, but before Merlin’s eyebrows can reach his hairline in indignation, he adds, “It looks good on you. I never liked being able to count your ribs.”
Arthur, Merlin thinks with a stab of heartache and regret, looks exactly the same as Merlin had left him. He’d been in love with the upstart prince, muscles tight and honed from years of practice, and he was in love with this Arthur too, older and a little stockier but no less sharp, no less of a soldier. Arthur is a soldier without a war, without even an army to occupy him, and Merlin fears being unable to keep his attention.
“You’re so beautiful,” he blurts out.
“Beautiful?” Arthur says, trying for an amused tone, but his sincerity and surprise leak through. “Quite the compliment. Nothing else you’d like to add?”
“You’re arrogant enough as it is,” Merlin says, flushing pink. “I will flatter you no further.”
“Then I must flatter you,” Arthur says. He smiles just enough that Merlin can see the catch of his snaggletooth against his lip, something so endearing and familiar he has to blink back tears. “You are even lovelier underneath me than I could have dreamed.”
“When did you become a poet?” Merlin asks, deflecting from the way the words sink into him and settle somewhere behind his ribs, warm and glowing.
Arthur just grins.
Biting back a smile, Merlin traces his fingers down Arthur’s chest, trailing through the light dusting of chest hair, smoothing across his ribs as Arthur had done to him, and finally wraps his hand around Arthur’s cock. Arthur makes a choked noise, fingers clenching in the pillow behind Merlin’s head, and Merlin sets a steady pace, learning as he goes. Arthur makes the same sound when Merlin rubs his thumb over the head, catching the pre-come gathering there.
Arthur reaches for Merlin in turn, palm broader than Merlin’s and earning a moan when he tightens his grip. He pays special attention to the prominent vein and Merlin’s thighs tense around Arthur’s waist as he shifts to line them up, both of them gasping as they brush together.
“Is this what you want?” Arthur asks, voice ragged already.
“Gods, yes,” Merlin sighs, and moans when Arthur takes his hand away, blinking until he can focus on Arthur’s face above him. “Did you — did you have something else in mind?”
Arthur is hesitant, brushing his knuckles against Merlin’s cheek. “I don’t wish to ask for too much,” he says quietly. “I feel honoured enough to share your bed, your life.”
“I will grant you anything,” Merlin says. He’s sure this line will come back to bite him in an argument later, but it’s true, and Arthur’s hips jerk against him.
“I want to be inside you,” Arthur says breathlessly. He presses the pad of his thumb to Merlin’s bottom lip reverently, and Merlin lets him push inside, dizzy with Arthur’s full attention. “I thought of you spreading your legs for me, how I would fill you, fuck you until you spilled.” Merlin sucks lightly, taking Arthur’s thumb deeper into his mouth, and Arthur’s breath catches. “Merlin.”
Merlin pulls off with a wet sound, hopefully putting Arthur in mind of other things they can do together, and covers Arthur’s hand with his own. “I want that, too,” he says, quieter now. “More than you know.”
He knows it’s up to him to take the next step, and breathes deep for a moment before reaching out for his bedside drawer, fumbling to find lube. His fingers brush condoms and for a moment Merlin considers it, but Arthur’s tests had come back negative. Merlin wants to feel every moment of this, hating the idea of a barrier between them.
“Let me get on top,” he says, and then blushes despite Arthur’s incomprehension, because he means quite the opposite. “I’ll show you.”
He tries not to go too fast, tries to keep awareness of Arthur’s wide eyes and his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, but Merlin has to lose himself to it eventually, and when he’s two fingers deep in himself, arm at a difficult angle but not impossible, he cries out as one of Arthur’s fingers tentatively joins his.
“Arthur,” he gasps, in wonder and warning. “You don’t have to—“
“I want to do this to you,” Arthur says. He fumbles for the lube, inexpertly squeezing some onto his fingers, and then he reaches around and slips in a finger beside Merlin’s own. They both moan, Arthur letting out the breath he’d been holding and pressing their foreheads together. “You’re wet like a girl,” he says, because God forbid Merlin forget who he’s fucking.
“Shut up,” Merlin says, busy panting his way through it. Arthur’s fingers are thicker than his, and the stretch of the three of them is taking some getting used to.
“Take yours out,” Arthur demands suddenly. “Let me.”
Merlin does as he’s bid, free to steady himself on Arthur’s shoulders as Arthur tests the waters, adding a second finger and then another, eyes snapping to Merlin’s face when he moans. “Does it feel good?” Arthur asks, and his voice is quieter now. It feels less like a lesson and more like—
“Oh my God, do that again,” Merlin begs, and Arthur’s brow furrows as he crooks his fingers, brushing over Merlin’s prostate just barely and grinning as he realises what he’s looking for.
“You really are a girl,” Arthur says smugly, and Merlin scowls at him, though it’s short-lived, face going slack when Arthur finds it again, rubbing against the bundle of nerves with the single-minded tenacity that made him such a good knight, a fierce competitor. Right now, it’s making him seem like a god on Earth.
Arthur fingers him until he’s shaking, trembling atop Arthur and barely holding on to reality, fingernails digging red crescents into Arthur’s shoulders. When Merlin starts moving, fucking himself on Arthur’s fingers and increasing the pace, Arthur stares at him in wonder, his clean hand coming up to brush Merlin’s cheekbone.
Merlin doesn’t doubt that he looks a mess, cheeks flushed and thighs shaking with the effort. When he begins to falter, Arthur pushes harder, faster, and Merlin feels taut as a bowstring, winding tighter and tighter.
“Arthur,” he says breathlessly, trying to keep up. “I can’t, please, I need to come—“
“You’ll come on my cock or not at all,” Arthur snaps, and Merlin’s back arches as he moans, taken aback by the careless dominance of it. He thinks he might come there and then, but Arthur takes his fingers out, wrapping his hand around the base of Merlin’s dick instead. Arthur’s expression goes wry. “Assuming that’s still the word.”
“It is,” Merlin says, trying to catch his breath. He cycles through modern insults for a moment, never wanting to confuse Arthur, and then says, “You — clotpole.”
Arthur grins up at him then, beautiful and unselfconscious and something aches in Merlin’s chest. Wanting to be closer, he reaches for Arthur, relishing in the way Arthur’s fingers tighten on his waist, wetting his bottom lip as Merlin strokes slow and firm, thumbing a bead of pre-come from the head and raising his hand to lick it off. Arthur’s eyes are dark then, fixing on Merlin with intent.
That’s all the warning Merlin gets before Arthur flips them over, boxing Merlin in with a forearm braced over his head as Arthur kisses him, deep and insistent as though he’s trying to erase all traces of the lovers there before. Merlin wraps his legs around Arthur’s waist, heart thudding out of his chest as Arthur realises what Merlin’s trying to do and breaks away, golden head glancing between them to line himself up and then the head of his dick is pressing at Merlin’s hole.
“Go slow,” Merlin says, breath catching in his throat.
“Merlin,” Arthur gasps, sounding like it was meant to come out reprimanding but came out reverent instead. He almost pulls back, but Merlin tightens his grip, wanting Arthur close enough to kiss, never wanting to be anything but this close ever again. “Next time,” Arthur says, and there’s intent there too, desire that gives Merlin hope, “I’m going to watch how you open for me.”
Merlin moans at that, demanding Arthur’s mouth again, and as they kiss Arthur presses forward — careful, so careful, and Merlin swears he’s never felt anything so good as Arthur inside him, hot like a brand. The slow slide of it is agonising but Merlin doesn’t dare tell Arthur he can go faster, wanting to watch Arthur’s face as he does this for the first time. Every time Arthur’s eyes close he opens them again, gaze quickly flicking to Merlin’s face to watch him taking it, and his hand flutters between Merlin’s hair and his cheek, holding him close to kiss him.
It feels somewhere between seconds and hours before Arthur finally bottoms out, both of them gasping. The burn is long gone, replaced only by the delicious stretch of it. Merlin brings his hands to Arthur’s shoulders and closes his eyes briefly, savouring the moment.
To his surprise, it’s Arthur who speaks first. Merlin feels mute, overcome by the knowledge that Arthur wants him in this way, that this is something he can have. Arthur’s eyes are dark when they open, liquid in the low light and searching Merlin’s soul.
“You feel…” Arthur makes a soft sound, jaw tight with concentration and looking like staying still is killing him. “You feel unbelievable.”
“Yeah?” Merlin says. He feels speared open. “You feel so — so right, inside me.” He watches Arthur absorb that, hoping it means as much to Arthur as it does to him. “We were made for this,” he says, and Arthur moans helplessly as Merlin adds, “I was made for you.”
“Tell me you’re ready,” Arthur begs, edging on desperate. As soon as Merlin nods, Arthur pulls out a little, testing a shallow thrust that makes them both moan, and then he deepens the push and pull until they’re moving in earnest. He doesn’t stay gentle for long, urged on by Merlin, whose half-formed regret that he hadn’t insisted on staying on top is quickly forgotten.
Merlin feels frantic, as if he can’t get Arthur deep enough inside him, nails scrabbling for purchase as Arthur bends him practically in half, eyes hot and blond hair damp with sweat. He wants to say something but can’t gather his thoughts, little ah, ah sounds pushed out of his throat and answered in turn by a huff that might’ve been a laugh.
“I’ve wanted to see you like this for so long,” Arthur says with a gasp, switching up the rhythm until he’s fucking Merlin slower but no less deep, the drag of his cock making stars burst behind Merlin’s eyelids.
“Arthur,” is the only word he can manage, trying to pour into it a thousand years of love and hope and desire. Arthur grabs wildly for his hand, interlocking their fingers and using the grip to press Merlin into the bed.
The angle changes and Merlin cries out as Arthur’s cock slides against his prostate, squeezing his thighs around Arthur’s waist as though to keep him there, something Arthur couldn’t possibly ignore. He doubles his efforts, increasing the pace until they’re both panting and Merlin’s orgasm is upon him all at once, body singing like a fingertip tracing the rim of a glass.
He closes his eyes on instinct, used to concealing his eyes glowing gold, but Arthur demands, “Look at me,” and Merlin watches Arthur watch him, swallowing hard as Arthur’s expression flickers in surprise before settling on awe. “Beautiful,” he murmurs.
Boneless with orgasm, Merlin wraps himself around Arthur, looping his arms around Arthur’s neck and drawing him down for a kiss. Arthur fucks him in quick snaps of his hips and Merlin whimpers, getting oversensitive but still clenching tired muscles around Arthur’s cock, wanting it badly. They kiss at length as Arthur’s thrusts get erratic, his breath hitching, and Merlin clutches him close as he comes, stifling his moan against Merlin’s mouth.
“I love you,” Merlin says on impulse when they’re lying together afterwards, Arthur’s face buried against his neck and heartbeat just beginning to return to normal. Merlin feels the flutter of Arthur’s eyelashes against his neck, the rush of air as Arthur takes a quick breath and leans up on his forearms.
Arthur’s hair is damp and tousling over his forehead, eyes so deep and dark Merlin could happily drown in them. “I love you, too,” he says, and Merlin wonders if it’ll ever stop feeling like a dream.
Merlin sleeps like the dead, contentment and Arthur settling over him like warm blankets. When he wakes, Arthur’s side of the bed is cool enough that he’s clearly been up for a while, and Merlin thinks of how odd it is that Arthur should wake before him. And that Arthur would leave him after last night.
It hurts less when he notices how securely the duvet is tucked around him and that there’s a still-warm cup of tea on his bedside table.
He wanders into the kitchen in his dressing gown, the mug clutched between his cold hands like a lifeline. Arthur is leaning against the counter, his own tea seemingly forgotten on the side as he stares out of the window, and he turns thoughtful eyes on Merlin as he sits at the kitchen table.
“You alright?” Merlin asks. Something changed in the night, tension crackling like electricity in the air.
“I can’t believe they’re all gone,” Arthur says. His expression is blank, and Merlin can’t tell which way this conversation is going. He pulls out the chair next to him, and Arthur sinks into it like taking two steps towards Merlin sapped all his strength. “I’ll… I’ll never hear Gwen laugh again, or train with my knights, or walk among my people.”
Merlin exhales. He takes Arthur’s hand, and Arthur turns to him hopelessly. “I’m sorry,” Merlin says, feeling useless. “I wish I could bring them all back for you. I wish I could make it better. I hate to see you in such pain, even though I knew this was coming.”
“How can you stand it?” Arthur asks, cracked and broken.
“I got used to it,” Merlin replies. “It takes time, and I’ve had nothing but time.” He doesn’t add that he’s sure Kilgharrah lives, too, because Arthur knowing that would bring nothing but misery.
Though he’s thinking it, Merlin also doesn’t apologise for being the only one left. He must seem a poor consolation prize to Arthur, the one thing that hasn’t been taken from him, when they parted on painful terms and when Arthur had loved and married Gwen, had surely expected to start a family with her and undo the sins of his own father. It hurts to know that this is something Merlin can’t give him, no matter Arthur’s words.
“I’m glad it was you,” Arthur says, surprising Merlin from his bleak reverie.
“You are?” he blurts out without thinking, and holds his tongue against more ramblings when Arthur’s lost gaze snaps to his face.
“Of course,” he says, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows and his tone taking on purpose for the first time. “Merlin, you and Gwen are the two most important people in my life. I want her here, of course I do — but I want you by my side. I always have.”
Merlin doesn’t try to fight the blush spreading rapidly across his cheeks and ears, finding that it’s his turn to stare at the table as he locates his place in the world. That Arthur doesn’t begrudge his presence — that Arthur wants him here, after everything. It’s more than he could have hoped for.
Arthur turns their hands over, threading his fingers between Merlin’s and squeezing gently. “Drink your tea,” he says, smiling for the first time that morning. “I worked hard on it.”
“I’m sure,” Merlin mutters, rolling his eyes but thankful that the exchange restores the shaky sense of balance between them.
He does as Arthur says, like always.