Chapter Text
At the age of fourteen, Arthur’s father died in a car accident, leaving him an orphan.
That same year, he met Merlin, who adopted him.
From the age of fifteen, Arthur fell in love with his guardian.
At eighteen, Arthur stands close enough to count Merlin’s breaths. The bathroom light is too bright, too honest. He works slowly, spreading shaving foam across Merlin’s jaw, careful and practiced now. Merlin’s beard is dark, uneven in places. Arthur smooths it down with his fingers before lifting the razor.
He is close—close enough to catch the faint trace of toothpaste on Merlin’s breath. Merlin has just brushed his teeth. The thought lodges in Arthur’s chest, sharp and unwelcome.
Merlin closes his eyes and tilts his head back, trusting Arthur with a blade against his throat. Arthur moves inch by inch, steadying his hand, making sure the razor never slips. He knows exactly where Merlin’s skin is most fragile. He knows the old scars. He knows the pulse at the base of Merlin’s neck.
He does not kiss him.
The urge is there, pulling him forward. Arthur stares at Merlin’s mouth—the fullness of it, the softness—and has to fight the instinct to lean in.
No.
No, you can’t.
He’s your guardian.
Arthur’s father died when he was fourteen, killed in a car accident that left no space for last words or preparation. He left behind an enormous inheritance and a boy far too young to protect it. Arthur had trusted the wrong people then, had signed papers he didn’t understand. He had almost lost everything to his uncle, before he realized what was happening.
Merlin appeared in the middle of that.
He stepped into courtrooms and meeting. He fought Agravaine, reclaimed Arthur’s trust fund piece by piece, and won. Merlin said he was a distant relative from Uther’s side of the family. Arthur had never heard his father mention him, not once, and he suspected the story wasn’t true. But Merlin stayed.
He took on the role of guardian without ceremony, without asking for thanks. He cooked badly, burned toast, forgot to buy groceries. He cut himself shaving so often that Arthur eventually took the razor away and did it for him instead. Merlin took medication too freely, sometimes dangerously, and Arthur learned to check drawers, to remove pill bottles when Merlin wasn’t looking.
Merlin was not a good man in any conventional sense. He was careless with himself. He was a mess.
And yet he was warm. Like light, simple, unremarkable light that filled Arthur's life without trying.
Before Merlin, Arthur hadn’t known what it felt like to be loved. His mother had died young. His father had loved him, maybe, but love had always come second to work, to distance.
“All done,” Arthur says at last. He’s surprised by his own restraint.
He wipes Merlin’s face with a towel, gentle, then turns to rinse the blade in the sink.
“You’re always a lifesaver, Wart,” Merlin says behind him.
Arthur shuts his eyes. His hand trembles. The razor slips, slicing a clean line into his finger. He hisses, brings it under the tap. Water runs pink down the drain.
From the age of fifteen, Arthur fell in love with his guardian.
And Merlin loved him too. Arthur had never doubted that.
Just not in the way he wanted.
Uni gives Arthur distance to Merlin.
The campus is clean and bright, filled with people his age. Arthur learns how to perform normalcy there. Attending lectures. Answering questions. Smiling when spoken to.
Vivian stops him after class.
She is pretty in an uncomplicated way, confident enough to hold his gaze. She tells him she likes him, that she has for a while. Voice shaking only at the end, betraying how much courage it has taken.
“I’m flattered,” his tone is polite, restrained to the point of coldness. “But I’m not interested. I don’t want to lead you on.”
Her smile falters, then disappears entirely. She says she understands. She does not cry. Turning and walking away.
Arthur watches her go. There is a familiar ache in his chest, tightening, unbearable. The thought comes unbidden, as it always does. If he said the words out loud—if he stood in front of Merlin and confessed everything he has buried for years—would Merlin look at him like that?
I don’t want to lead you on.
Arthur can hear it in Merlin’s voice already.
He turns away before the image finishes forming. Running down the corridor. He pushes into the nearest bathroom, locks himself into a stall, then abandons it for the sink.
Cold water splashes his face. Once. Twice. He grips the porcelain edge and leans forward, breathing hard. The mirror shows him exactly as he is—desperate, breaking and fucking achingly young.
Arthur is halfway through his third class when his phone vibrates against the desk—Gilli’s name flashes on the screen.
Arthur steps out into the corridor to answer. Gilli sounds tense, his words clipped. Merlin didn’t come into the bookshop today. He hasn’t answered his phone. Gilli knows Merlin doesn’t keep regular hours, knows he owns the place and answers to no one—but still. Something feels wrong. Is everything all right at home?
Arthur says yes. When he left home that morning, Merlin had been standing in the kitchen in an old sweater, hair a mess, complaining about the coffee. He had looked fine. Awake. Present. There had been no visible cracks—nothing physical, nothing emotional.
Arthur stares at the blank wall across the corridor. He doesn’t return to class. The journey home feels longer than it should. Every stoplight stretches.
By the time he reaches the house, dusk has settled in. The windows are dark. No lights on inside.
“Merlin?” Arthur calls as he steps through the door.
No answer.
He drops his bag and moves faster, room to room, his voice rising despite himself. He knows before he sees him. He knows because the silence is too complete.
Merlin is on the living room floor.
He’s sprawled on the rug, limbs slack, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. An empty box of DXM lies nearby, blister packs torn open and scattered.
“Merlin.” He’s on his knees instantly, hands shaking as he lifts Merlin’s head. “Hey. Merlin. How much did you take?”
Merlin blinks at him, slow and imprecise. His mouth moves before the words catch up. “I dunno,” he mumbles. “Twenty? Thirty?”
Arthur swallows hard and gathers him up, Merlin’s body heavier than it should be, uncooperative and loose. Merlin lets himself be carried, head lolling against Arthur’s shoulder.
“Why’re you here?” Merlin asks faintly as Arthur lays him on the bed. “Didn’t you go to uni?”
“Gilli called me,” Arthur says, smoothing Merlin’s hair back from his face. “He was worried about you.”
He doesn’t say that he was worried too. He doesn’t trust his voice with it.
Merlin smiles, soft and unfocused. “Did he?” he says. “That’s… that’s really sweet.”
He drifts in and out, words dissolving into nonsense. Arthur checks his pupils, his breathing, his pulse. He reaches for his phone, already thinking of the family doctor, of explanations, of consequences.
Merlin’s hand closes around his wrist.
Arthur looks down.
Before he can speak, Merlin pulls him closer and kisses him—clumsy, unfocused, all wrong and yet unmistakably real. His lips are warm.
Arthur freezes.
Shock hits first. Then something bright and unbearable floods through him, so sharp it almost hurts. He doesn’t know where to put his hands. He doesn’t know whether to pull away or lean in.
Merlin sighs against his mouth, content, unthinking.
Heart racing, the world tilting beneath Arthur's feet.
Merlin clings to Arthur like a koala, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, his body seeking warmth and certainty. His breathing is uneven, too fast, brushing against Arthur’s neck in shallow, needy gasps.
“Kiss me,” Merlin whispers. “Please.”
Arthur closes his eyes.
Merlin is not lucid. He knows. He knows he's taking advantage of him.
But he is not a saint. The man he is pining for years is right here—pressed against him, trembling, asking. Merlin’s mouth is so close. His voice is soft, vulnerable, fragile in a way that makes Arthur ache.
It’s an invitation, isn’t it?
Merlin asked. Merlin wants this.
That’s what Arthur tells himself as he leans in.
He kisses him.
Merlin responds immediately, with a sound that borders on relief, tightening his hold as if afraid Arthur might vanish the moment their lips meet. Arthur wraps his arms around him without thinking, holding him just as firmly, kissing him deeper, letting himself have this one impossible thing.
Merlin wants him. Arthur can feel it—feel the way Merlin presses closer, the way his breath stutters, the way his body reacts without hesitation.
Hope flares, reckless and bright, in Arthur’s chest.
They kiss like they’ve been waiting for it, mouths fitting together with a familiarity that feels dangerous. Arthur lets himself believe, just for a moment, that this means something real. He trails his mouth to Merlin’s neck, kisses the skin there, gentle at first, then less so. Merlin makes a small, broken sound and clings to him harder, fingers digging into Arthur’s shirt like a drowning man gripping driftwood.
“Arthur,” Merlin breathes. “Arthur—don’t leave me. Please. Don’t leave me.” As if Arthur ever could.
Arthur lifts his head and kisses him again, slower now, trying to keep him here. When they part, Merlin looks at him with unfocused eyes, raises a hand, and touches Arthur’s face with reverent care.
For a moment, Arthur feels it. Merlin’s gaze slides past him, through him, as if he's watching something—someone—not Arthur.
“Wart,” Merlin murmurs, a bitter smile curving his mouth. “You’re becoming like him now.”
Something inside Arthur broken.
Merlin is still holding him. The bed is still warm beneath them. Arthur stays still, because moving would shatter what little remains. He lets Merlin rest his head against his chest, lets the weight of the words settle where it hurts most.
Him. Who the fuck is him? The question burns, a fire that consumes reason. He surges forward, capturing Merlin's mouth in a brutal, desperate kiss.
Merlin gasps into it, his body arching involuntarily, and Arthur feels it—the hardening press against his thigh. His own arousal surges in response, straining against his jeans.
He breaks the kiss, chest heaving, voice ripping from his throat like gravel. "Who is he?"
Merlin's eyes widen, his pupils blown wide. He stares at Arthur as if seeing a ghost, or worse—a monster wearing a familiar face. "Wart, don't—" Merlin starts, his voice cracking, pleading.
Arthur doesn't stop. He can't stop. His hands are already moving. He yanks at Merlin's trousers, shoving them down with rough urgency, exposing him. Merlin's cock springs free, hard and flushed, leaking at the tip. Arthur wraps his hand around it without hesitation, stroking firmly, possessively.
"Am I nothing to you?" Arthur demands, his grip tightening, pumping harder, faster. "Just some kid you took pity on?"
Merlin shudders under the assault of pleasure. He throws an arm over his eyes, hiding from it, from Arthur, from everything. "Wart, please stop... this is wrong," he gasps, breaths coming in ragged bursts, hips twitching despite his words.
Arthur snarls, prying Merlin's arm away with his free hand, forcing those unfocused eyes to meet his.
"Will you look at me?!" He grabs Merlin's jaw, fingers digging in, turning his face so there's no escape. "Is it me you're looking at? Answer me!"
Merlin's silence is a blade to the gut. It's as good as confirmation, and it ignites Arthur's fury into something feral. He strokes Merlin relentlessly, his hand slick with precome, twisting at the head in a way that makes Merlin whine.
"Who's the one who's picked you up off the floor every time you overdose and fuck yourself over?" Arthur spits. "Me. It's always been me. Where the hell was this man you were mooning over?"
He crashes his mouth onto Merlin's again, devouring him, swallowing the sob that bubbles up. Tears streak down Merlin's cheeks, hot and silent at first, then breaking free in earnest. Arthur doesn't pull back—he can't, not when Merlin's body clenches under his touch.
"Would he worry about you like this?" Arthur growls against Merlin's lips, his hand flying faster now, merciless. "Would he kiss you like this? Want you like this? Take care of you like this?"
His own cock throbbing painfully in his pants, untouched but aching from the friction of their bodies.
Merlin crumbles beneath him, sobs turning incoherent, his voice a fractured litany. "Arthur, Arthur, please—Wart, I can't—" his body seizing, and comes with a shattered cry, spilling hot over Arthur's fist, pulse after pulse.
Arthur grinds against Merlin's thigh once, twice, and shatters too, coming in his pants with a muffled groan, the release bitter and empty.
Panting, he pulls away just enough to grab tissues from the bedside table, wiping Merlin clean with mechanical gentleness, then himself. Merlin's eyes flutter shut, exhaustion claiming him, his body going limp as sleep drags him under.
Arthur watches him, the anger ebbing into a hollow ache that echoes through his chest. "You're pathetic, Merlin," he whispers.
But me still falling for you, that is, beyond pathetic.
Morning comes quietly.
Arthur wakes first, the light thin and grey through the curtains. Merlin is still asleep, sprawled half across him, mouth slightly open, looks incredibly peaceful.
Arthur does not move for a long time.
When Merlin finally stirs. He blinks, squints at the ceiling, then at Arthur. Realization flickers across his face, followed by embarrassment.
“Oh,” Merlin says. “Right. Morning.”
He pushes himself up, wincing faintly, rubbing at his temples. The distance between them reappears almost immediately.
“I… uh,” Merlin hesitates, glancing at Arthur, then away. “I don’t remember much after yesterday afternoon.” He swallows. “I didn’t do anything stupid, did I?”
Arthur is already pulling on his jacket, movements neat, controlled. He keeps his back turned when he answers.
“No,” he lies. “You were just high as a kite. Holding onto me all last night and wouldn‘t let me go. Then you fell asleep. Rather soundly. I had trouble waking you.”
“Okay...” Merlin exhales. “I was... just worried.”
Arthur nods, even though he isn’t looking. It’s better this way. Arthur doesn’t know how he would survive the alternative—how he would explain kisses that meant everything to him and nothing at all to Merlin.
He leaves for university without looking back.
From that day on, Arthur stops coming home.
He stays late on campus, lingering in libraries long after he’s finished studying. After classes, he goes straight to the bar where he works, polishing glasses, pouring drinks, letting the noise and lights dull his thoughts until it’s nearly morning. Sometimes he crashes on a friend’s sofa. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep at all.
He doesn’t know how to face him. Doesn’t know how to unlearn wanting him.
He smiles when spoken to. He functions. He survives.
Beneath it all, he is being torn apart.
A week passes.
Merlin finds Arthur in the bar on a Friday night. He looks out of place the moment he walks in—the crowd is young, loud, dressed in skin. Merlin weaves through them awkwardly and ends up at a small table near the bar, shoulders hunched, hands folded too neatly in his lap.
Under the lights, he looks tired.
Arthur sees him while pouring a drink and nearly drops the glass.
Their eyes meet. Merlin’s face lights up with relief, then falters when Arthur doesn’t smile back.
Arthur finishes the order, wipes his hands on a towel, and walks over only because not doing so would draw attention. He stops a careful distance away.
“Hey,” Merlin says. “You’ve been… hard to track down.”
Arthur shrugs. “Busy.”
Merlin nods, as if he expected that answer. “You haven’t been home.”
“I know.”
A pause stretches between them.
“Wart,” Merlin says finally, voice low, uncertain. “Why?”
Arthur looks past him, anywhere but his face. “I told you. School. Work.”
Merlin exhales. “That’s not really an answer.”
Another pause. Then, quietly, “Did I say something? That night?”
Arthur’s jaw tightens. “Which night?”
“You know which one. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
Arthur forces his voice to stay even. “You say a lot of things when you’re high.”
Merlin watches him closely. “But I did something,” he says. “Didn’t I?”
Arthur shakes his head. “No. Nothing that matters.” The lie tastes bitter. He steps back, already retreating. “I’ve got work to do. You should go home.”
Merlin blinks. “Wart—”
“Just… leave me alone,” Arthur says bitterly. “Don’t worry about me.”
He turns and walks away before Merlin can answer, disappearing into the back kitchen. He stands there longer than necessary, breathing through the noise in his head, hands braced on a stainless-steel counter.
When he comes back out, he expects Merlin to be gone.
But he isn’t. Merlin is still sitting at the table. In front of him are several empty whiskey glasses lining up.
Arthur’s stomach drops.
A man in a leather jacket sits far too close to Merlin, angled in toward him. He’s saying something Arthur can’t hear over the music, smiling in a way that makes Arthur’s skin crawl. Merlin doesn’t respond.
The man laughs and reaches out. His hand settles on Merlin’s thigh.
Arthur sees red. Moving before he knows he has decided to.
He grabs the man by the collar and yanks him back hard enough that the chair screeches across the floor.
“Don’t fucking touch him,” Arthur says.
The man looks him up and down, slow and amused, wiping a trace of whiskey from his mouth. “So he’s been taken?” he asks, loud enough for a few nearby heads to turn. “You don’t look old enough for him. What are you, his kid brother?”
Something ugly curls in his smile. “Or his boy toy?”
Arthur doesn’t answer. His fist connects with his face.
The man stumbles back, swears, then lunges forward. They crash into a table, glasses shattering, people shouting as they go down together.
Rage carries him, hot and reckless. The man hits back hard, splits Arthur’s lip, drives a knee into his side. They roll, grappling, fists flying. He tastes blood. His nose breaks, but he keeps swinging.
Someone screams. Someone yells for security.
Arthur lands another punch. The man doesn’t look so smug anymore.
Hands pull them apart. Too many. Strong ones. Arthur fights them until someone pins his arms and another voice cuts through everything.
“Police. That’s enough.”
The rest happens in fragments. Sirens. Cold air. Handcuffs biting into his wrists. Merlin’s voice somewhere in the chaos, slurred but frantic, saying his name over and over.
At the station, time stretches thin and strange. Arthur sits on a hard bench, blood dried on his face, knuckles swelling. His head throbs. He doesn’t know how long he’s been there when he finally looks up and sees Merlin across the room.
Merlin looks sober now. Pale and exhausted.
Arthur watches him signing the papers. Paying the bail. Answering the officer’s questions. And all these making Arthur feels even more achingly aware that—Merlin's his bloody legal guardian.
Arthur follows Merlin home.
The house looks exactly the same as it did a week ago, and that somehow makes it worse.
Merlin tells him to sit on the bed. Disappearing into the bathroom and comes back with the first-aid kit. He kneels in front of Arthur, pressing gauze gently under Arthur’s nose, checking carefully the split lip with a frown.
“You were reckless,” Merlin says, “Getting into a fight like that? Ending up into cops? What were you thinking?” He exhales sharply. “Do you have any idea what this could do to you? Your school—Arthur Pendragon, you could be disciplined.”
Arthur laughs shortly. “That’s what you’re worried about?”
“Yes,” Merlin snaps. “I am.”
Arthur pulls his head back, away from Merlin’s hands. “Oh, don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t stand there pretending you care,” Arthur says, heat rising fast. “You’re not my bloody parent.”
Merlin stiffens. “If I remember correctly, I’m still your guardian.”
“I don’t need one,” Arthur says, standing abruptly. “I never asked for one.”
“You were fourteen,” Merlin says. “You needed someone.”
“I needed my father,” Arthur shoots back. “I needed someone who didn’t lie their way into my life and then act surprised when things go wrong.”
Merlin’s mouth tightens. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is this,” Arthur says, gesturing between them. “You get to show up, make decisions, disappear whenever you feel like it, and I’m supposed to just—what? Be grateful?”
“I stayed,” Merlin says. “I’ve always stayed.”
“Except when you don’t,” Arthur says. “Except when you check out, or get high, or forget.”
Silence cracks.
Merlin looks down, then back up. His voice is quieter now. “If I did something wrong that night… I’m sorry.”
Arthur stares at him.
“You don’t even know,” he says. Voice shaking despite his effort to steady it. “You don’t know what you did to me.”
Merlin opens his mouth, but Arthur doesn’t stop.
“You came into my life,” Arthur says, words spilling now, sharp and uncontrolled. “You pull me close, you make me need you. You make me feel like I might mean something to you too.”
“You do mean a lot to me.”
“Oh for Christ, just stop fucking lying to me!”
Merlin’s eyes widen.
“What were you after?” Arthur demands, ugly and irreversible. “Manipulate me? Treat me as ghosts? Or the money? Was that it? Like my uncle? Is that what this is to you?” His chest burns. “You’re all the same. You don’t love me. You never did.”
Merlin freezes. Whatever he was about to say never comes. He looks at Arthur like he’s been struck—like something has been ripped out of him.
Arthur can’t bear to see it. He turns and runs. Out the door, into the cold night. He needs to go anywhere, anywhere as long as it is somewhere without Merlin.
Arthur wanders.
London at dawn is hollowed out and breathless cold. He walks without direction, hands buried deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against a chill that cuts straight through his coat and into his bones. Hours pass without meaning. Streetlights blur. His nose throbs with every breath.
The cold reminds him of another night.
New Year’s Eve, years ago. Fireworks bursting over the Thames, reflected in black water. Arthur had complained about the cold then too, teeth chattering, and Merlin had laughed and pulled him close, wrapped Arthur inside his own coat.
“Stop squirming,” Merlin had said. “You’ll steal all the heat.”
Arthur had leaned in anyway.
He stops beneath a streetlamp and lights a cigarette with numb fingers. The smoke burns his throat. He doesn’t cough. He deserves the discomfort. He deserves worse.
What he said to Merlin replays itself over and over.
Merlin had never asked for anything. Never taken a penny more than he needed—and Arthur had compared him to Agravaine.
Jesus Christ. What a big prat he is.
By the time Arthur turns back toward home, his body feels heavy with regret. Dawn is starting to pale the sky when he reaches the door. He unlocks it quietly, slips inside like a thief.
The house is dark. Arthur moves carefully, assuming Merlin is asleep. He tells himself he’ll apologize in the morning.
Then he hears the water. The sound carries from the bathroom.
“Merlin?” Arthur calls softly.
No answer.
He steps closer and tries the door. Locked.
“Merlin,” he says again, louder now. He knocks. Then pounds. The water keeps running, relentless.
“Merlin!” Panic crawls up his spine. Arthur shouts, slamming his shoulder against the door. “Open the door!”
Nothing.
He kicks the door in. And the sight stops his heart.
Merlin is still wearing the clothes he had on when Arthur left. He’s submerged in the bathtub, water lapping at his chest, hair plastered to his forehead. His head rests at an unnatural angle against the porcelain edge. His eyes are closed.
The water is pink.
Arthur stumbles forward, slipping on the tiles. He sees Merlin’s wrist then—cut deep, blood streaming freely into the bath, staining everything it touches.
“No,” Arthur whispers. “No, no, no—Merlin—”
He plunges his arms into the bath, water soaking his sleeves instantly, and hauls Merlin up with a strength born of panic. Merlin’s body is heavy and unresponsive, slipping in Arthur’s grip. Water spills over the edge, flooding the tiles as Arthur drags him out and onto the floor.
“Merlin—stay with me,” Arthur says, breath coming in ragged bursts.
He pulls Merlin into his lap, cradling him awkwardly, desperately. His fingers find Merlin’s neck. He counts, waits, counts again.
There—A pulse. It’s weak. Frighteningly so. But it’s there.
Arthur sobs once, then forces himself to focus. He grabs a towel and presses it hard against Merlin’s wrist, hands slick with blood and water. He keeps pressure, keeps talking, because silence feels like death.
“I’m here. You hear me? I’m here. Just stay awake. Please. Please. Please.”
Minutes stretch. The towel darkens.
Then—barely audible—
“…cold.”
Arthur freezes, then laughs and cries at the same time.
“I know,” he says hoarsely. “I know. I’ve got you.”
He lifts Merlin again, carrying him to the bedroom with shaking arms. Merlin is soaked through, skin pale to the point of blue. Arthur strips off the wet clothes with clumsy urgency, hands trembling as he works, apologizing under his breath for every rough movement.
He dries Merlin as best he can, wraps him in blankets, pulls another over his shoulders. Then checks the wound again. The bleeding has slowed, stopped—but the cut is deep.
He stands up, trying to pick up the phone to call 999. And Merlin’s hand closes weakly around his wrist. “Don’t,” Merlin plead. “Don’t leave me.”
Arthur doesn’t know who Merlin thinks he’s talking to. Him or someone else entirely. But Arthur gathers him close anyway, carefully, protectively.
“I’m not going anywhere,” his voice breaking. “I promise.”
Merlin’s head rests against his chest. “You said,” he whispers after a moment, each word an effort, “you said I didn’t love you.”
Arthur squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean it. I was angry. I was scared. I—” His voice fails him. “I’m so sorry.”
Merlin shifts weakly, as if to look at him. “How could you think that?” he asks painful. “How could you say that?”
Arthur’s arms tighten around him.
“I love you,” Merlin exhales, long and shaky..
“I love you,” he repeats. “I’ve loved you for so long. So many years that I couldn't even count.” His voice trembles. “All these years, there hasn’t been a single second when I didn’t.”
Arthur's heart stutters in his chest. He leans down, capturing Merlin's lips in a kiss that's soft at first, tentative. Merlin's mouth yields beneath his, warm and tasting faintly of tears. Arthur deepens it, hands cupping Merlin's cheek.
"I love you too," Arthur murmurs against Merlin's mouth.
Merlin sighs into the kiss, a small, broken sound. He pulls back just enough to look at him. Then his gaze drifts to Merlin's wrist, the wound stark and ugly against his pale skin.
Arthur lifts Merlin's hand, cradling it in both of his as if it were made of glass. He presses his lips to the wounds, breath ghosting over the skin.
"I'm sorry," He whispers against it. "I never wanted this for you."
Arthur doesn't stop. He trails his kisses downward, along the inside of Merlin's forearm, mapping the veins that pulse faintly under his lips. Lower still, to the crook of his elbow, where the skin is soft and sensitive. Merlin's breath hitches, a quiet gasp that sends heat pooling in Arthur's belly.
He continues, lips brushing over Merlin's bicep, then his shoulder, tasting the faint salt of sweat and skin. When he reaches Merlin's chest, he pauses, nuzzling against the hollow of his collarbone before pressing open-mouthed kisses to the rise of his pectoral. Merlin arches slightly beneath him, a needy whimper escaping his throat, and it undoes Arthur completely. His cock hardens in an instant, straining against his trousers. He shifts, pressing closer, letting Merlin feel the provement of his desire.
"Can I?" Arthur asks, barely above a whisper. His hand hovers at Merlin's waist, trembling with restraint. "Merlin, please—can I have you?"
Merlin nods, his fingers threading into Arthur's hair. "Yes," he breathes. "Wart—Arthur, yes."
It's all Arthur needs. He reaches for the nightstand drawer, fumbling blindly until his fingers close around the bottle of lube. He slicks his fingers generously, warming it between them before parting Merlin's thighs with gentle insistence. Merlin spreads for him, his breath coming in shallow pants.
Arthur presses one finger inside. Merlin gasps, his body clenching at first, then soon he relaxes under Arthur's touch, whispering that dissolve into moans. Arthur adds a second finger. He curls them, brushing that spot that makes Merlin keen.
When Merlin's ready, Arthur sheds his clothes, positioning himself between Merlin's legs. He slicks his own cock, thick and throbbing, and lines up, pushing in slowly.
"Fuck," Arthur hisses. "You feel so good—so fucking good."
They move together, savoring every gasp, every tremor. Merlin's hands clutch at his back. Arthur fucks into him harder, skin slapping against skin. Merlin meets him thrust for thrust, crying out his name.
“Wart—oh gods, harder—fuck me harder, Arthur, please... ”
“Merlin... Merlin! ”
As they lose themselves in the pleasure, fragments of another life flash through Arthur's mind—
The stone walls rise around him, the air thick with the scent of hay and forge smoke. He sees Merlin for the first time: a gangly boy with wild black hair, stumbling into his life, eyes wide and defiant.
Do I know you?
I'm Merlin.
So I don't know you. And yet you called me friend.
I'd never have a friend who could be such an arse.
The visions shift, blurring into battles and betrayals, stolen glances across castle halls. Merlin's hand on his shoulder after a tournament, warm and steady. Nights by campfires where their laughter mingled with the crackle of flames.
Then, the end: Camlann's muddy field, rain lashing down, blood soaking into the earth. Arthur lies dying, sword wound burning like fire through his side. Merlin cradles him, tears streaking his face, magic flaring gold in his eyes as he confesses everything.
I have magic, Merlin sobs, voice breaking. I use it for you, Arthur. Only for you.
“Arthur—Yes, yes— Gods, Arthur— I need... ”
The words echo now. Merlin, panting beneath his thrusts. It is too much—
He surges forward, claiming Merlin's mouth in a bruising kiss, pouring all of it—the past, the present, the future—into this moment. Merlin comes first, crying out broken words. Arthur follows seconds later, groaning and panting.
“Merlin,” Arthur says, filled with longing. He says the name like it’s been a lifetime since he’s spoken it this way.
Merlin’s eyes flutter open. He blinks a few times, catching his breath.
“Wart,” Merlin whispers.
“No,” Arthur says. “Not like that. ”
“What?”
“Use the one you called me before... The one you always used—in Camelot…”
Merlin’s body tenses, shaking now. His breath catches. His eyes widen, and he can’t look at Arthur for a long moment.
Finally, Merlin’s voice trembles.
“Arthur,” he whispers. “Arthur…” And as he says it, the tears well up in his eyes. His voice cracks on the last syllable. “You remember…”
Arthur reaches out to touch Merlin’s face, his thumb brushing the wetness on Merlin’s cheek.
“I remember,” Arthur says quietly. His own voice is thick. He leans in again, presses his forehead against Merlin’s, feeling the breath between them mingle. “I remember you, and I remember me, and I remember… that how late I remember all this...”
Merlin shudders again, this time more than before. He can’t seem to stop the tears. They fall silently down his face, one after another, as he closes his eyes.
“Never too late,” Merlin murmurs. His voice is unsteady.
Arthur pulls Merlin closer, his arms wrapping around him tightly. “And even if I never did.”
“Even if I was just Wart, even if I never knew who I used to be—” He laughs softly, painfully. “I still would’ve fallen in love with you.”
“Do you have any idea,” Arthur goes on, “how infuriating that was?” He presses his hand flat to his own chest. “I was jealous of myself. I was fucking eating my own heart out, wondering what he had that I didn’t.”
“Oh, Arthur,” he reaches up, cups Arthur’s face with trembling hands. “It never mattered.”
“Because,” he says, “whether you’re Wart or Arthur—broken or whole—I love you, both of you. Always have. Always will.”
Merlin closes his eyes, a breath shuddering out of him, and pulls Arthur into his arms.
He holds him tightly, like he’s afraid the world might try to take him again.
Arthur clutches him back just as hard.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Arthur, also Wart says.