A/N:
This is the result of me trying to apply every other song in the universe to whichever fandom I'm in at the moment. I guess it's a musical interlude while I'm taking a break from my other fics in order to get studying done. ;)
This is the song it is based on, a heartbreaking must-hear:
youtu . be /7sW4dwXXX7Q
(Believe me, it is deeper than I make it out to be)
Exhibit A.
Laughter.
She is laughing, he is laughing, it is as if their laughter is melding into one.
The two of them, they are becoming one.
His warmth as she lies pressed to him inside a sleeping bag, too small, really, for two people, so they are cramped, squashed together, and laughing.
The cheerful sound of an instrument in the room next door.
What a night for Uther to throw him out.
And she hasn't found a place yet.
Even in the near dark, the colours of the room seem as hot as their naked body heat.
From the other room she can hear cheering, singing, as far as she can hear, it is Merlin singing something.
Arthur's hands in her hair, tugging, his thin lips press the top of her head, catching the curls in his mouth, their bodies mingle and meld like their minds, their laughter, to the sound of their friends' song, they are one.
And his heat surrounds her, and he clings to her and she to him.
And it is heaven.
And as they fall asleep she promises herself that it will be forever.
No matter what.
No.
Matter.
What.
Exhibit B.
Her hands navigate a pair of scissors through the remnants of the cardboard box to form a cutout of a dragon.
Because that just seemed fitting.
She tapes it to the wall and resolutely calls the word,
"Home."
The stain of the floor that doesn't seem to come out no matter what she attacks it with.
Him, sealing the doorway with a large plate of wood.
The pride she feels that he's coping so well. He's never been used to this.
Glasses of cheap wine in the evening, his burning smile.
The memory of his heat, the promise of it.
The sounds from next door, a different flat. The moans and impassioned shouts of ecstasy.
Their laughter, she laughs, and it's not visible how mortified she is, secretly dreading the embarrassment of what those neighbours might hear later on, a fear that turns out unnecessary.
That look in his eyes that she can't explain, a pain, a hurt of some undefinable kind. Anger, grief or guilt, she decides not to ask. He has gone through a lot lately, more than his share, and he loves her and he will tell her in his own time.
She wants to make him forget.
The mattress is better insulation against the cold floor, but without his body heat around her, it is chilly, ice cold.
Her breath does not turn to fog, and it almost surprises her.
He stole the blanket in his sleep, not on purpose, rolling away, hugging it.
Her smile as she shakes her head at him, planning to mock him in the morning.
And then maybe he'll tell her.
If he doesn't, she won't ask. Won't push.
Exhibit C.
A drawer in the room that is to become her office.
She fills it with drawings from her kids at school.
And the cardboard dragon.
It doesn't belong on these walls.
She picks out the art.
He picks most of the furniture.
The beautiful garden that needs taking care of.
The pearls he gives her as a housewarming present.
They don't warm her.
As the necklace exchanges hands, she imagines that she can feel his warmth where he touched them, but she knows it's but a dream.
When he kisses her cheek tenderly, it is soft, and sweet, and there is no trace of his true heat in it.
The mattress is softer than any mattress she has ever slept on before.
Her own duvet to cover her and warm her.
It does, to an extent.
In the night, while he sleeps, she watches him breathe with his back to her.
She remembers his heat.
She needs his heat.
She tells herself that, but how can she know?
His heat is only a vague memory now.
And though he laughs as he always laughed, and they laugh together and their laughter is still one, once the laughing stops, she can see his eyes full of that pain, that emptiness, which is starting to fill her own heart as well.
His smile to her and to their friends, the kind, cordial conversation.
The fun they still have.
But when he thinks no-one can see him, she sees.
The emptiness and the longing, and the glances that don't fall on her, but on him. Always on him.
And she chides herself for her paranoia, and reminds herself.
No matter what.
Exhibit D.
The house is the same.
The room is the same.
The bed is the same.
By now, his touch on her skin has fossilised.
She doesn't shiver with the cold.
The cold is all she has known for a long time.
His eyes are always full of pain but she never sees him cry.
In some ways she is beyond caring, because she knows it is too late.
Another early night and she's hardly seen him all day.
He gives the same answers when she conversationally asks where he's been, and what he's reading, and where his mind and heart are when they are not with her - they are never with her - and she reads between the same lines and never knows exactly what he means.
Except she does, she is quite sure of that.
She knows.
Exhibit E.
A moment right before she slips away, her last sliver of consciousness.
She doesn't know if the moment is even real.
When she finally asks, "Why?"
And she finally asks, "All these years?"
And she finally asks, "How?"
Her heart doesn't break because there's nothing left to break in it.
She doesn't cry, but from Arthur's eyes the tears are spilling now and they won't stop.
"I'm sorry, Gwen," he repeats, over and over, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"
And she doesn't know if it is real, but she knows that it's true.
She forgives him because her heart may be broken, it may be worn and torn and faded, and frozen cold, so cold without his touch, but it is still there, and it is still his. And she forgives him, as she forgives the man standing over their shared grave with flowers in his hands.
Petals fall from the tall cherry tree towering over him, landing in the white hair that was once dark. His gout ridden hands fidget around the bouquet, twisting the stems, ruining the flowers without meaning to, and his old, weak knees give way.
Kneeling in the mud, old fingers tracing the names on the gravestone, caressing them dearly. His name first, with a kiss carried through light fingertips, then hers with an apology that his lips finally utter now, when it's to late and no-one that cares is around to hear it. It spills out of his cowardly mouth in a croaking whimper, and it feels so foolish, and he adds by way of pathetic defence,
"I would have told you. I would have told you if you'd only asked me."