The light in Arthur's eyes went out, and it was like the shutting of a door.

Merlin's fingers curled into Arthur's hair as he buried his face against him, resting in that hollow place where the solid curve of Arthur's shoulder met the soft vulnerability of his neck. For a moment he thought he could still feel warmth there— the faint thrum of blood beneath the skin—the flutter of a heartbeat. He pressed closer. Stopped breathing. Waited for an eternity as the falling rain covered them softly, like silence.

So cold. Arthur… The rain… His own skin… Everything was so cold.

And he felt nothing.

It was a dream. Any second, reality was going to shatter.

Merlin moved without thought, numb and lost. His lips brushed against the line of Arthur's jaw, up toward the downturned corner of his frozen mouth. They hovered there for an instant, hesitant, caught by memories of doubt— the ghosts of familiar fears that seemed so pitiful now.

He felt the words come, and this time Merlin wasn't afraid to say them, because this time they were empty, powerless. Too late. The rain swallowed them. The dead boy in Merlin's arms never heard them.

"I love you."

He pressed his lips firmly against Arthur's, and his mouth filled with the taste of his own tears.