A strangled "No" resounds in the silence Arthur leaves behind the slammed door. Merlin heaves and trembles and vehemently shakes his head no.
Something isn't right this time. Some small detail has shifted. But Merlin won't admit what changed. Won't admit that this time, Arthur's fist slammed no trace of his bittersweet kiss or primitively protective embrace into Merlin's huddled form. The blows rained on Merlin's battered body flew without the small tugs of the restraining guilt that would drag Arthur back, drive him to grief and Merlin's arms with tear stained, body-wracking apologies kissed and breathed into Merlin's hair and over the shocks of spreading violet and angry scarlet, intermingled with splotchy green and yellow marks, all leeching away the pale, ethereal white of Merlin's delicate skin.
This night of grief, one Merlin considers a guarantee, is when Arthur remembers how fragile Merlin is, how little it would take to leave him shattered, whimpering and only tiny amongst the ashes of his paper-thin world, collapsing and burning from Arthur's spat hatred, his disgusted storming. The tender and heartbroken caresses from Arthur as he assesses the damage he's left tell Merlin that he remembers, remembers his promise, his promise from the beginning, the one that changed to a vow of "It will never happen again." And Merlin accepts this promise, is grateful for it, embraces it, for what does he have without it? He knows Arthur can't help it, Merlin knows it's his own fault, so he can do nothing but welcome his guilt and forgive Arthur. Because Arthurloves him- why else would he always return? Arthur adores him and Merlin feels it in the possessive curl of Arthur's fingers around his neck, in his angry thrusts, so different from the tender affection of years ago, but the harshness reminds Merlin that he's alive and he still has Arthur- he's alive because he still has Arthur. As Arthur begs forgiveness with presses of apologetic, tear-stained lips and featherlight touches on the glaring, angry marks those same hands left mere hours before, Arthur remembers how much he needs Merlin, remembers he cannot live without hisMerlin.
The next day, when all is pushed to the backs of their minds, sometimes Arthur will take Merlin out, to a movie, or to eat, or to simply walk the streets hand-in-hand, an echo of their earlier life, free of ugly shadows of the lingering ache that is refused acknowledgement. But usually they just stay in, lazing in sheets and creeping pink sunlight and warm, contented hums until Arthur gets up to make breakfast, heart-shaped pancakes that clumsily crafted, and Merlin relentlessly teases, "So who'sthe girl here?" because his happiness has emboldened him, his elation lending him the bravery to poke fun at Arthur, and Arthur takes the bait and they fall into once-familiar banter without the heat that boils into their now violent, pathetically one-sided battles. On the day following a night of reconciliation, Merlin and Arthur tease and jab until they end up back in their bed or the shower or the table or anywhereand often Merlin doesn't know where they end up until he's sprawled across Arthur's chest, his head fitted perfectly in the crook of his shoulder while Arthur strokes along Merlin's spine and traces patterns and three words which took Arthur a full year to say aloud, all with an endearing tenderness which prompts Merlin to crane his neck to nuzzle Arthur's jaw and he catches Arthur smiling down at him with eyes shining with adoration and an edge of regret and Merlin's breath catches and he kisses Arthur out of compassion and desperation and a wild, unshakable fear of the inevitable dark encroaching on his fleeting moment of bliss.
Now, as Merlin rocks himself into hysterics, staring at the impassive door from where he kneels before it, black and blue blooming beneath his skin, lost in an unnatural silence saturated with his sobs and another unkept promise, now Merlin is afraid because he is uncertain. The furious, unforgiving lashes of Arthur's open palms and clenched fists lost their familiarity, lost that tiny touch of Arthur that Merlin could recognize as a sure sign that his Arthur would return, that Merlin didn't ruin everything with his childish teasing or his annoying way of calling Arthur 'prat.' Merlin was so horrifyingly unsure of his future and he felt a rush of raw, sweeping terror, later replaced by numbed grief as morning passed without the appearance of Arthur, and his numbness shifted to quiet resolve that life without Arthur, even if life with him was destined to be littered with abuse, was no life for him at all.