"Merlin, what the hell are you doing now?"
Merlin's tired and ragged eyes regarded Arthur's carefully. The shining blue framed with light lashes, about to roll back into his head due to intense exasperation. They looked so very real, like Arthur was truly there, like he was lying next to Merlin, wrapped in white sheets and gazing up at him with an exasperated smile.
It wasn't reality, of course, it was never reality. Merlin had seen Arthur so many times throughout the years, seen his face and his skin, and heard his voice, annoyed and fond in turns, felt his skin, warm and pulsing, underneath Merlin's own.
And that was how Merlin was absolutely certain that these sights had no basis in reality. Because in his own pitiful reality, Arthur had no breath, no pulse, no warmth.
Arthur was nothing and Merlin was still there, had been alive for far too long, and he was nearly certain that all of his visions of his oldest friend were simply proof that his life had finally driven him over the brink.
That didn't change the fact that every single time Merlin hallucinated that face and that voice once again, he was at his very happiest, and his very saddest. It was bittersweet, seeing the one he loved above all else and knowing that he wasn't truly there.
So he answered with a simple, "Hello, Arthur."
He always answered like that, with just the perfect balance between heartache and hope filtering through his voice, and Arthur never replied the same way. It depended on whether Merlin had done something stupid and foolhardy, reckless and brave, tragic and depressing.
Merlin still knew what Arthur's reactions to his decisions would be, even after all these years, and apparently these visions took the thoughts from his subconscious and twisted them into a human form.
Sometimes Arthur told him "That was a horrible decision. Why can't you do something right for once?"
Whenever Merlin moved somewhere new, or locked himself up in solitude once more, lashed out at an innocent person.
Other times, it was "How could you do that? I thought you promised me you wouldn't change. And now look at you."
Every time Merlin killed someone, wounded them, brutally or violently, with no regret or remorse.
He did, however, mutter "Sorry, Arthur."
No matter what the circumstance, whenever he committed an act that would have never even crossed his mind to accomplish in Camelot, he would apologize. Because he had promised, and he broke his promise far too often.
And a promise to Arthur was worth more than a thousand promises to any lesser person in this godforsaken and empty world.
Other times, better times, Arthur would smile proudly at him with a gleam in his eyes. "You did it, you actually did it! You're not half-bad at some things, you know. Just don't let it go to your head; you're still a right idiot most of the time."
Merlin had saved someone, healed someone, advised someone words or with blades, let his eyes shine molten gold once more as he did what he did best – protected and served. It wasn't Arthur that he was taking care of, but it was good enough to give him that thrill in his heart, give him laughter lines around his eyes for just a second.
And then Arthur would tell him he was proud, and Merlin would try not to cry because he missed the prat so damn much.
And then there were the times, late at night when Merlin couldn't sleep, like tonight, when Arthur would be next to him, standing over his bed like a physician would his ill and delirious patient, curled up next to Merlin sitting on its edge like a friend making certain that his comrade was safe, or sometimes, lying across it like a lover would, pressing his back against Merlin's and letting Merlin hold him once again.
This was one of those nights.
"Why do you do this to yourself?" Arthur said quietly into Merlin's ear. His lips were mere inches away and Merlin could almost feel them brushing his bare skin, like the remnants of the ghost he was. "Why must you be such an idiot?"
"Not an idiot," Merlin reached a hesitant hand out and it reached Arthur's cheek, warm and so full of life next to him. He moved his fingers upward to card through blond hair, just lightly enough to be felt. He heard Arthur sigh contentedly. "I just…I cared for her. I was tired of being alone."
"You knew she was going to die," Arthur said reproachfully, moving Merlin's hand out of his hair and into his own, lacing their fingers together tightly.
Merlin felt pinpricks of tears in his eyes as he thought of the funeral he had attended earlier that day. So tragic, they had said, for her to die at such a young age. Not even thirty and already buried. Automobile accident, a fatal one. What a waste, they said.
She had not been Merlin's lover, the woman whose coffin had been lowered into the ground, but she had been his friend, just a touch of light in his centuries of darkness. A reason to get up in the morning, to see her smiling face, how she would give him free coffee from the shop that she worked in, and always ask if the boy he was waiting for had come back yet.
Merlin always said no, but he took the coffee and the conversation as they came. She had been a sweet girl, and the closest companion he'd had since before the First World War. And she hadn't even lived long enough for Merlin to prepare himself for a goodbye.
"I just didn't think it would be so soon," he told Arthur, moving closer to him in the semi-dark of the small, unremarkable bedroom in the small, unremarkable flat Merlin had resided in for the past half a decade.
"I thought you would have learned by now," Arthur flipped over to shake his head at Merlin, eyes earnest yet reproachful and almost accusing. "Everyone you love ends up dead."
"Usually before their time," Merlin finished for him as he stretches an arm toward the ceiling before letting it fall to his side again; just to feel like he was moving, remind himself what was real, remind himself that this wasn't. It was hard to tell, though, especially with Arthur always appearing so purely and truly.
"Always before their time," Arthur agreed as he sat up slightly, stroking a hand down onto Merlin's hip. "Why do you stay? You could die; you have enough power to make yourself die. I know you do. So why don't you just put yourself out of this misery? I want to see you again, Merlin, properly see you, not just like this."
"I want to see you, too, Arthur," Merlin's throat constricted as he pulled himself up fully, letting the covers roll off of his body so that he and Arthur sat side by side against the headboard, heads only a few inches from the other's. "And that's why I have to stay."
"But what if I don't come back?" Arthur persisted. "Merlin, I want to come back, but what if I can't?"
And this was how Merlin knew that it wasn't really Arthur here, that it was truly just a piece of Merlin's own self projected onto another being. It was his own voice speaking here, that little, doubtful voice in the back of his head, whispering profane things about death and the slim possibility of Arthur ever returning to him after all this time passed.
He was having another conversation with himself, as he so often did. It was just in another, more appealing, form.
"Because I know," Merlin knew it was best to play along, to let himself have these moments with not Arthur. He missed his friend, his missed the person he loved and he wanted to steal away these precious bits of time that he could pretend that he was no longer alone. "I know you'll come back to me, Arthur."
"You can't, though," Arthur replied. "Your faith and loyalty is, as always, astounding, but you can't know. And if you're right, than how much longer? How much longer can you possibly bear?"
"Longer than this," Merlin said as he leaned his head against the bedframe. "I can hold out until the end of time, love. And I will have I have to."
"But why?" Arthur's voice was almost vulnerable as it moved closer to Merlin's ear, a head resting directly beneath his own, against his shoulder blade. "Why would you wait for me like that? I'm not…I'm not worth that."
"Yes, you are." And these were the moments, these little snippets of emotion from his spectral ghost, which made Merlin wonder if it truly was Arthur sitting beside him, disguised as a figment of imagination. "You were always worth it, Arthur. I've always believed in you."
"Even now?"
"Even now," Merlin confirmed. "I love you, Arthur. And I always will love you, no matter if I have to wait until every star burns out."
"You always were a sap," Arthur said with a roll of his eyes, but it was fond and familiar and Merlin was suddenly engulfed by a tidal wave of sadness, crashing down on him from all sides.
Because that was the first time he had ever said it out loud. He had felt it, felt it in his soul and in his bones since nearly the moment of their meeting, even if he had realized it a little too late, but this was the first time the words had come out of his mouth.
And he hadn't said them to the real Arthur, he had said them to this copy, this imaginative being, this tangible representation of his long-dead love, and all he wanted to do was take the words back, and cry and scream and force himself into Avalon, so he could fling himself at the true Arthur, his Arthur, and say them a million times until there was no more breath left in his body.
But he couldn't. He just sunk further back into the bed, suddenly tired, pulling this Arthur down with him, wrapping his arms around this substitute that was no match for his real king.
He fell asleep, and when he woke up the next morning, the bed was cold and empty. Just as it had always been. Just as it would always be.
Unless, in the end, that little ray of hope would shine through Merlin's many cracks, and give him back what he most desired, even after all this time.
A reason to live.