Title: Worst Kept Secrets
Author:
EachPeachPearPlum
Rating:
T
Warnings:
Swearing and slight silliness. Probably it.
Disclaimer:
Characters aren't mine. Camelot certainly isn't. Plot, maybe?
Notes:
Thanks to Coby and Anon for reviewing anonymously. This chapter...well, it does what it was supposed to, I guess. Emotions are not my forte. Also, I have been wearing contacts since some terrible time this morning (okay, nine am, or there abouts) and my vision is blurring something dreadful from looking at my laptop's screen, so typos probably increase exponentially towards the end because I can't read this too well. As always, correct my mistakes, criticise what you don't like, and, really, just let me know you're reading this, maybe.

Worst Kept Secrets - Chapter Eight

The day of the ring purchasing expedition is clear and beautiful, quite determinedly summer. Merlin has not succeeded in persuading Arthur to let either Lance or himself avoid the trip in order to keep Gwen out the way: instead, he has had to convince Gaius to feign an extreme need for her assistance. Gaius does so, but, in typical old-man fashion, not without a great deal of complaint. Once Merlin has ensured that she will be there for the next few hours, he joins the rest of them in the courtyard and they leave.

The trip is far less cheerful an occasion than Arthur seems to have expected it to be. Leon is respectfully delighted (only to be expected, Gwaine thinks, since the girl saved his life), Percival has given Arthur so many congratulatory slaps on the back that the poor bloke has taken to bracing himself whenever he comes close, and Elyan is jumping between over-the-moon and over-protective faster than anyone can keep track of. Gwaine has decided that standing between Lance and Merlin and muttering, "smile," through gritted teeth is the most he can do for them. It does nothing to stop Lancelot pulling faces that are really only suitable when one has been kicked in the crotch by a horse, but it reminds Merlin that this is supposed to be a joyous occasion and that, as far as anyone other than Gwaine is aware, there is no reason for him to be anything other than supportive.

"Hey, Merlin," Arthur calls. "What about this one?" As far as Gwaine can tell, when he follows Merlin from their perch by the door to the counter where a rather portly man is displaying various types of jewellery, this ring is no different to any of the others they have seen. Gwaine wasn't even aware there were this many shops in the kingdom that sold jewellery. But his opinion is neither required nor wanted, he has been told more than once (just how unwanted was not clear the first time).

Merlin, in a display of patience that amazes most of them, replies, "I suppose it is rather pretty, yes."

Exactly as he has with every other ring they have seen, Arthur asks, "will she like it, do you think?"

Merlin rolls his eyes. "Yes, Arthur. This is truly the ring for Gwen. She will love you forever and ever, and give you mind-blowing blo-" Merlin cuts his sentence off very, very quickly, blinking in a way that suggests he is trying to work out why words so much more typical of Gwaine are coming from his mouth.

Merlin has clearly had all he can handle of this trip, so Gwaine, taking pity on his blundering attempts to unsay what he didn't quite finish saying, jumps in. "Really, Arthur, this is the one. It...it sparkles just like her eyes." Gwaine has never seen a woman with eyes that glint so maliciously – he suspects the Lady Morgana might have given the diamond a run for its money but, not having actually seen her, he cannot say for certain – but he thinks this is far more appropriate than Merlin's blow-job comment and distracting Arthur is currently a great deal more important than honesty.

"Are you sure that other one three shops ago wasn't better?"

When Arthur sees the way they are all looking at him (expressions range from congratulatory tolerance to 'if you make me look at another ring, I will kill you, wrath of Uther be damned'), he nods and says, "okay. This one it is."

He hands over a truly outstanding amount of gold and they leave, a breath of relief strong enough to rattle the windows in their frames escaping everyone.

X

Unfortunately, just when they begin to think they are free, Arthur announces that their successful mission requires drinks to celebrate. Being entirely incapable of thinking up a more plausible excuse, Gwaine announces that he can't, because he has to wash his hair.

Merlin glares, Lance takes an angry step towards him, and Gwaine swears Leon cracks his knuckles.

Possibly because he is six foot tall and blond, possibly because he is heir to a kingdom, Arthur has never heard this excuse before. "Okay, then. Shall we all meet at the tavern at sunset?"

Leon smirks, Lance looks relieved, and Merlin is quite clearly gloating on the inside. Gwaine swears in his head, loudly and viciously – words he knows better than to say in the presence of the prince.

X

Escape attempt foiled, but hair sparklingly clean – if Arthur believes that line, he is going to use it again, and that means keeping up the pretence – Gwaine shows up at the tavern thinking of all the places he would rather be and all the things he would rather be doing. When that doesn't magically land him somewhere else, he settles for drinking.

He knows, he does, all the reasons why he stopped drinking, all the many and varied reasons why he shouldn't start now. However, he doesn't think everyone will survive the night if he has to stay sober. Just one drink, he tells himself, one drink is fine; he often has one drink, and he'll nurse it. When he has finished his one drink, though, Lance is sobbing on his shoulder and Merlin, on his third pint, is playing one-sided footsie with him under the table, staring avidly at Arthur the whole time, who in turn is talking intently with Leon.

He thinks he deserves a second drink.

Bonnie is not at the bar this evening, so he is back to the table quickly. Not as quickly as he would have liked, unfortunately, because his seat is now occupied by Percival, who appears to be abusing Lance in a misguided attempt to cheer him up. The only remaining empty place at their table is – how could it not be? – next to Merlin.

Merlin, who seems to think that what Gwaine needs most to make this long, awful day complete is the simple pleasure of human contact.

It isn't too bad at first; Merlin brushes his arm when he fidgets in his seat, grabs his wrist when he offers to get him another drink ("no, thank you, Merlin," he replies, as politely as possible). Then Merlin's hand is stroking his side, somehow making this look like an accident. His eyes have still not left the prince when he places his hand on Gwaine's knee and slowly slides it up his leg, fingers brushing his inner thigh. Gwaine has just taken a large gulp of his drink, which does not go well with his surprised gasp. By the time he has relearned a normal pattern of breathing, Merlin's hand is dangerously close to places it shouldn't be at all, let alone when in the presence of other people.

He grabs Merlin's wrist hard enough to leave bruises and places it back on his own leg. Merlin huffs in displeasure, but says nothing. Two minutes later, his hand is back. Gwaine removes it a second time, trying to ignore just how sensitive he is discovering the inside of his left knee to be.

The third time, he decides enough is enough and stands. "Another round, lads?" When Elyan offers to help him carry, he says, "nah, Merlin's helping, aren't you?" and tows him away before he has the chance to protest.

Halfway to the bar, and with his back to the table, he drops the smile. "What do you think you're doing?" he hisses under his breath, a crowded tavern hardly the best of places for this conversation.

"Oh, come off it, Gwaine," Merlin snarls back, equally quietly. "Everyone knows how much of a slut you are. I figured, even if I'm not up to the standards of your usual lays, it really wouldn't be all that hard to persuade you. Clearly, though, I am much less adept at messing with people's memories than you are."

There are three parts to this. Gwaine cannot really respond to the first, his best friend calling him a slut, seeing as he is (or was, at the very least, and has never really shown any signs of shame). Nor does he want to respond to Merlin thinking himself inadequate, because it really won't send the conversation in a useful direction. Thus, he focuses on the third of Merlin's remarks. "And why would you think I want my memories messing with?"

"Because you as good as told me you were in love with someone when you told me you knew I love Arthur. And then you tell me you can make me forget, and why would you have done that if it wasn't so you could forget as well?"

Silence settles uncomfortably around them while Gwaine thinks furiously. The only conclusion he manages to reach is that he doesn't want to continue this conversation here. "This isn't the time to talk about it, Merlin." As if to accentuate his point, he hears someone from their group grumble loudly about the emptiness of his tankard and the absence of a fresh one. "Help me get the drinks, and then we can go."

He doesn't make it a question, because if he sounds uncertain for a second Merlin will run with it for hours. He doesn't say where they will go, either; the only place he can think of where they won't be interrupted or overheard is his room, and telling Merlin they should go back to his is not the sentiment he wants to convey.

Merlin casts him a cool, assessing look, trying to decide whether Gwaine is just trying to make his escape. Apparently he looks honest enough, though, as Merlin nods and together they take five drinks back to the table (Gwaine still has most of his second pint left, and Merlin, he thinks, has had enough). He is still trying to think of a way for he and Merlin to leave together without it looking suspicious – Merlin is nowhere near drunk enough to require an escort home, and there is little to no chance of him allowing Gwaine to leave alone – when Lance stands, sways, hiccups and slurs, "I'm going back now. Goodnight. Con-congratulations."

Within two steps, it looks highly unlikely he will make it home without something terrible happening, so Gwaine grabs one of his arms and says, "Merlin, give me a hand, mate?"

X

Together, they make an ungainly procession back to Lancelot's room, much to the amusement of those they pass on the way.

"You going to be alright, now?" Gwaine asks, supporting Lance with an arm around his waist as Merlin tries the door.

"Keys, Lance?" When he doesn't reply, Merlin asks again. "Lancelot, where is your key?"

It is clear this won't get an answer either. Gwaine says, "leave it, Merlin. He can stay with me." This is just a mindless comment, no thought to it, but Merlin looks incredulous.

"No, I don't think he can. You said we were going to talk, and I don't particularly want him listening in." Merlin checks the corridor in both directions and, seeing it empty, mutters under his breath, eyes flashing gold, then pushes the door open. He hooks Lance's free arm back over his shoulder and walks them into the room.

They deposit Lance gently on his bed to extensive gratitude and apologies for ruining their night. "'S'fine, Lance, mate. Was hardly a good day, was it? Tavern is much less fun now I don't drink as much. Sleep it off, alright, and we'll see you tomorrow." They depart, Gwaine clapping him on the back and Merlin smiling far more kindly now that he is clearly going to get his way.

As soon as they do, Gwaine regrets it. He still has no idea where to go – although, he realises belatedly, Merlin has made the decision for him, because he has set off quite confidently in the direction of Gwaine's room. Reluctantly, Gwaine follows.

While Gwaine closes the door securely behind him, Merlin settles himself comfortably in a chair, boots off and abandoned by the fire, his feet curled underneath him. Gwaine reomoves his shoes and sits too, keeping his feet firmly on the floor; he has a suspicion this conversation will require pacing.

"Is it Lance?" Merlin asks, and it takes Gwaine a moment to understand.

When he does, he laughs. "No, Merlin, it is not Lancelot."

Merlin is visibly offended. "Sorry," he says, slightly contemptuously. "It seemed sensible. I just thought, you're always comforting him, and you did try get him with Gwen."

"I'd try comfort any of my friends who are as miserable as him. You should know that. And the thing with Gwen..." Gwaine rises, turning away from Merlin to stare at the stars visible out his window. He is sheepish, ashamed, despite the fact that it is months since then. "That was...I thought if Gwen broke up with Arthur, he might..." Gwaine trails off, aware of how ridiculous the end of that sentence is.

His first clue that Merlin has drastically misinterpreted him are the words he does not understand, the second the way the curtains shoot themselves across his windows. "Arthur?"

Gwaine turns back, his closed curtains being less of a focal point than the stars. Merlin's face is unreadable, but he has the feeling that the wrong answer might get him blasted into a thousand pieces. Since he doesn't know what the right answer is, he opts for telling the truth and hoping for the best.

"No. Definitely not. I would never consider – I, I mean, he's very handsome, and I suppose I can see why you like him, sort of, maybe, but no." There is very little that can make that sentence worse, so he just gives up. "I thought if he wasn't with Gwen, then you could be with him."

He can read Merlin's face easily now, some mix of relief, exasperated fondness and horrified mortification. It is not a face that should be easy to read, not at all. "Was stupid, I know. I'm sorry. Arthur is..." he stops, again, not wanting to cause further damage.

Merlin finishes his sentence for him anyway. "Arthur isn't attracted to men." He doesn't say anything for quite a few minutes. "It's not that I don't appreciate the thought, Gwaine, but please don't try that again."

Gwaine mumbles that he won't, ever, and Merlin pretends the brief segue never occurred. "Are you just going to make me keep guessing?"

He could reply that Merlin won't guess, not in a million years (seeing as if he would apply his earlier reasoning to Gwaine's actual purpose in engineering the Gwen-Lancelot debacle, Merlin would have his answer, but he won't; Merlin, almighty sorcerer, lacks any idea of just how admirable he is) but settles instead for, "I wish you wouldn't. It's not important, anyway."

Merlin looks ready to protest this – and possibly be justified in doing so, as who Gwaine loves is about the most salient point in answering why he slept with Merlin – so Gwaine continues before he can. "They love someone else. I'm not going to tell them; it would only...confuse matters. And it really isn't why, Merlin. I didn't have sex with you to forget. If that was all I'd wanted, I'd've picked someone up at the tavern and gone back to their place, or found a quiet alley somewhere." It is the cruel, shameful truth, and Gwaine feels himself flinch saying it. "I wouldn't do that to you, wouldn't use you like that. You're my friend," there are so many ways he could end that sentence – you're too important, too good, too pure – and he thinks the one he settles for, not a concern he would have had in the past, is probably the most honest, "it wouldn't be fair."

He realises, as soon as he says it, that he has made a mistake. "Not fair?" Merlin, naive enough to believe kings should marry for love and that double standards do not exist, is not impressed. Not at all. "It's not fair for you to use me to forget, but it's just fine for me to use you?"

"You weren't using me: it was my idea." It is both the most flimsy of excuses and all he can manage. Much as he wants to avoid arguing with Merlin, he doesn't know how beyond asking, "can we not do this again, Merlin? We've talked about this before; we both know how it will go. You'll be angry, I'll say something dumb that makes it worse, we'll barely talk for ages, and then I'll find myself walking some place with my consent. Can we just not, please? Can we pretend it never happened?"

"I don't know how," Merlin sighs. "I don't know how to be your friend anymore, when all I see when I look at you is that night. You flinch every time I touch you, every time we're alone together. Tell me, Gwaine, can you pretend it never happened, when you're so fucking scared of me now?"

"I'm not scared of you, Merlin. Maybe I should be, and you sure as hell want me to be, sometimes, but I'm not." He ignores Merlin's challenging, 'what are you afraid of, then?' expression, because the answer, that he is afraid of losing himself, his self-control, is too raw to give Merlin. "I'm sorry. Should never have made that offer. I shouldn't. We both knew it wouldn't work. Or would have done, if we hadn't drunk so much."

"Wouldn't work? Why did you think I...I've been...it was...You're such a twat, Gwaine. You said that you...that I...and we..."

This would be so much easier, Gwaine thinks, if Merlin would finish one sentence before starting the next, and preferably ones that don't involve calling him names. He waits, though, knowing Merlin will get there eventually, and he isn't in too much of a hurry to get to the inevitable, terrible end of their conversation.

"I forgot, okay? You said that you could make me forget that I'm totally in love with Arthur, and I knew you couldn't but I pretended you would and so we...and I forgot. Just for that time, it was gone, all of it; Arthur and Gwen, Lancelot, magic, the total bloody hopelessness that is my life. And then you knew, only you didn't, I just thought you did, and it all came back again, all these problems, and there was another life resting on my shoulders. And even though you know as well, I can't talk to you about anything that involves real conversation because we were stupid enough to sleep together, and Lance said I should try talk about my magic, he was really sure that would help us at least be friends, and it didn't; I still can't be near you without remembering what forgetting felt like."

Merlin is gasping for breath when he finishes, perching on edge of his seat and staring at the floor. Gwaine has never seen him like this: he has seen Merlin angry, sad, happy, cold, vicious, in control and completely out of it, but he has never seen him so completely without hope.

"So," he says, "what do we do now?"

He isn't really expecting an answer, since Merlin has said just about everything that can be said on the matter. They aren't really friends anymore, cannot be friends anymore. Gwaine has fucked up the first friendship he has ever had, the closest, most real friendship he has ever had, now that he has more than one, because, as Lance said that first day when his world had just fallen to pieces, he couldn't keep it in his pants.

"We could," Merlin replies, eventually, cautiously, ready to go from hopeless to shattered in as long as it takes Gwaine to say the wrong thing. "We could do it again?"

This time it is Gwaine who thinks for a moment too long, and he knows it, knows what this must being doing to Merlin, but he doesn't know what to say. If he says no, he genuinely believes Merlin will walk out and never speak to him again, without even the slightest chance of repairing things. If he says yes, he sleeps with Merlin again, without telling him he loves him. He sleeps with Merlin again, and feels like dirt, both used and user. He sleeps with Merlin again, and...and there really isn't any more to it.

He says yes.