For the prompt: Could you write a lil fic of Merlahad where like they kiss for the first time?
...I took some liberties. \o/
The brush of Harry's lips against his own is slow, hesitant. Almost as though he's afraid his advances might not be welcome. It's nothing at all like way they'd crashed into each other in Barcelona, hot and raw and driven. It's nothing at all like the way they'd kissed not even one year ago—the quick peck on the lips being as the summary to a novel. But Merlin kisses him back. It would feel wrong not to.
And besides which, he's missed this. He's missed being able to kiss Harry like it's something old and familiar, missed being able to say his name as though he'd said it, shouted it, screamed it, moaned it, cried it thousands upon thousands of times before.
The Harry they'd brought home from Kentucky had been… different. Memories completely gone save for Merlin's name, Harry had been a blank slate. They've all done their best to work with this—after all, Harry was still alive, after all—but it had been difficult and slow going. There is none of the cocksure, strutting peacock that they all remembered. Harry followed him like a lost child, looking to him for guidance in even the simplest of tasks.
Their relationship of thirty years Merlin had kept to himself. It would be overwhelming, he thinks, to not even know yourself and have someone expecting you to be their other half. Not that he would, but Harry has been so keen on striving towards resembling the man that they all knew that Merlin is certain he would be desperate not to disappoint him. No,there was no need to cause him undo stress. But it occurs to him now that Harry believes himself to be kissing Merlin for the first time, when in fact that event had occurred so many, many years go.
"You're crying."
Merlin snaps out of his own thoughts, blinking rapidly. He brushes a hand across his eyes, his fingers coming away with a telltale wetness. Harry watches him with patient concern before reaching to press a hand to Merlin's cheek. He gazes at him intently, warm brown eyes brimming with earnest worry as his thumb brushes a stray tear from Merlin's cheek.
"Why, dove?" he asks quietly.
Dove.
That had been Harry's pet name for him.
His Harry's.
Merlin's heart stutters. There are still pieces of him in there, somewhere. Now and again they find one; sticking out up out of the sands of his memories, sharp, cracked and jagged like a piece of sea glass not yet worn smooth by time and tide. How many times has Harry suffered as he trod on one unexpectedly? How many times has Merlin been sliced open, desperate to dig one free? Regardless, they're few and far between. Merlin's not sure he'll ever remember the man he once was, but moments like these give him hope. Harry's alive. He'd survived. That's what matters most. They can work with the rest, but what matters is that he's here. So Merlin shakes his head, patting the other man's knee in an attempt to allay his fears.
"It's nothing. Just work, is all," Merlin claims.
The look he gets in return tells him that Harry isn't sure he believes him. Why should he? It's a flimsy excuse. But when Merlin leans in to kiss him again, he's apparently content to let the matter rest. It's better if he doesn't know, Merlin thinks.
Valentine's bullet had stolen nearly all of Harry's firsts from him. This one, at least, Merlin can give back.