.
.
In retrospect, Arthur wasn't quite thinking about what he was suggesting.
Never has he been so forward, and while it had been partly a coy lark, the way Merlin returned the glances indicates he was must have alone in that assumption.
The first reaction is the slam of his heart within him.
What did Merlin think?
They hadn't so much as mentioned any romance between them, or act on it. That moment before, the one in Merlin's kitchen starting out gentle and needy, gaining momentum faster than Arthur's mind could wrap around it.
He's repeatedly aware in his memories of soft lips against his, when Merlin breathlessly said his name, the pressure of Arthur's own mouth against Merlin's neck, with that thumping pulse-point.
Arthur's gaze raises up. He opens his mouth to reply, preparing a sardonic remark, but doesn't get far.
Merlin has his hand down his trousers.
He stares at Merlin incredulously. A new emotion overcomes him: a unforeseen respect, or cognisance of Merlin more than capable of being adventurous than he gives him credit for.
.
.
Worth it. Absolutely worth it to get the rise out of Arthur, to catch him off his guard. This is Gwaine-level devilry at its finest.
The feeling of thrill simmers to a low, churning heat in Merlin's belly—from the moment he stuck his hand down Arthur's jeans, touching nothing but the red, thickly-woven fabric of tunic. (Not that Merlin would be appalled to the concept of… repeating this under entirely different and more private circumstances, he's sure.)
The gob-smacked expression from Arthur, as he had glances between himself and then a smug Merlin, starts to temper away. The wheels likely had begun turning in Arthur's mind for a suitable response, and Merlin discovers himself in a quick role-reversal.
Being the one holding himself still, a building, shaky-if-released-too-soon exhale in his throat, as his companion murmurs to him, murmurs to his skin. The subtle challenge to Arthur's eyes on him, laced in his voice, roars the temperature of the heat in Merlin's stomach. But he does not move away, or falter in a soft, prying smile.
Arthur recovers, after a long moment.
"You know, Merlin," he says, lowly, as Arthur tips his head towards Merlin's cheek. "I'm a king. I do as I please, and when it suits me."
"But we wouldn't want you to get in trouble, would we?"
This is Arthur's way of assuming control, again. Assuming his kingship and Merlin's once-role as his manservant, using it to his advantage, but without any cruelty or malice in it. Or really seeking to gain anything tangible. Merlin can't find a hint of those negative aspects anywhere in their conversation.
His eyes follows over impassively where Arthur removes the tunic in a sharp motion, Merlin's ear feeling the physical flush from the hot gusts of Arthur's breath.
"You're very thoughtful, sire." He snaps his gaze back up. Merlin nods, smile widening, voice no louder than Arthur's had been, "It's a nice change to see, I think."
Before Arthur enters the same changing curtain Merlin taken earlier, the warlock opens his mouth, motioning with a finger.
"By the way, I was wrong. You can't take all day. The shoppe closes in an hour."
.
.
Merlin's fingers anxiously fiddle with the strategically frayed ends of his neckerchief, as he waits for Arthur to decide on a costume.
Not sure where the energy's coming from, he sighs, pacing around some of the racks, idly browsing to keep his mind from wandering. Flax-linen overcoats, wool surcoats, satin and wool cloaks of every possible colour. Merlin would have gone and changed out of his own clothes, to save some time, but Arthur has his changing curtain where all of Merlin's original clothes are still on the floor.
"They fit," is what Arthur blurts out.
A bemused look crosses Merlin's face when the other man hurriedly shoves his choices at him, expression vacant, before heading out the front. Didn't even give Merlin an opportunity to see what they looked like on him. That was fast work on deciding.
Merlin shakes his head, letting the mystifying occurrence go, and sets a new record for the speediest damn clothing-switch in this shoppe, he imagines.
Their new friends are nowhere to be seen.
As he guessed, the girl behind the counter seems displeased with learning Merlin had ripped the neckerchief himself, but says nothing because, truthfully, the shoppe gets the proper amount of money for it. Merlin spares her a long-suffering, thin smile, grabbing his bag of purchases, and leaves out the door.
Arthur already has a head-start down the pavement, his shoulders hunched like he wants to attract as little attention as possible to himself in the crowd.
"Oi!" Merlin shouts, huffing as he runs after him, scowling. "Don't go get yourself lost in this—what's the matter now?" There's a hardened edge to the glance he receives. "Arthur?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" Merlin repeats, doubtfully, shrugging the bags.
Arthur's head inclines back as he avoids Merlin's eyes, eyes upturned.
"Honestly… it's different. All of it," he says, solemnly.
"It's very different," Merlin agrees, after a long moment and relaxing.
One of Arthur's hands stuff in his pockets, and the other instinctively reaches for Merlin's as they near a road. It's not Arthur's immediate focus; his mind leaps from the changing room, to Merlin's cottage, to what he wanted to do if Merlin had been coaxed into the small, curtained area. There's no certainty in what may have occurred, but Arthur knew he wanted it.
The cold autumn air is merciless in their lungs, but a pleasant, warming heat spreads where Arthur's hands cups his. They aren't crossing, as of that minute, but Merlin can definitely get used to the company. Especially if it allows Arthur to feel more secure during the remnants of the traffic.
Merlin decides to forgive him easily for charging ahead, and nudges their fingers together.
"We're done for the day, yea," he says, aiming a lively grin at his companion, swinging their joined arms in rhythm.
Somewhere nearby, a lorry blasts its horn.
It's coming.
With no time, for either magic to rear up and slow it, or to scream for Arthur to move his arse, Merlin's hands claw into the fleecy material of Arthur's shirt. He violently heaves Arthur forward and sends them both toppling back onto the concrete. Right out of the path of the speeding lorry, barreling right by and heading for the motorway.
They must have rolled during the fall.
Merlin lifts his head and discovers himself on his stomach, an arm splayed out at his side with the other crushed under him. Merlin's nose aches something terrible from impacting ground, hard enough to break. He checks himself—nothing.
What the bleeding fuck was…?
One of the shoppe bag's, not far from where he's sprawled out, with items hanging out, flapping audibly to the wind's breeze.
Arthur—
Arthur.
Panic roars from the lowest pit of his gut, as Merlin's head jerks around to stare in all directions. God, no, nono.
Worried voices congregate in the distance, along with the girl who shrieked in terror.
But Merlin's on tunnel-vision, on the heap of gravel-dirtied, puffed jacket that he crawls to, hands scraping the debris.
Arthur's on his back when Merlin gets to him, unresponsive to his surroundings even as the other man smacks the side of his cheek and calls his name several times. A smear of dark mud across Arthur's jaw. Merlin's first instinct is to check for a pulse, and he does, shakily.
His other hand goes for where Arthur's head rests on the ground.
And, Merlin's fingers come back with the unmistakable warmth of blood.
He draws them slowly in front of his face, blue eyes impossibly wide, ears buzzing loudly, shutting away outside noise and drowning it to a hush. As if Merlin puts a halt to everything.
The stark contrast of bright colour against Merlin's pale skin unconsciously makes his insides lurch. Merlin has seen worse, more bloodshed than any person should have witnessed, even Arthur's own blood—Arthur's own death. (But is this different?)
He couldn't—can't fail Arthur a second time.
"No," Merlin croaks out, echoing the word. Like it were a mantra that might save him from this hellish nightmare.
Already clearly going against his medical training, he hoists Arthur's upper half to his chest. Merlin holds up Arthur's head. He holds him gently with both hands, a thumb pressing against strands of sticky, reddish-blond hair where the blood seems to flow deepest.
He bows his face, closing damp eyes. They flare a bright gold behind his eyelids as Merlin growls, teeth baring, "Ágíeme hine."
.
.
For that blinding moment, Arthur criticises his lack of a reaction.
Time spares no kindness for him. It does not allow him the chance to forgive him, to wonder about the fact that he has been dulled, or distorted by his new surroundings. His faults are his own, but they pinpoint on someone far more important than Arthur's failings: Merlin.
The name floods through him, and the alarm in Arthur's chest seizes him.
It's his responsibility to keep Merlin safe, to protect him. Even if the truth hadn't been voiced—everyone knew it. The knights, Uther, Gwen. Morgana. Arthur needed to protect Merlin because he was unarmed, he couldn't fight, and because Merlin was his friend. Putting himself in harm's way for someone Arthur cared for, there's no question he would do it. Yet, this time, the reaction seems out of his control, and Arthur's thrown off his feet with a sharp tug.
A ragged groan tears out his lips as Arthur's body collides into another surface. He's trapped in a whirlwind of force, before stilling on the ground. A cold shock blasts through him. Arthur's vision spins as it grows, and the next thing he's aware of, is everything going black.
The spinning doesn't leave him—it slows, languid.
Is he awake or is he dreaming?
Thoughts form too-weakly, heavy and drawn out; nothing coherent. He's simply here, hovering, fighting it. It's a familiar sensation and yet wholly different, and when Arthur finally grasps why, his chest seizes once more.
The lake.
No, it can't be. It lacks the tranquility, the comfort. But where is Merlin?
Even disoriented, the name allows Arthur to struggle against the darkness holding him back with a silent scream of no.
He's not about to leave Merlin again, not when Arthur just returned. Suddenly, there's a low noise, and a power races and tears apart the barrier keeping him away. From there, Arthur can think unburdened, and his eyes begin to open.
It's delayed, mainly due to the throbbing on the back of Arthur's head accompanied by blurry vision. Finally, he gazes into the eyes before him and his body wants to sag in relief. Merlin's fine, he's here with him, he's alright—but why are his eyes so glossy?
(And why is Arthur resting on his knees?)
Arthur's eyebrows pull together in a look of confusion, lips separating.
"Merlin?" he mutters, quietly. Arthur's hand twitches. "What's… happened?"
.
.
His heart refuses to calm down from its frantic, desperate pace, even while sitting in the yellowed, dead patch of grass by the main road.
Edges of Merlin's world blinding out with the glistening sting of tears mounting over, unable to release—even with the efflorescence and cleansing nature of his magic sweeping amid the very oxygen he breathes, unnoticed to anyone else without his abilities.
His thumb carefully strokes the cut on Arthur's head, once malleable to pressure and weeping with blood, now firmly closed over.
It's harrowing how Merlin cannot rest the dread trembling at his core; a senseless paranoia that Arthur may not open his eyes again on his own. He takes shallow, raspy breaths, Arthur's chest weighing on him, his mouth parting.
Flashes of Arthur confined to an unnamed hospital bed, corpse-like and pallid in his vegetative state, hooked to machines and needles and never to be conscious enough to fuss about the repulsive state of tasteless cafeteria food—of Merlin, dark-eyed from little sleep, from hovering over the bedside every available hour, stretching Arthur's muscles he could not use as they wasted away to a pinched, scrawny version of what they had been.
And, Merlin knows in his heart he would do this, would watch over his King's endless slumber, until the very end, without hesitation. On some of those evenings, combing thinned, lackluster gold hair from Arthur's forehead, recalling the nonsensical adventures he threw himself into while Arthur was busy in Camelot or the travels Arthur had not the opportunity to hear yet. Merlin would kneel with aching knees beside the sterile, white bed, occasionally grazing his chapped lips over the softened skin of Arthur's palm, over the royal crest.
Even if it meant he had left Merlin alone, this time with the grim knowledge that Merlin truly and forever was.
Without the rays of sunlight that touched the misery, without that source of human brilliance in Merlin's life that pushed away the shadows gathering. That Merlin drew strength from in his younger days, like his parched throat would savour a cool drink of water from a well. His hopes for a kingdom and for magic, and for Arthur, and for himself. Merlin would be left as only a half of two parts needed, and lost.
The Old Religion had a phrase for such deep kinship felt between two people:
Béogetwinnsylfumsáwol.
He believe the ancient translation to pass as: "To be twins of a soul".
… What is he supposed to do?
But then, Arthur opens his eyes. Banishes the dark suffocation of Merlin's fears.
He never imagined his own name could be so beautiful.
"Merlin?"
"Yes," Merlin exclaims, murmury.
"Are you hurt?"
"Mm'fine, ya turniphead," Merlin's voice husked and shaky at the end of it, combining a trace of lighthearted snubbing.
It's a raw emotion that Arthur doesn't ignore.
On impulse, Merlin tilts Arthur's face still held in his dirtied hands, angling to harshly press his lips to the crown of his head. His eyes close in relief and blink out a warm trail of tear. "More than I could have said for you if I hadn't gotten your sorry arse out of the road," Merlin breathes out.
Arthur revels in the feeling for the briefest of moments, the urge and the palpable joy, as Merlin pulls away.
"Were they trying to kill us?" he grumbles.
When Arthur reaches up to touch his head, glancing at the red, sticky film on his fingertips, Merlin feels his emergency training hustle away all other concerns. "Try to stay as still as you can," he orders, finally letting Arthur go but minding his friend's upright balance. "I need to check you for any signs of a concussion, just in case."
"Merlin, please—"
He leans a little into Arthur's breathing space, keeping his own red-rimmed eyes searchingly on the other man. No immediate discoloration to the solid blue pigment of Arthur's irises or to the whites. No visible leakage from the ducts. Arthur's eyes are evenly dilated.
"Since you know my name, I'm going to assume you know who you are. But repeat it back to me, what's your name? What year is it and where are you?"
As Merlin listens, expressionlessly, he lifts up a finger, moving it steadily from side-to-side in front of Arthur's nose.
"C'mon, let your eyes follow it," he says, wordlessly thankful that Arthur's eyes aren't having difficulty. "Tell me if you start getting dizzy or nauseated. I'm fairly sure you blacked out when you hit your head. The spell should have healed you, but I have to be absolutely sure, understand?"
"This is ridiculous," Arthur protests, frowning. But he relents, bemused and going cross-eyed from Merlin's finger. "My name is Arthur Pendragon. The year is… 2012, and I'm in some blasted village with people staring—Merlin, for heaven's sake—"
He cuts himself off, reaching out and enclosing his hand over Merlin's, stopping him.
"I am fine. Your spell worked, I am here." Arthur lowers his voice. Frustration hollers within him at the fact Merlin's been crying. Wet eyes and a forced studious look. He always hated the sight, knowing someone has to be in pain because of him. "I am not going anywhere—I won't allow it."
Reluctant irritation shows, but there's concern in some degrees on Arthur's expression. Concern for who? Arthur was the one nearly plowed through. He should be worried for himself. But Arthur never was. Not before his death, and certainly not after. He had always been too quick to throw himself into the fanged mouth of danger.
Merlin's so caught up in examining him, trying not to be angry, that he's caught inattentive by a hand kindly meeting Merlin's face, cradling there for only seconds at best. He blinks. Merlin's head shifts in place as Arthur's thumb purposely rubs the dampness of his cheek.
Not outraged by it: it feels nice. Arthur's warmth.
The somewhat affectionate gesture spurs on a curious form of placated amusement, soaking away the doubt. The questions of am I really here?
"Now stop being a worrisome idiot, Merlin."
"Only if you'll stop being a complete prat," Merlin retorts softly. Lips twitching up. "Which I guess is asking a bit too much—let's face it—that'll never happen."
Arthur's glare is pretend, halfhearted, and threatening to give away a smirk.
"And here I was, beginning to believe your list of insults had improved over the years. I'm disappointed."
He smacks his hand against Merlin's same cheek, teasingly.
A good-natured eyeroll.
"Yea, yea," Merlin says, kneeling up from the grass. He's about to help Arthur up as well, when he catches Arthur staring dubiously.
"Is…?"
He nods pointedly across the road, and Merlin turns to stare as well.
Time has stopped visibly around them—birds frozen in mid-flight, people's faces twisted and unmoving. "Did you…?"
Did you do this?
Merlin inhales sharply, drawing back the heavy gust of magic set in place. With relief, time moves forward again. From the crowd of onlookers, a woman races over with her mobile face lit. "I saw what happened. Do you need an ambulance?" she asks Merlin breathlessly.
"No, no, he's alright. I've checked him over." He sends her one of his brightest, unassuming smiles at the faint suspicion. "Sorry, I'm an EMT from the town over. He's my friend. I've seen him fall over before," Merlin jokes, as the woman forces a laugh, seemingly comforted by this knowledge. "It's a thicker skull than it looks, trust me."
.
.
He has no damned idea what an ambulance is, or what the small contraption in her hand might do, but Arthur can tell she's panicked.
There's a strange sense of gratitude for it. And, of course, embarrassment. He was a king; yes, Arthur had been wounded during tourneys in front of his subjects before, but he carried on.
While his first thought is to glower at the back of Merlin's head, he offers the woman a curt smile with Merlin's reassurances.
"Let's consider ourselves fortunate that it was me, and not you," Arthur comments, earning himself another laugh. "All the air in that skull of yours probably softened it."
Merlin hooks his arm under Arthur's armpit, carefully hoisting him to his feet.
He bites the inside of his cheek.
Arthur… … doesn't need to know they both had taken the blow.
"I think it's time to go before we attract more of them," he whispers in Arthur's ear.
They steady themselves onto their feet, as Arthur grasps his shoulder. The woman ends up leaving them to themselves, after more reassurance, and no one else comes to bother them. Arthur's relief clearly deciphered across his features. "Don't forget to pick up the bags, Merlin," he says.
Merlin nearly trips over one of them spilled out on the pavement. Upright from his bumbling steps, Merlin snatches the handles, saluting in victory.
"I got them!" he yells at Arthur's back, smiling ridiculously before following him in the direction for the woods.
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TBC...
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AND THIS IS WHERE IT ALL GOES DOWNHILL. Wait, no, kidding! I'll get you lovelies the next chapter very soon. Enjoy the summer and any comments on this are so loved! What are you summer plans? ARE YOU EXCITED TO SEE JURASSIC WORLD? You'll be seeing me update lots more so stay tuned!
