IYîYîYîYI
"Every kind of love
or at least my kind of love
must be an imaginary love
to start with"
- Rufus Wainwright, Imaginary Love
IYîYîYîYI
Merlin lay still, with his eyes closed, waiting for sleep to come. He had waited almost half the night. His body wanted to turn, to move, to get up and pace the floor, but he wouldn't let it. He should be sleeping – he would sleep. Any moment now, the wheels in his head would stop turning for the night. Any moment now.
He still felt the weird prickling feeling in his skin that he had felt in the morning when Arthur had come to his room, and after that, every time he had caught Arthur looking at him during the day. "I feel this ... thing for you, sometimes, and I can't help it" – what was that even supposed to mean? That Arthur wanted him, wanted to touch him, wanted to share his bed? What was Merlin supposed to do with that information? He couldn't even wrap his head around it. It didn't fit with anything he had ever thought about Arthur, and certainly nothing he had ever thought about Arthur and himself. And it didn't fit with the fact that Arthur was married to Gwen, in love with Gwen, devoted to Gwen – that wasn't an act, Merlin had been there since it began and he knew it was true. And now he knew how it felt to have Arthur's breath tickling against his neck, how it could send a shiver down his spine to hear his name whispered in reverence (and wasn't that what he had always wanted, after a fashion?), and all the things he used to know and the things he knew now didn't fit together in the worldview he had, so his worldview had to grow. It's no wonder it's hard to sleep when your world is changing around you. Never mind that the bed felt cold, never mind that his body was playing tricks on him, telling him that maybe that which had seemed frightening, wrong and, quite honestly, a little bit gross last night might be worth a second try after all. So what if the sloppy kisses were uncomfortable? Wouldn't it be worth getting used to, if it means I get to lie in Arthur's arms where it is warm and feels like home? Gods, am I going completely insane? Merlin pulled the blankets tighter around him. You weren't supposed to do too much thinking this time of night. It wasn't healthy, and it wasn't as if you'd look at it the same way when the sun came around anyway.
IYîYîYîYI
The sun was streaming through the window. It made the sheets of their bed feel warm. It made Merlin's ruffled hair shine and his skin glow. Arthur ran his fingers over Merlin's cheek, down to his mouth. Merlin smiled. Tiny, tiny crow's feet appeared at his eyes. Had those been there before? Were they getting old already? Arthur let his fingers start over, slowly, flickering lightly over Merlin's temple, over those lines on his face. They suited him. They let his wisdom show on the outside.
"What are you thinking?"
Merlin's voice seemed to be speaking from inside his own head, deep and with a hint of mirth. It made Arthur shiver. His hand traced a lazy path down Merlin´s neck, over a pale shoulder, down a chest speckled with soft, black hairs. Arthur felt his own chest contract, heat spreading through his body like wildfire.
"That I love you."
Merlin's smile grew, bright, unclouded – like the sun, Arthur thought. Merlin reached out his own hand, cupping Arthur's cheek (Arthur's bearded cheek, and there was something wrong with that, but Arthur couldn't remember what it was). Merlin pulled them together, kissed him, kissed him, kissed him, and Arthur felt as if the sunlight was shining straight through his body, right into his heart.
IYîYîYîYI
The sun was streaming through the window. Arthur woke up. The bed sheets were warm, and when he turned around he still expected to find Merlin there. It wasn't until he saw Guinevere's sleeping form that he realised he had been dreaming. It had felt so real. It felt so right. Like it had felt the first year he and Guinevere had shared this bed, but deeper, without the dark clouds looming on the horizon.
Distractedly he reached out, carefully hugged his wife, and kissed her hair. It wasn't the same as yesterday. Just as he'd thought, that endless, happy hopefulness he'd felt was gone. In its place was nothing but relief – relief that his mistake didn't seem to have made things worse than they already were, relief that Guinevere still wanted to share this bed with him, relief that Merlin had forgiven him so easily.
Once again he remembered Elaine's accusations against Guinevere. He wondered if it could be true, that this woman sleeping in his arms had been cheating on him with his first knight. For so long he had thought of her as the measure of all things good and right and noble. But it wasn't fair, was it, to expect her to be any more or less moral than he was himself? His eyes had strayed, his hands had strayed, his heart had strayed. If she had strayed, too, who was he to judge? If she had, there were certainly men much less worthy of her love than Lancelot. I only know one man who is better.
Arthur shook himself. He had thought all of these thoughts before, and now his mind had begun to run in circles. The only thing that had changed was that he didn't feel as angry at Guinevere anymore. He remembered the way he had lashed out at her the previous morning – it had been unfair. He could just as well have been talking about himself – maybe he had been. Maybe the anger had just been guilt in disguise.
So he was back at square one again. Were they ever going to get out of this?
He shook Guinevere softly and kissed her temple.
"Come on. Time to face the day."