The books, sad songs, and cinemas,
They all lied, lied, lied,
Why didn't anyone tell me,
Love is like being fucked with a knife?
- Flowers of Flesh and Blood, Nicole Dollanganger
Merlin didn't know when it hit him—but Merlin didn't know—anything—anymore—every corridor and staircase and ceiling and floor and window and door looked the same and every step hurt and every breath hurt and every thought hurt and he didn't know where he was and he didn't know where he was going and he didn't know anything and maybe he wasn't really here—maybe he wasn't really real—maybe he never had been—maybe nothing in the entire world was real—he didn't know where he was, because he didn't know anything, but he thought he might have been somewhere between Arthur's chambers and his own but then he didn't know where he was again and he thought maybe he took a wrong turn or maybe nothing in the entire world was real and then he was standing in front of the door to Gaius' rooms—and he knew he needed to push it open and walk inside but he didn't know if he could lift his hands—he didn't know much of anything anymore but he knew enough to know that his arms were shaking and his legs were shaking and if he wasn't mistaken, then the rest of him was shaking, too, and he needed to go inside because Gaius would be waiting for him—and it hit him, then, that he could—
—he could go to Gaius.
He could go to Gaius. Gaius would be waiting up for him, and Gaius would listen to him, and Gaius would believe him, and Gaius would understand him, and he didn't know much of anything anymore, but he knew that was real.
Gaius carried all of his secrets.
And he didn't know much of anything anymore, but he knew if he asked, Gaius would gladly carry one more.
Merlin opened the door—oh, so he could lift his hands, though they trembled like the leaves on the trees on a cold night in the Darkling Woods—and went inside—and he had to stop, and lean against the door to shut it again, and thousands of miles away from him, it clicked. Everything was a thousand miles away from him. Or maybe he was a thousand miles away from everything, or maybe he wasn't real, or maybe it was everything else that wasn't real, or maybe a thousand miles weren't real.
And he looked up and Gaius' lips were moving but everything was a thousand miles away from him, or he was a thousand miles away from everything, or he wasn't real or everything else wasn't real or a thousand miles weren't real or—
Fingers closed around his arm—
—a hand on his arm warm and firm and just above his elbow—
"N-no," he said, and it came out strangled—he jerked against the grip—fought it—hands on him and then there would be hands inside him and he'd have to use his magic only he couldn't use his magic because then Agravaine would tell Arthur and then Arthur would know about his magic and that could never happen—never ever—not even to get Agravaine's mouth off his mouth or to keep Agravaine's tongue from sliding, wet and warm, over his own and a cold wall on his warm naked back and fingers in his mouth and fingers up inside him and fingers so far down his throat he thought he was going to throw up and slick silk sheets under his skin and everything would hurt and he'd have to use his magic only he couldn't use his magic because then Agravaine would tell Arthur and then Arthur would know about his magic and that could never happen, never ever, because Arthur didn't trust him enough and—
His name—someone said his name—someone said his name, over and over and over—and it came from a thousand miles away—and a face, so familiar with all its lines and wrinkles and—Gaius—
Merlin stopped.
There wouldn't be hands inside him there wouldn't be a mouth on his mouth or a tongue over his tongue or a wall on his back or fingers in his mouth or fingers anywhere else or sheets under his skin and nothing would hurt because Gaius wouldn't let it.
"Merlin?"
Merlin. That was—that was him. That was his name. That was his name, and somebody else knew it. He was real, after all.
"—I—"
Everything was real. Everything was real, and he was real, and a thousand miles were real, and his hands, still shaking like the leaves in the Darkling Woods, were real, too, and the sour taste at the back of his mouth was real, and the fire crackling in the hearth on the other side of the room was real, and Gaius was real and everything was so real—the candles burned too brightly and the fire burned too brightly and everything burned too brightly and a thousand miles wasn't nearly far enough after all—and all the colors in all the world were in this room, blazing red and blue and black and white and green and yellow and orange and purple and a kaleidoscope of everything and nothing and everything again—and everything was real and the sound of his own breathing scared him in how real it was—
"Merlin?"
Gaius said his name again, and there was something strange in his voice now.
"—I—" He tried to speak, but it—it was so loud, his own voice—and he didn't like it—but— "—I didn't mean—" He winced, and brought his hands up to his ears—his fingers jerked and shuddered against the sides of his head. "—sorry."
"Slow down, Merlin," Gaius said—and that didn't make any sense, because he was standing still. "Have a seat, and let me have a look at you."
"—I'm—" The words stuck in his throat, and he winced again, and pushed them harder—but when they finally came out, they weren't the words he wanted to say. "—I'm fine, Gaius." He didn't want to say that—he didn't mean to say that—
"I'll be the judge of that," Gaius said, in his firmest voice, and guided Merlin to his chair at the table—it hurt—sitting down hurt—hurt like Agravaine's fingers were still somewhere inside him, pushing and shoving and twisting and invading and defiling and polluting and profaning and spoiling and violating and ruining—
There was a plate of food in front of him, suddenly, and he didn't know when it had gotten there, and Gaius must have seen him looking at it, because suddenly, there was a fork in his hand, and Gaius was telling him to eat, and still speaking in his firmest voice.
Merlin curled his fingers around the fork, so cold and heavy in his hands—the firelight glinted strangely off the metal, a thousand tiny dots of striking radiance. Real.
Warm fingers prodded at his head, carding slowly through his hair—only Gaius, he told himself, and held the fork tighter because when he did, the sharp silver tines dug into his skin and his hands didn't shake anymore.
The back of his head hurt when Gaius touched it—like a bruise—he winced, and jerked away on reflex—the space between his legs throbbed with the motion, and he winced again.
"I suspected as much." Gaius pursed his lips. "You've hit your head."
"No," he said at once, because he didn't—but—
—the sharp crack of his head against the wall as Agravaine's hands moved farther down—
"—o-oh," he said. "I did. Not—not hard."
Hard enough to hurt, he wanted to say, but didn't.
"Headache?" Gaius took Merlin's chin in his hands, rough and wrinkled fingers startlingly gentle, and pale, steady eyes searching Merlin's own. "Dizziness? Confusion?"
"N-no." Merlin shifted slightly in his seat, edgy under the scrutiny, and smothered a gasp as the pain flared again.
"Liar," Gaius said sharply, undeceived, but let go of his chin. "Where else?"
"Nowhere." He dropped his hand to his lap—the searing burn still scorched, under his fingers and beneath his clothes and between his legs and he wanted it to stop and he wanted it out of him and he wanted he didn't know what he wanted—but not this—never this—never, ever this—hands inside him and a mouth on his mouth and a tongue sliding wet and warm over his own and a cold wall against his warm naked back—
"What happened?" Gaius, ever skeptical, arched his infamous eyebrow. "Where were you?"
"—I—"
Hands inside him and a mouth on his mouth and a tongue sliding wet and warm over his own and a cold wall against his warm naked back and fingers in his mouth and fingers up inside him so far up inside him it hurt and invaded defiled polluted profaned spoiled violated ruined and fingers down his throat fingers so far down his throat he thought he was going to throw up and slick silk sheets under his skin and everything hurt and he couldn't stop it and he didn't have a choice and he just wanted it to stop and invaded defiled polluted profaned spoiled violated ruined and he could tell Gaius because Gaius would listen to him and Gaius would believe him and Gaius would understand him and Gaius would know he hadn't had a choice and Gaius would know what to do because Gaius always knew what to do and Merlin opened his mouth to tell him—
—Gaius would believe him—
—hands inside him and a mouth on his mouth and a tongue sliding wet and warm over his own—
—but—
—invaded defiled polluted profaned spoiled violated ruined—and Agravaine's fingers twisting and turning up inside him and—
Merlin tasted the truth in his mouth. He imagined letting it fall from his tongue. How it would sound hanging in the air. How Gaius might look at him when he said the words—Agravaine knows about my magic—Agravaine knows about my magic, Gaius, and he said he was going to tell Arthur unless I—
—unless I—
Merlin burned. Beneath his clothes, he burned, and between his legs, he burned, and suddenly, he thought he might die with the absolute and indescribable shame of it.
I fucked him.
And Gaius would—Gaius would look at him in that way he did, mouth pinching up in that thin little line as he pressed his lips together—and his voice, so sharp and brittle, the way it always sounded when Merlin let him down—I see, he would say, and the unspoken condemnation in his tone just might break Merlin.
I had to, Merlin would add, desperate, I had to, Gaius, he said he would tell Arthur if I didn't—I didn't have a choice—Gaius, I didn't have a choice—
Gaius' mouth would go even thinner. You should have been more careful.
I know. Merlin would hang his head.
How many times, Merlin? Gaius would demand, fire in his tone. How many times must I tell you to be more careful with your magic? Now you've gotten yourself into a proper mess, and you've no one to blame but yourself.
I know, Merlin would say, sure he was shrinking, smaller and smaller and smaller, in his seat.
You should not have done that, Merlin, Gaius would say, ice in his eyes, you should not have let him discover your magic. And you should never have agreed to bed him like you're some street whore—
Merlin winced at the word, and shook his head. No. He pressed his lips together. No, he was—he was nothing like that. He hadn't—he hadn't chosen to do it—he hadn't wanted to—he had resisted, he had protested—and you also moaned and melted beneath his touch, said a small and horribly honest voice in the back of his mind. You didn't say a single word, but you might as well have begged for more. You were so hard for him.
No, no, no, that—that wasn't—no, that wasn't true, he hadn't wanted it, he hadn't wanted it, he hadn't, he hadn't chosen it, he'd said no, he'd resisted, he'd protested, he'd said no—
But had he said it loud enough?
He could have—he could have stopped it—if he'd wanted to—if he'd really wanted to—he could have ended it before it had even begun—before the hands all over him and the hands inside him and he could have stopped it he could have stopped it he could have stopped it from the moment Agravaine kissed him that first time, he could have stopped it—the rich, red wine he himself hadn't tasted on his lips, and the strong fingers cupping his cheek and the rough, hungry hands grinding into his groin and the—the feeling it had put in his stomach—like sparks, like fire, like—like heat—he could have stopped it, he could have done a damn sight more than just stopped it, he'd had the power, hadn't he, building in his chest and burning in his veins and searing in the center of his palms and he could have used it, he could have, he really could have—he could have killed Agravaine, and it would have been so easy, and no one would have ever known it was him, no one would have ever even suspected—that assassin, in the Darkling Woods, he'd killed him, hadn't he? Snapped his neck without ever touching him at all, raw fury fueling him longer than any spell—that could have been Agravaine tonight. If he'd wanted it to be. Agravaine, broken and bloody, eyes wide and terrified, flat on his back on the ground as the last of the life bled from his body and he realized how wrong he had been, to seek his satisfaction in Emrys himself—
"—Merlin?"
Gaius.
No, no, he couldn't—he could not tell Gaius. He could never, ever tell Gaius.
"Assassin," Merlin heard his own voice from a thousand miles away. Everything was a thousand miles away from him. Or maybe he was a thousand miles away from everything.
"Another one?" Gaius looked at him.
And Merlin nodded and he swallowed the truth and he could swear the sharp, honest edges sliced his throat all the way down because he could not tell Gaius, he could never tell Gaius, he could never tell anyone. He'd resisted. He'd protested. He'd said no. But it didn't matter.
He hadn't said it loud enough.
"Merlin, you idiot!"
Breathe. Breathe, that was it, that was all he had to do, breathe, just breathe, in and out and in again, breathe, he had to breathe, he couldn't breathe, he needed to breathe, he needed to breathe, he had to breathe, that was all he had to do, and he couldn't he couldn't he couldn't fucking breathe when he had the entire castle sitting on top of his chest—crumbling, his lungs were crumbling—his lungs were crumbling and collapsing and he couldn't breathe and Agravaine was there right there right in front of him and hands all over him hands all over him hands all over him he was shaking and he couldn't stop he was shaking like the leaves on the trees on a cold night in the Darkling Woods again and Arthur was yelling and yelling and yelling but everything was a thousand miles away from him and he didn't hear a single word.
"—is there anything you're actually capable of doing—?!"
Breathe. That was it. That was all he had to do. Breathe. Just breathe. In and out and in again. Breathe. Don't think, just breathe.
"—are you even listening to me—?!"
Breathe. That was it. That was all he had to do.
"S-sorry, Sire." Move. He needed—he needed to move. He stepped forward, to put the breakfasts he'd brought down on the table, but his hands were empty and he didn't know where the dishes had gone and—and—
Oh.
Food. All over the floor. Sausages. Bread. Cheese. Berries. Butter. Wine. All over the floor. He was standing on a plate. He stepped back.
"Sorry, Sire," he repeated mechanically, and he picked the napkins up off the table and went down to his knees and started to clear it up.
Agravaine handed him a stray, shattered shard of a delicate porcelain plate. His fingers brushed Merlin's wrist. His hand lingered a little too long against Merlin's skin, and Merlin went still and silent and didn't dare pull away. Agravaine smiled, and let go, and crumbling. His lungs were crumbling.
"Tintagel."
"What?" Merlin hauled Arthur's armor off its stand—it gleamed in the sunlight like the fork last night had gleamed in the firelight—a thousand tiny dots of striking radiance—but this time he couldn't find any sharp edges to cut into his flesh, to hurt him, to bring him back to himself. His wrist burned where Agravaine had touched it.
"Tintagel," Arthur repeated, and impatience edged his tone. "Do you think Gaius will be of any use to the people of Tintagel?"
Oh. Oh, yes, Tintagel—the breakfast with—with Agravaine—breathe, breathe, all you have to do is breathe, that's it—that was—that—Tintagel. They had discussed Tintagel. And the strange plague striking its people down. Yes. Merlin swallowed, and let the armor fall in a shining silver pile on Arthur's bed. "Of course. Gaius is very skilled. He's never failed yet."
He spent a moment sorting through the sparkling heap for the mail coat. When he dragged it out at last, Arthur obligingly raised his arms, and Merlin let it fall gently over the blond head. He smoothed out the links with the flat of his hand. The metal was cool and solid and familiar under his palm. Arthur. It felt like Arthur. He could breathe.
That night, Gaius packed up his things in a bag of fraying brown cloth, by candlelight, patted Merlin on the shoulder with a firm and warm and ever-reassuring hand, and told him to look after himself.
When Merlin woke up the next morning, Gaius had already gone—Leon and Percival with him, Arthur's orders—the main road to Tintagel was no stranger to bandits—and there was a bowl of porridge on the table in Merlin's usual place. It had gone cold by the time he spotted it, but he smiled at the sight of it anyway—then he wondered if the bowl would still be there if Gaius knew the truth, knew what he'd done the night before last, and suddenly he couldn't think of a single thing to smile about.
It still hurt to walk. At least the awful burn between his legs had died down to a kind of dull throb—painful, yes, but manageable—and he weaved his way through the castle as quickly as he could, biting back a wince whenever the tender area gave a twinge. He rounded the corner and hastened down the next hall—empty as the last three—most of the servants weren't up and about yet—per Arthur's whims, he was usually one of the first to rise, and one of the last to retire—if he could drag the prat out of bed quick enough, he might have time to get to that armor he'd sworn he'd polished yesterday, and Arthur would be none the wiser and—
Agravaine.
Merlin stopped. He didn't—he didn't want to—he didn't mean to—and he hated that he did—keep going, he told himself, as his heart hammered so hard in his chest, he wondered if it would burst clear through his shirt—just keep going—just breathe, and keep going—but his legs wouldn'tlisten to him and Agravaine was looking right at him—getting closer closer closer closer—turn around, then, that was what he would do, turn around, double back, the longer route to Arthur's chambers would work just fine—
"Merlin."
The word was scarcely a whisper. Barely even a breath. Loud as a scream in the silence of the deserted corridor.
Merlin tightened his hold on Arthur's breakfast—he didn't need to go making a habit of dropping meals—he'd gotten yelled at enough this week—and pressed his lips together and lifted his chin and pretended he hadn't heard and—
—a hand. On his wrist. A hand on his wrist and it hurt and he jerked away on instinct because he didn't know what else to do and a thousand miles away from him the tray clattered to the floor because everything was a thousand miles away from him and get off get off get off don't touch me stop touching me stop and Agravaine wouldn't he wouldn't stop he wouldn't let him go, fingers digging, mercilessly deep, down into his skin, still bruised beneath the sleeve from when Agravaine had pinned his hands to the wall while he kissed him and let go, he wouldn't let go, please, just let go—
"Stop." The sharp, imperious hiss, hot breath just tickling Merlin's ear, sounded nothing short of deadly. Agravaine tightened his hold, and leaned ever closer. "I expect you in my chambers tonight. Do not disappoint me." And then—
—and then he let go.
Just—just like that—he let go just like that, his hands there and gone in an instant, and then he swept past Merlin and off down the corridor without another word, without even a second glance, and Merlin hated the shaky breath of nervous, incredulous relief that left his mouth because it was done, it was over, it was finished, Agravaine was gone, Agravaine was—
—Agravaine was—
—wait.
Merlin spun sharply on his heel. "I'm sorry, what?" Louder than he meant it to be, but he didn't care—rage beat back fear in an instant, curling up and eddying around, like thick smoke, in the pit of his stomach. Did Agravaine—did Agravaine actually have the nerve to think—?
Agravaine paused—for a moment, Merlin thought he was going to just ignore—but—no, he turned, one eyebrow cocked. "I beg your pardon?" He stepped a little closer.
Merlin reflexively stepped back. "No. You can't do this. I did what you asked of me, but I won't do anything more. I won't."
The second eyebrow went the same way of the first. "I believe we discussed this during our last encounter, Merlin. I don't like to repeat myself."
"We—we made a deal, yes, but this was not part of it!" The faintest shred of fear stirred again in Merlin's chest, but he crushed it under a swift and savage blow. It would not happen again. He would not let it happen again.
"Forgive me, Merlin, but I'm fairly certain we did not argue specifics—"
"I won't do it!" Merlin only just constrained himself to a furious whisper. "You can't make me!"
Agravaine's stupid, self-satisfied smirk slipped, for a moment—good, Merlin thought, venomously—and he went striding back the way he'd come until he'd closed the distance between them and even then he didn't stop and he was nearly on top of Merlin now and Merlin stumbled back—he hated himself for it, but he couldn't stop he couldn't stop and then his back hit the wall and there was nowhere to go and Agravaine was so close and he couldn't breathe and he couldn't move and it wouldn't matter even if he could because he had nowhere to go he was trapped he was trapped he was trapped he had nowhere to go—
Agravaine slammed his hand against the wall. Mere inches from Merlin's head. And Merlin flinched, and he couldn't help it, and he hated hated hated it.
"I've told you," his eyes burned, the words a growl in the back of his throat, "I don't like to repeat myself. I will only remind you once more – if I am to keep your secret from your precious Arthur, you will repay me in the way I have chosen, and you will do it gladly."
No. Merlin couldn't—he couldn't let this happen—not again—he had to end things—now—
"Do you understand?" Agravaine never raised his voice above that low, smooth whisper, but the corridor echoed with the sound, every word reverberating, resounding off the walls until it was all Merlin could hear, a deafening roar from everywhere and nowhere. Agravaine dashed his hand against the wall again. "Do you understand?!"
No, Merlin needed to say, no, never—never again, ever—it's over—you can't make me—he needed to say it, he needed to stop this, he needed to put an end to things—he couldn't let it happen again, he could not let it happen again—and it would be so easy—let out the energy, thrumming and throbbing in his veins—let it out, let it go, let it pick Agravaine up and fling him back, all the way to the far wall—if he did it right, the force of the blow would break the vile pig's neck—it wouldn't take long for a passing servant to find his body—
Merlin's stomach rolled, and he shut his eyes. The vision burned, bright like fire, in the back of his mind. He was sure he was going to be sick. How could—how could he have even let himself think like that? How could he have even let himself imagine—even if only for a moment—? No, no, he could not—he could not kill Agravaine. Such a senseless, cruel slaughter would serve none save himself. And Arthur would be devastated—
Arthur. Oh, gods. Arthur. Arthur would be—he would—to lose Agravaine now—so soon after his father—the blow could very well bring him to his knees. How could Merlin have even considered doing something so horrible to him?
No. He couldn't hurt Agravaine. Even if he wanted to. And he couldn't—he couldn't let him tell Arthur. Not now. Not ever.
Merlin swallowed. It all—it all came down to Arthur, didn't it? He couldn't hurt Agravaine, not without hurting Arthur, and he couldn't say no to Agravaine unless he wanted Arthur to find out the truth, and if Arthur found out the truth, that would hurt him, too—
It all came down to Arthur.
Merlin opened his eyes. He forced himself to look at Agravaine. "Your chambers," he said, and he didn't know who he hated more, in that moment—the person in front of him or the person inside of him. "I'll be there."
For Arthur.
Notes: Hoping to get the next chapter up a little sooner than this one - I had some SERIOUS writer's block for probably a solid week right in the middle of this piece, and when I went back to it, I ended up rewriting over half of it, so naturally it took a little longer than usual. Still! Hopefully I'll be back a hell of a lot sooner with the next one, but I obviously can't guarantee. Comments help me grow!