Since Percival had seemed reluctant to leave Gwaine's side, Merlin had offered to stay with him while Percival went to the Queen's coronation. So he sat in the chair that had taken up permanent residence next to Gwaine's bedside and stared at his hands.
"I'm sorry, Gwaine," he said, which he'd said plenty of times, and would keep saying until Gwaine actually woke up and heard him.
This time, Gwaine stirred at the sound of his name. How long had he lain here? Days? Years? The suffering made it seem so. Percival's voice never woke him: Percival made him feel safe, secure. It was too easy to sleep with his friend there. But Merlin: Merlin he needed to speak to, Merlin needed to know.
He groaned and shifted as he opened his eyes, his hand reaching out, clawing at air, even before he had his bearings. "Merlin," he slurred, his tongue clumsy from disuse.
Despite sitting there wishing Gwaine would wake up, Merlin started when his friend did just that. He reached out and grabbed the hand that was flailing away at the air, holding it back to Gwaine's chest so that he couldn't suddenly decide it was a good idea to sit up.
"Whoa, Gwaine, stop," he said, reaching over and grabbing a cup of water that was left sitting by the bed in case Gwaine should be aware enough to drink it. "Do you...um...water?" he asked, actually wishing fleetingly that Gaius were here and not at the coronation.
Gwaine turned away from the cup—the idea of anything in his stomach right now made him feel ill—but clung to Merlin's hand. "I'm sorry I failed you," he whispered, because he had to, because it was important, because it hurt. "The king would still be alive if I was only—if I had—" But no, he couldn't think of that, he couldn't deal with that now.
Merlin didn't try to pull his hand away, since Gwaine apparently wanted it and was saying something to him, but it took him several moments to fully grasp what Gwaine was saying. When he did, he went pale and set the cup down before he could drop it or spill the water everywhere. "Nothing that happened is your fault," he said vehemently, maybe even a little angrily, because he would not have Gwaine blaming himself for any of this. "Nothing, Gwaine. Do you understand?" he asked. "I lied to you, and I didn't... I didn't get to Arthur fast enough, and I couldn't help you, and I'm sorry." He shook his head. "I'm sorry I lied to you," he added again, because this one thing he could actually apologize for. He couldn't apologize to Arthur for failing him, finally, in the end, for not being able to heal him with all this supposedly powerful magic he possessed, but he could apologize to Gwaine. "I can do magic. I should have told you, and I didn't, and I'm sorry."
This was all going a bit fast for Gwaine, and he struggled with his lungs for more air in what must have sounded a pathetic wheeze. Why was Merlin apologizing to him now? That didn't make any sense at all, so he moved on to what did: "I already know, Merlin," he said, "about the magic," and he tried his best to smile reassuringly: "but thanks for telling me, anyway." Almost immediately his smile faltered. "I only—I'm sorry I wasn't someone you could tell sooner."
Gwaine had already known? Of course he'd already known. This made perfect sense to Merlin, and made him feel even more guilty. He'd hurt Gwaine when he left him in the forest, he'd hurt his friend for no reason whatsoever, and now Gwaine was trying to make it seem like nothing, trying to make him feel better. "I could always have told you," Merlin insisted. "You're my best friend. I should have told you, but I just..." he huffed a shaky sigh and dropped his eyes to his knees, "I just didn't."
Gwaine just nodded at that, and looked away. "You never had to. It doesn't matter," Gwaine said, staring vacantly at the ceiling. He couldn't feel his hands anymore, and he wasn't sure if Merlin had let him go. "Didn't expect you to tell me. Can't trust a drunk, womanizing vagabond," he said, his smile grim with remembering: he had betrayed the King—Merlin's real best friend, only he was just being polite—by going off on an impetuous slay-ride and getting himself captured. "Sorry," he finished weakly, because there didn't seem much else relevant to say.
Merlin dropped Gwaine's hand and stood to pace, because pacing was something he did really well these days. "Stop. Stop apologizing. It's my fault, Gwaine, and it does matter. I didn't tell you because I am an idiot and a fool and I was scared and I didn't want you to have to decide between loyalty to me and loyalty to Arthur, and now I've broken everything. Arthur is dead and it's my fault because I couldn't save him, and you're hurt and I don't know what to do. I can't, Gwaine, alright? I can't do—I can't do anything right, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm selfish and I'm sorry I didn't tell you and please, please stop blaming yourself, because if there's any one person worthy of my trust in the whole world, it's you," he said in a desperate explosion of temper with himself, and the world, and everything in it (but mostly himself). And then he stood there where he'd stopped by his chair and let his knees buckle so he was again sitting, head cradled in his hands and his elbows on his knees. He buried his fingers in his hair and tried to regain some sort of composure, which was an absolutely lost cause. Any hard-won composure he'd found was completely gone, and he couldn't hardly even see the floor for crying. "I-I'm s-sorry," he choked out.
Gwaine was stunned, for a moment, for through the fog of fever and defeat, some of that got through, and maybe some of it he could believe. "Merlin." Gwaine said. He was trying to make his voice sound hard and demanding, but he wasn't sure it came across like that. But still, Merlin looked up, his voice tracked with tears. "C'mere."
Merlin looked at him a bit puzzled perhaps, but the nice thing about being on your deathbed was that people were generally eager to give you whatever you wanted, so Merlin scooted forward in his chair. "I'm here, Gwaine."
Gwaine shook his head and opened his arms out to either side, and though Merlin hesitated, Gwaine did not close them until Merlin was practically fallen across him, sobbing into his shoulder.
"You're not selfish," Gwaine mused, laying his hand on the back of Merlin's neck. "You're incredibly selfless, most selfless man I ever knew. No one gives more than you do." He took a steadying breath, because he'd more or less prepared this speech since—well, he couldn't pinpoint it, exactly, but over the past few years Merlin had become more distant, more driven by some invisible power, and his decisions were obviously addled, and it had worried him. He should have spoken sooner. Now he was going to get it out if it killed him. "But the big things started overshadowed the little things, when they're important, too. It's like you got this—destiny, and you wanted to carry it on your own, and maybe you could've, but only if you put it first, before you, before your friends, before everything. And God love you, Merlin, it's only ended up fucking us in the end, anyway."
Merlin sat up and looked miserably at his friend. Gwaine didn't need to tell him how bad destiny had fucked them all over. He decided if there was any consolation, he didn't have a destiny anymore. That was all gone. He closed his eyes, very carefully did not let himself start sobbing again, because at some point it just became more tiring, and it wasn't helping anything anyway, and he was beginning to get a headache behind his eyes. "I know," he said miserably. "I didn't mean to put it before everything. I just thought... I thought I could stop—" he said, and ran a hand through his hair, which was looking more frazzled and wild the more he repeated this nervous motion, "stop all... this. And it didn't work." He was quiet for several breaths, and then he snorted. "Destiny," he said bitterly, "is, I think, a really cruel trick. Nothing else."
"I mean," Gwaine choked, shaking his head and grasping at Merlin's hand. A whole hell of a lot of good this speech was doing now. Gwaine had meant it to be comforting, a lesson, a paradigm shift for the better, but it sounded wrong out the other end, and Merlin's feelings were hurt and now Gwaine was gasping a little, and he felt hot and confused and maybe he didn't remember what he was talking about when he started, but this was important, this he would never forget, not if he lived a thousand years. It was a lesson he'd learned, but maybe Merlin never had: "I meant I wanted to help, with destiny, with whatever. I wish you'd have let me. You were the one that taught me that a good friend by your side is stronger than destiny, than everything. Only I don't think you ever realized it yourself. Friends are important, and you're important, Merlin. Don't forget that," he wheezed, the relentless tightness in his chest making it hard to keep talking, and he slumped back reluctantly, not sure if he'd got through to Merlin or not. "Anyway, thanks for teaching me that."
This sounded suspiciously like a goodbye. "No, no, no, no, Gwaine," Merlin said, getting to his feet and leaning over Gwaine as his eyelids fluttered. "Gwaine, don't talk like that. You can't talk to me about friendship and then go and d—" he couldn't say it, too choked with emotion, and clapped his hands to his face like he always did when he was too upset to deal with it. "I've already lost Arthur, I can't lose you too," he said, because that really would break him, he was absolutely certain, beyond all hope of repair. He looked around the room, as if expecting some solution to present itself. There had to be something he could do. Anything.
Gwaine's chest tightened. Leaving had never really bothered him for most of his life: he left towns, women, bars, and companions so regularly there was never any pain at the parting. But now it ached. It wasn't even the ordinary fear-of-death pain, no, he was honestly welcoming that. But leaving Merlin, his first real friend, that wasn't fair. And leaving Percival, who needed him, that wasn't fair, either. And because Gwaine was so used to giving Merlin whatever he wanted, being unable to like this was hard. He swallowed, and reached to pat Merlin's knee, because Merlin wasn't looking at him. "You'll get on," he said. "You will. You've got a kingdom to look after. Anyway, I'm easy to get over," he said, forcing a wry smile. He only ever guessed he was easy to get over, because he never stuck around long enough. Speaking of leaving—
"No, Gwen has a kingdom to look after. I'm not good at looking after kingdoms," Merlin said, growling slightly out of sheer frustration. He looked down at Gwaine and closed his eyes for a second. "I will get on if I have to, because I have to, but... I don't want to," he said miserably, looking at his friend as if the man might have some solution.
"Mer—lin," Gwaine gasped, but now he couldn't see and—and—now he had forgotten what he wanted to—but—"don't," he said, coughed, and was still. Gwaine's eyes blinked dully up at Merlin, and the warlock knew he'd lost the knight to fever-sleep again. He realized he was putting a lot of pressure on Gwaine. He was sick, and being sick wasn't something he could help. If someone was going to find a solution to this, it had to be him. He just wasn't sure how.
...
AN: The most important chapter for me, because Merlin had some answering to do for how he treated Gwaine in the latter seasons (especially the fifth). And rather than just continuing to hate him, I thought I'd give him a chance to explain. Too bad Gwaine's still too out of it to get it. Thanks to Caitydid for co-authoring this chapter.