leashy_bebes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
leashy_bebes) wrote2012-04-09 08:22 pm
leashy_bebes) wrote2012-04-09 08:22 pm
Entry tags:
fic: Stumble Into Faith (1/1)
Title: Stumble Into Faith
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Rating: R
Summary: Set in S1. Arthur returns from a deadly mission, and Merlin is concerned.
Notes: About a million years ago,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nuclearsugars asked for vein kink. She got 5k of feelings, with a dash of vein kink. I'M SORRY OK. Lots of feelings. Thanks to ella_bane for the beta.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing, etc etc.
Wordcount: ~4500
Or read here @ ao3
News travels like wildfire among the servants of Camelot. Merlin sometimes thinks that the intrigues of the court are nothing compared to those of the serving quarters. Merlin's all the way down by the kitchen, hoping to cadge a pastry, when he hears the first whispers. The prince is returning.
Arthur has only been gone a few days, a pack of bandits roaming the countryside causing enough complaints for Uther to send his son – or for Arthur to demand to be sent, Merlin isn't sure – and a few knights to deal with them. Merlin is used to going with him on any kind of mission like this, but he'd been just sick enough to scowl at Arthur and evidently cut such a pitiful figure that he was left behind. He always expects that he'll relish time away from skivvying for Arthur, and he always enjoys it far less than he'd imagined.
Merlin makes it to the courtyard in time for his heart to sink. Only Arthur and Sir Kay have returned, leading three riderless horses behind them. They exchange curt words together and when Arthur dismounts, he does so with his right arm held stiffly at his side. Merlin carefully doesn't run to him, because that is far from being his place. Instead he makes his way down the steps as sedately as he can, his eyes frantically scanning Arthur's body for any more signs of injury.
When he reaches Arthur and Sir Kay, they are still talking in low voices, ignorant of the stable boys leading the horses away. Merlin hovers nervously for a moment, not sure whether Arthur's aware of his presence or not. That question is answered when Arthur undoes his sword belt and hands it to Merlin, without even looking at him.
"Would you like me to speak to the king?" Kay asks, and Arthur shakes his head sharply.
"That falls to me, Kay."
Sir Kay nods, and makes an aborted movement, as though he had been on the verge of clapping Arthur on the shoulder.
"Go on," Arthur tells him. "Take some rest."
"Sire."
Sir Kay bows to Arthur, and gives Merlin a fleeting look. Merlin thinks there's something to be interpreted in that look, but he is too slow, and Kay has disappeared into the castle before Merlin can come up with a way to ask. Arthur turns to Merlin and shoves his dirtied hair from his eyes, a little awkward when using his left hand for unfamiliar tasks.
"I need to speak with my father. Draw me a hot bath, and bring some food to my chambers."
Merlin nods. "Alright. Arthur, the others – "
"Not now, Merlin," Arthur snaps and he turns, stalking off inside. His posture is awkward, his gait not the usual comfortable swagger of a man utterly in command of his own body. It's so unfamiliar, so unlike Arthur, that Merlin feels an uneasy coldness settle in the pit of his stomach.
He hadn't even thought to be worried, Merlin thinks guiltily as he hastens to follow Arthur's instructions. Just some bandits, certainly nothing that Arthur and a handful of knights would struggle to deal with. Stupid, stupid, Merlin tells himself. Arthur attracts trouble wherever he goes, and the world is dangerous, the world will conspire to take him from Merlin at every turn, shattering the future they're meant to build together before it's even underway.
***
Their shared destiny is on his mind constantly, as he intermittently reheats Arthur's bathwater and waits for him to return from speaking with the King. The thing about destiny is that it should just be a matter of keeping Arthur in one piece long enough to unite Albion. It shouldn't matter so much that Arthur's eyes before were dark, focused on something in the middle distance. King Arthur probably won't need to be a happy man to do the things he was born for, so it shouldn't matter when Prince Arthur looks like that, looks pale and even haunted in his own muted way. None of it should matter nearly as much as it does.
Because Arthur is still a prat, Merlin is under no illusions there. It's only that he's not just a prat. There are the moments of brilliance, moments of justice and determination and honour, when the king that Arthur will be shines through so brightly it stings. And then there are other times, when he's not a prat, and he's not so noble it hurts to look at him. Times when he's just a man, just Arthur, and he has been good to Merlin – in between making him muck out the stables and clean complicated bits of armour. There is just...something about him, as Arthur himself would say.
Whatever it is, that unidentifiable something, it means that Merlin has come to hate that distant, cold look on Arthur. It's as though he finds a way to retreat back from himself, to wrap himself in layers of ice and look out on the world through it. Sometimes Arthur feels so far away, from Merlin and from everyone else. He's made separate by virtue of his title, and at times it seems to weigh so heavily on him. Losing men, as he obviously has, only makes it worse.
Sighing, Merlin warms the water again, wondering what is keeping Arthur so long with his father. He's already built up the fire, seen to Arthur's sword, and laid out fresh clothes, so he can think of nothing to do beyond curling up on the rug in front of the fire, his knees pulled up to his chin.
He's not sure how much time passes before the door opens, but it is fully dark outside. Merlin scrambles to his feet and Arthur just nods, kicks the door shut behind himself, and waits. When Merlin gets closer, the softly flickering firelight is not enough to disguise the expression on Arthur's face. Worrying his lower lip between his teeth, Merlin begins the familiar motions of divesting Arthur of the chainmail he's still wearing.
"You're hurt," he says quietly, when Arthur doesn't respond to his actions, or even really acknowledge him.
Arthur shrugs, one shoulder stiff. "It's nothing."
"Arthur – "
"Merlin, I'm not a child."
The room is very quiet, and Arthur's words almost echo. The little tremor in his voice would be imperceptible otherwise. Merlin very determinedly doesn't raise his eyes from the chainmail.
"Can you lift your arm?"
"Of course I can."
And Arthur does, too quickly to avoid a wince, a hiss of breath through his teeth. Merlin lifts the metal shirt carefully, sliding it up and away, setting it on the table. Arthur starts to lower his arms, but Merlin says, "Wait."
Arthur looks at him for the first time, a quirk of surprise on his face.
"I'd rather not aggravate it more than necessary," Merlin says, because he's determined that if Arthur's going to ignore his injury, he will be the only one that does so. Sure enough, Arthur rolls his eyes, but doesn't object otherwise, and Merlin is as quick as he can be with the laces on Arthur's tunic, stripping it off and adding it to the chainmail.
When Merlin turns back, Arthur has lowered his arms and is rolling his right shoulder tentatively. Merlin's eyes widen at the obvious bruising on Arthur's skin, the way his left arm curls across his torso to brace his right. He's seen Arthur with far worse injuries, so he can't quite say what it is about this one that strikes him so hard.
"Do you need – " Merlin starts and Arthur shakes his head sharply.
"I'm no more an invalid than I am an infant."
Merlin pauses for a long moment and then wets his lips tentatively. "The other knights – "
"People die, Merlin."
The words fall neatly into the silence, and for a long moment Merlin doesn't know what to say. "Yes," he agrees eventually. "It's not your fault."
Arthur stares over Merlin's shoulder as he says, "That is a matter of debate."
"Not – "
"Merlin. If I had fought better yesterday, or taught them better over the years, they would be alive now."
Merlin pauses, and then opens his mouth to reply. He's not sure what he intends to say – possibly a comment on the ridiculously rigid way Arthur sees the world at times – but before he gets the chance to find out, Arthur waves him away.
"You may leave."
"But – "
"Now, Merlin."
***
Merlin is halfway back down to Gaius's rooms when he makes his decision. There are times – no matter how much he'd protest – when Arthur really shouldn't be left to his own devices. Without sufficient distraction, he's quite likely to have the same effect on his chambers as a whirlwind would. But sometimes when he's like this, quiet and thoughtful, Arthur will take all of the righteous anger and incisive judgment that drives him and turn it inward. He sits alone, keeping his own counsel, and getting tangled up inside his own mind. Merlin can't stand it, and not only because Arthur's foul moods usually lead to Merlin in the stocks, or polishing every sword in the armoury. The even more pathetic truth is that he just doesn't like seeing Arthur sad.
When he gets back, Gaius is still out upon his rounds. Merlin grins and makes his way to one of the many shelves bearing bottles and vials of potions and salves. The room's dark and he hastily conjures enough light to read by, squinting at Gaius's spidery handwriting. Finally finding a likely looking jar containing a thick paste, Merlin tucks it into a pocket and heads out again, pulling the door carefully shut behind him.
There's every possibility that Arthur will just toss Merlin and his salve and his good intentions back out into the corridor, but Merlin supposes he at least has to try. It's his job. Or his destiny. Or maybe both. Sometimes life is tidy like that.
At Arthur's door, Merlin knocks but doesn't wait, slipping into the room and pushing the door shut behind him as quietly as he can. Arthur is still in the tub in front of the fire, his back to the door, the wet tips of his hair dripping onto his shoulders. The firelight is red and ruddy on Arthur's arms where they're draped along the sides of the tub, and the flickering flames hide all the bruises, the scratches and the occasional deeper cut Merlin had noticed earlier. For a long moment Merlin thinks Arthur has fallen asleep in the bath, and he crosses the room on soft feet, getting close before Arthur shifts, water sloshing as he turns to look at Merlin.
"What are you doing back here?"
"I got – Gaius gave me something for your arm." Not quite a lie, Merlin thinks.
"I keep telling you, I'm not – "
"Arthur, please," Merlin says.
Merlin's not sure what it is, but something about the tone of his voice makes Arthur roll his eyes and give in.
"Oh, fine."
There's a splash as Arthur ducks underneath the water and comes up again, water sluicing down his face and chest. Merlin sets the salve down on the table and diligently doesn't look at Arthur until he says, "Pass me a bath sheet, would you?"
Then Merlin keeps his eyes strictly on Arthur's face as he holds the sheet ready, looking away over Arthur's shoulder as he hands it over. Arthur takes the sheet without comment, and as he walks away Merlin notices that the plate of food on the table is largely untouched.
"You should eat," he suggests, and Arthur looks at him around the side of the screen, where he's changing into the clothes Merlin laid out earlier.
"There's rather a lot there," Arthur points out reasonably, his voice briefly muffled as he pulls the tunic over his head. "Angling for an invitation to join me?"
"Maybe," Merlin says, forcing a laugh because, no, but I don't know how else to show you that I'm sorry that losing friends is the reality of your life, and that I'm sorry you blame yourself, would definitely get him thrown out.
"Go on then," Arthur scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Since you were so subtle about it."
Merlin nods, sitting at the table and watching Arthur emerge from the screen, clothes still clinging to his damp skin, scrubbing a corner of the bath sheet roughly through his hair. He drops it on the floor and falls into the seat opposite Merlin with a sigh, reaching for a piece of bread.
They eat in silence, and while Merlin is not usually above cadging Arthur's food, he doesn't eat much. Instead he watches Arthur. He's unusually quiet, his shoulders slightly hunched as he picks at his food. Merlin keeps getting ready to say something, to offer some kind of comfort, but Arthur doesn't look like he's in one of those rare moods when he'll accept such a gesture without complaint.
"Well," Arthur says eventually, before Merlin has managed to come up with a way to broach the subject. "What bloody awful concoction does Gaius want me to ingest this time? I'm sure half of them are just very poor jokes on his part."
Merlin, who's thought the same thing on occasion, just grins. "No ingesting," he promises. "It's just a salve. I don't even think there's any toad paste."
Arthur raises one eyebrow, his lip curling in a perfect moue of disgust. "Toad..."
"Yeah, you take – You know what? Never mind. There isn't any in here."
"Better not be," Arthur says, leaning back in his chair and looking at Merlin expectantly. "Well?
"Hmm?"
"Where is it? I'll apply it later."
"No you won't," Merlin says smartly.
Arthur blinks. "What?" Sometimes he still looks faintly surprised at the way Merlin talks to him.
"You'll forget," Merlin explains patiently, "And in the morning you'll wake up sore and obviously that'll somehow be my fault, and you'll find all sorts of interesting new ways to make my life hell."
Arthur actually looks amused for half a moment before he shrugs. "Alright, then. You do it."
"What?"
Bugger. Merlin hadn't thought of that. This is the problem with his tendency to do things on a whim – it can lead to unexpected outcomes. Like, apparently, having to apply a pain relieving salve to Arthur's wounded shoulder. It shouldn't be a problem, but Merlin can't lie to himself; it really, really is one. It simply isn't fair that Arthur can sometimes be every bit as wonderful as he is infuriating. It's even less fair that Arthur is clearly still tying himself up in knots over the loss of his men, and all Merlin can think is that he is going to have to put his hands on Arthur's stupidly attractive skin.
He doesn't feel even a little bit like a good person as he says, "Alright. You'll have to take off your shirt and lie down."
Arthur nods and wipes his hands on the napkin, getting to his feet and turning towards the bed. Merlin starts tidying the table, mainly so he doesn't have to watch Arthur remove his tunic. I can do this, Merlin thinks determinedly. This is a matter of his health. Tending an injury. I can do this.
Still, he lingers at the table for a long moment, tidying away the plates and leftover food. When he turns back again, Arthur has already managed to shed his tunic, the long soak in hot water obviously having lessened the ache at least a little. Merlin looks away as Arthur awkwardly shuffles out of the loose breeches he'd pulled on earlier, probably unwilling to have to wrestle out of them later. When Merlin looks back Arthur is face down on the bed, sheets kicked down to his hips, a hastily bundled blanket tucked under his injured shoulder. Merlin shakes himself and takes a few steps forward and all that does is make it worse because Arthur is so...he is so annoyingly bloody attractive, and this is a completely inappropriate time for Merlin to notice.
Merlin's even on the verge of taking a detour to build up the fire, on the flimsy premise that Arthur should stay warm. Then Arthur coughs significantly and shifts on the bed.
"Where are you, idiot?"
"Tidying up after you," Merlin says smartly. "As usual."
Arthur gives a snort that might be laughter, or might be derision, or might mean you should be grateful for the honour of tidying up after me. Either way, it's familiar enough that Merlin is able to relax and approach the bed. Arthur is lying dead centre in the large bed, his injured arm held out to one side, the other tucked under his head, and he's looking away from Merlin, off towards the window. The injury looks even worse now that all the grime and dried blood has been rinsed away from Arthur's soft skin. His whole shoulder blade seems swollen, and there is a truly magnificent bruise already starting to form. Merlin hisses sympathetically, fishing the salve from his pocket. He drops it onto the bed by Arthur's side, quickly rolling up his sleeves.
Then there's nothing else for it so he shuffles onto the bed on his knees, settling back on his heels. Arthur doesn't move or comment, so Merlin uncaps the salve and dips one finger into it, rubbing it against his thumb. It smells of mint and lavender, and the creamy mixture warms against his skin. With wary fingertips, Merlin paints a thick stripe of the salve over Arthur's shoulder blade. Arthur doesn't say anything, barely reacts at all, other than turning his face further into the crook of his arm. Merlin spreads the cream about carefully, and after a moment Arthur gives a soft sigh.
"Harder, Merlin," Arthur says, and Merlin is suddenly so, so glad that Arthur's face is turned away from him, his eyes closed, because Merlin's fairly sure he's blushing furiously at the request. Certainly he feels hotter than he did, and he trips over his words.
"There's – it's really badly bruised, Arthur. I don't want to hurt you."
"Merlin, these remedies work best when you stimulate the circulation. "
"O...kay..."
"And to do that," Arthur says, unusually patient, "You need to press harder."
Merlin nods, before realising Arthur can't see him and then clears his throat and says, "Alright."
This time he sets both palms to Arthur's shoulder blade, kneads carefully with the heels of his hands. Arthur lets out a long sigh and Merlin bites back on a smile. As he presses against the tightly knotted muscles, he can feel Arthur slowly relaxing, the tensions and frustrations and inexpressible grief of the last few days leaching out of him.
The room is silent apart from the crackling of the fire and the soft noises the salve makes as he works it into Arthur's sore muscles. Merlin finds it worryingly easy to lose himself in the motions, in testing the resistance of Arthur's muscles, the pressure it takes to make his breathing hitch. Merlin's fingers dip into the pot for more salve every now and then but apart from that he works silently, without pause. The skin beyond the swelling is cooler when Merlin's fingers accidentally brush over it, and the scab at the centre of the bruising is rough, although it softens quickly under the salve. Merlin can't help thinking of the corresponding dent in Arthur's armour that he'll have to take care of later. Still, he doesn't hurry along, only stopping when Arthur shifts under his hands and clears his throat.
"Enough?" Merlin asks, and Arthur nods into his arm.
"I should think so," he says.
"Alright," Merlin says. "Turn over?"
Arthur nods and pushes himself up with his good arm, sitting up, careful not to lean his salve-smeared back against the bedding, the covers piled in his lap. He still has that tired, aged look in his eyes even though he's moving a little more freely, turning to the side so that Merlin doesn't have to climb across him to get to his injured arm.
"Merlin?" Arthur asks, and Merlin realises he's been caught looking at Arthur, lost in wondering how to take that look off Arthur's face.
Merlin shakes himself and smiles, hoping it looks more genuine than it feels. "Sorry. Right. Yes."
Arthur frowns. "Are you sure you're recovered from your illness? You look even more gormless than usual."
"No. I mean yes, I'm fine."
Arthur looks at him a bit dubiously, but just rolls his eyes and shrugs. "Right. Get on with it, then. I would like to get to sleep at some point tonight."
Merlin means to give some sarcastic answer, but what comes out of his mouth instead, the words tangling together, is, "I think you're a good man. A good leader."
Arthur's eyebrows twitch in surprise and Merlin ducks his head, feeling like an idiot. As if Arthur actually cares what he thinks. This is the moment where Arthur will point out in no uncertain terms that as a servant, Merlin's opinion really doesn't matter.
"I – right. Okay," Merlin says, reaching for the salve again, hoping they can just pretend he never opened his stupid mouth.
Arthur clears his throat awkwardly and says, of all things, "Thank you."
Merlin smiles at him and some of the tension in the room dissipates. He shifts to sit cross-legged at Arthur's side and reaches for his arm. Arthur extends it more easily than before and Merlin looks at the salve with a new respect. As he watches, Arthur tests the movement of his arm, looking almost surprised.
"Better?" Merlin asks, and Arthur nods. "Alright," Merlin says into the quiet of the room, scooping out more of the salve and laying it thickly across Arthur's shoulder and chest, trying very hard not to think. Before too long, the salve has mostly soaked into Arthur's skin, and it's probably time for Merlin to leave. But the tension is still leaching out of Arthur, so slowly, and Merlin doesn't want to just leave, when maybe he could help.
With only a little more salve, Merlin traces his fingers down from Arthur's shoulder, along the slight swell of his upper arm and lower, into the crook of his elbow. From there, he moves down, one finger tracing the pale blue line of Arthur's vein, down to the incongruously delicate shape of his wrist. Merlin's heart is in his throat, expecting that Arthur will shake him off any minute with a frustrated, it doesn't hurt there, idiot. Instead Arthur keeps his silence and Merlin repeats the movement again, his fingers curling around Arthur's wrist for a moment.
It's strange to think that the blood of kings runs in those veins. Will always said that nobility was just an accident of birth, and Merlin's sometimes wondered what Arthur would be like if he was a farmer, or a blacksmith or a peasant, anything other than a king-in-waiting. He'd be the same, is the conclusion Merlin usually draws. He'd be just the same mix of infuriating and wonderful as he is now. He'd probably go on to do all the same things the dragon swears he's destined for, just through the sheer force of his will and arrogance.
Merlin realises with a jolt that he still has Arthur's wrist held lightly in his hand. He can feel the pulse thrumming there, a flutter under Arthur's skin. With the blunt tip of one fingernail, Merlin traces the meandering path of a blood vessel from the ball of Arthur's thumb, through the web at his wrist, to the larger, stronger vein running the length of his arm.
Arthur swallows before he speaks, so his voice isn't unexpected. The hoarseness of it, however...
"What are you doing?"
"I can stop?" Merlin suggests. He risks a glance up to where Arthur has leaned back against the pillows. His eyes are dark all over again, but in a different way this time, and as Merlin watches, he shakes his head in a rough, jerky motion. Merlin swallows dryly and almost freezes but catches himself at the last moment. There's still a sheen of the salve on Arthur's shoulder and Merlin runs his palm across it before sliding down to cradle Arthur's bicep, the warmth of the salve acting quickly, heating the cool skin.
He wraps both hands around Arthur's upper arm and slides them down, slowly, until he's at Arthur's wrist again. There's only a tiny amount of the salve left on his hands, but he works his fingers between Arthur's, sliding and twisting and eventually stopping altogether. Merlin sits very, very still, and wonders how long he has before Arthur realises they are essentially holding hands.
It's not long before Arthur takes an audible breath. Merlin can imagine him pulling his hand away, turning Merlin out of his chambers, and never speaking of this again.
No, Merlin thinks abruptly. No.
He tightens his hold on Arthur's hand and lifts it to his mouth, pressing his lips to Arthur's wrist, where the skin is warm and thin, hot with the blood beneath, and he dares a glance up at Arthur, who is watching him through wide, wary eyes. He doesn't say anything, though, doesn't protest or laugh, nothing. So Merlin parts his lips against the fine skin below his mouth, allows his tongue the indulgence of a flicker against Arthur's pulse. He tastes of bathwater and the healing salve, warm and clean, even familiar underneath it all.
He says, "Merlin," in a cracked, helpless voice, and his fingers clutch at Merlin's.
Merlin drops kisses along the length of Arthur's vein, to the crook of his elbow where he stays for a moment, savouring the warmth beneath his mouth. Then Arthur abruptly shifts, leaving Merlin no real choice but to look up at him. The expression on Arthur's face is one Merlin has seen before, but only ever in fleeting glances, checked as soon as Arthur catches himself. It's a look like Arthur doesn't know whether to be annoyed or endeared by something Merlin's done. It's a feeling Merlin's familiar with and he can't help smiling.
That seems to do it for Arthur and he cups his free hand around the back of Merlin's neck, pulling him into a kiss that is more gentle than Merlin would have expected. Arthur's lips are warm and soft, moving slowly for a moment until he stops.
"It's okay," Merlin says, not quite sure which 'it' he means. "You're okay, I want – "
Arthur says his name once more, then pulls him into a kiss that's much more like the ones Merlin has allowed himself to imagine, late at night, touching himself and thinking, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. This kiss is deeper, possessing, Arthur's lips warm and soft. His fingers slip through Merlin's hair, trailing over the back of his neck, but the other still clutches his hand, the angle awkward between them as Arthur leans closer.
Arthur's the one who's been through an ordeal, but Merlin's the one who can't loosen his grip on Arthur's hand, can't stop glancing at his face, checking to see if he's really there. Sometimes Arthur's life feels like the biggest responsibility Merlin will ever know.
"I'm glad you're home," he whispers. And I'm sorry they're not, of course I am, but I'm so, so glad you are.
Arthur kisses him again, his lips, the flush on his cheeks, the soft skin under his eyes and it's real, he's here, and Merlin only just bites his tongue in time to stop himself telling Arthur that he is never allowed to go anywhere without Merlin again, not ever. When Merlin kisses the side of Arthur's throat, he can taste the salve on his lips, faintly astringent. Some boldness overcomes him and he moves closer, trying to push Arthur further down into the pillows. For once, Arthur is agreeable, watching Merlin with bright, intent eyes.
"Let me," Merlin says, kissing Arthur's mouth, his collarbone, his chest. "Let me do this for you."
Arthur's hand closes on his shoulder like a vice, stopping him from going any further.
"Don't be absurd," he says, pulling Merlin up to eye level with ease and glaring at him. "If you're doing this out of some misplaced sense of pity, then the stocks will be the least of your worries."
"No!" Merlin protests. "No. Of course not."
"Well, then," Arthur says, pulling him down into another kiss. They end up in a messy kind of sprawl, Arthur half upright against the pillows and Merlin straddling his hips. Merlin's sharply aware that Arthur is naked under the sheets, hardening from the way Merlin's hips are twitching, unable to hold still as Arthur yanks at his tunic and tosses it aside. That done, he uses his good arm to drag Merlin into another kiss.
Merlin cradles Arthur's face in his hands, feeling like he has something precious and delicate between his palms. He knows saying that would earn him, at the very least, a lot of extra work, so Merlin just kisses Arthur again, surprised at how quickly this has turned into liquid heat in his veins, a kind of magic that is not magic. He rolls his hips and Arthur groans into his mouth. Merlin could become addicted to that sensation very quickly, so he does it again, and again, until Arthur takes hold of his hips and keeps him still. He lifts his head to kiss Merlin again.
When Arthur's hand finds its way under Merlin's shirt, warm and confident, Merlin shakes against him, presses his face to Arthur's neck, turning, seeking until the strong pulse beats against his lips in a constant reassuring thrum, regular and hot and vital. Merlin has wondered what Arthur might be like in these moments, and he is savagely glad to realise Arthur is just as eager and unstudied as any other young man.
Merlin grinds himself down against Arthur without a thought for anything but this moment. Arthur's kisses have turned clumsy now, brief, burning things that find Merlin's chin or cheek as often as his mouth. When Arthur comes first, soaking the sheet between them, Merlin freezes for a moment, unsure what to do. A contented rumble issues from Arthur's chest, too cat-like for Merlin not to think about teasing him. Later, though, because right then, Arthur stretches underneath him.
"Don't be a martyr, Merlin," Arthur tells him.
A laugh bubbles out of Merlin's mouth before Arthur seals it in with a kiss, his hands under Merlin's shirt again, a palm on either side of his spine, guiding him. It doesn't take long – of course it doesn't, how could it, with Arthur hot and glorious beneath him? – before Merlin judders to a halt, his pulse roaring in his ears and his throat tense as he spends himself.
He comes back to himself with his fingers still tangled in Arthur's hair. After a heady, breathless moment, Merlin stands on shaky legs. He ignores the spreading stickiness in his breeches and steps over to Arthur's abandoned bath. He soaks a cloth in the now cool water and wrings it out. He can feel Arthur watching him. He deliberately keeps his back turned until he has finished wondering if Arthur will want to pretend this never happened. Merlin hitches his mouth into a smile and pads back over to the bed, meaning to pass the cloth to Arthur. Before he can, Arthur catches hold of his wrist. He rubs his thumb over Merlin's pulse a few times, looking like he's struggling with something.
"Arthur – "
Arthur silences him with a look. Then he says, very carefully and deliberately, "I am glad I have you to come home to, Merlin."
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Rating: R
Summary: Set in S1. Arthur returns from a deadly mission, and Merlin is concerned.
Notes: About a million years ago,
nuclearsugars asked for vein kink. She got 5k of feelings, with a dash of vein kink. I'M SORRY OK. Lots of feelings. Thanks to ella_bane for the beta.Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing, etc etc.
Wordcount: ~4500
Or read here @ ao3
News travels like wildfire among the servants of Camelot. Merlin sometimes thinks that the intrigues of the court are nothing compared to those of the serving quarters. Merlin's all the way down by the kitchen, hoping to cadge a pastry, when he hears the first whispers. The prince is returning.
Arthur has only been gone a few days, a pack of bandits roaming the countryside causing enough complaints for Uther to send his son – or for Arthur to demand to be sent, Merlin isn't sure – and a few knights to deal with them. Merlin is used to going with him on any kind of mission like this, but he'd been just sick enough to scowl at Arthur and evidently cut such a pitiful figure that he was left behind. He always expects that he'll relish time away from skivvying for Arthur, and he always enjoys it far less than he'd imagined.
Merlin makes it to the courtyard in time for his heart to sink. Only Arthur and Sir Kay have returned, leading three riderless horses behind them. They exchange curt words together and when Arthur dismounts, he does so with his right arm held stiffly at his side. Merlin carefully doesn't run to him, because that is far from being his place. Instead he makes his way down the steps as sedately as he can, his eyes frantically scanning Arthur's body for any more signs of injury.
When he reaches Arthur and Sir Kay, they are still talking in low voices, ignorant of the stable boys leading the horses away. Merlin hovers nervously for a moment, not sure whether Arthur's aware of his presence or not. That question is answered when Arthur undoes his sword belt and hands it to Merlin, without even looking at him.
"Would you like me to speak to the king?" Kay asks, and Arthur shakes his head sharply.
"That falls to me, Kay."
Sir Kay nods, and makes an aborted movement, as though he had been on the verge of clapping Arthur on the shoulder.
"Go on," Arthur tells him. "Take some rest."
"Sire."
Sir Kay bows to Arthur, and gives Merlin a fleeting look. Merlin thinks there's something to be interpreted in that look, but he is too slow, and Kay has disappeared into the castle before Merlin can come up with a way to ask. Arthur turns to Merlin and shoves his dirtied hair from his eyes, a little awkward when using his left hand for unfamiliar tasks.
"I need to speak with my father. Draw me a hot bath, and bring some food to my chambers."
Merlin nods. "Alright. Arthur, the others – "
"Not now, Merlin," Arthur snaps and he turns, stalking off inside. His posture is awkward, his gait not the usual comfortable swagger of a man utterly in command of his own body. It's so unfamiliar, so unlike Arthur, that Merlin feels an uneasy coldness settle in the pit of his stomach.
He hadn't even thought to be worried, Merlin thinks guiltily as he hastens to follow Arthur's instructions. Just some bandits, certainly nothing that Arthur and a handful of knights would struggle to deal with. Stupid, stupid, Merlin tells himself. Arthur attracts trouble wherever he goes, and the world is dangerous, the world will conspire to take him from Merlin at every turn, shattering the future they're meant to build together before it's even underway.
***
Their shared destiny is on his mind constantly, as he intermittently reheats Arthur's bathwater and waits for him to return from speaking with the King. The thing about destiny is that it should just be a matter of keeping Arthur in one piece long enough to unite Albion. It shouldn't matter so much that Arthur's eyes before were dark, focused on something in the middle distance. King Arthur probably won't need to be a happy man to do the things he was born for, so it shouldn't matter when Prince Arthur looks like that, looks pale and even haunted in his own muted way. None of it should matter nearly as much as it does.
Because Arthur is still a prat, Merlin is under no illusions there. It's only that he's not just a prat. There are the moments of brilliance, moments of justice and determination and honour, when the king that Arthur will be shines through so brightly it stings. And then there are other times, when he's not a prat, and he's not so noble it hurts to look at him. Times when he's just a man, just Arthur, and he has been good to Merlin – in between making him muck out the stables and clean complicated bits of armour. There is just...something about him, as Arthur himself would say.
Whatever it is, that unidentifiable something, it means that Merlin has come to hate that distant, cold look on Arthur. It's as though he finds a way to retreat back from himself, to wrap himself in layers of ice and look out on the world through it. Sometimes Arthur feels so far away, from Merlin and from everyone else. He's made separate by virtue of his title, and at times it seems to weigh so heavily on him. Losing men, as he obviously has, only makes it worse.
Sighing, Merlin warms the water again, wondering what is keeping Arthur so long with his father. He's already built up the fire, seen to Arthur's sword, and laid out fresh clothes, so he can think of nothing to do beyond curling up on the rug in front of the fire, his knees pulled up to his chin.
He's not sure how much time passes before the door opens, but it is fully dark outside. Merlin scrambles to his feet and Arthur just nods, kicks the door shut behind himself, and waits. When Merlin gets closer, the softly flickering firelight is not enough to disguise the expression on Arthur's face. Worrying his lower lip between his teeth, Merlin begins the familiar motions of divesting Arthur of the chainmail he's still wearing.
"You're hurt," he says quietly, when Arthur doesn't respond to his actions, or even really acknowledge him.
Arthur shrugs, one shoulder stiff. "It's nothing."
"Arthur – "
"Merlin, I'm not a child."
The room is very quiet, and Arthur's words almost echo. The little tremor in his voice would be imperceptible otherwise. Merlin very determinedly doesn't raise his eyes from the chainmail.
"Can you lift your arm?"
"Of course I can."
And Arthur does, too quickly to avoid a wince, a hiss of breath through his teeth. Merlin lifts the metal shirt carefully, sliding it up and away, setting it on the table. Arthur starts to lower his arms, but Merlin says, "Wait."
Arthur looks at him for the first time, a quirk of surprise on his face.
"I'd rather not aggravate it more than necessary," Merlin says, because he's determined that if Arthur's going to ignore his injury, he will be the only one that does so. Sure enough, Arthur rolls his eyes, but doesn't object otherwise, and Merlin is as quick as he can be with the laces on Arthur's tunic, stripping it off and adding it to the chainmail.
When Merlin turns back, Arthur has lowered his arms and is rolling his right shoulder tentatively. Merlin's eyes widen at the obvious bruising on Arthur's skin, the way his left arm curls across his torso to brace his right. He's seen Arthur with far worse injuries, so he can't quite say what it is about this one that strikes him so hard.
"Do you need – " Merlin starts and Arthur shakes his head sharply.
"I'm no more an invalid than I am an infant."
Merlin pauses for a long moment and then wets his lips tentatively. "The other knights – "
"People die, Merlin."
The words fall neatly into the silence, and for a long moment Merlin doesn't know what to say. "Yes," he agrees eventually. "It's not your fault."
Arthur stares over Merlin's shoulder as he says, "That is a matter of debate."
"Not – "
"Merlin. If I had fought better yesterday, or taught them better over the years, they would be alive now."
Merlin pauses, and then opens his mouth to reply. He's not sure what he intends to say – possibly a comment on the ridiculously rigid way Arthur sees the world at times – but before he gets the chance to find out, Arthur waves him away.
"You may leave."
"But – "
"Now, Merlin."
***
Merlin is halfway back down to Gaius's rooms when he makes his decision. There are times – no matter how much he'd protest – when Arthur really shouldn't be left to his own devices. Without sufficient distraction, he's quite likely to have the same effect on his chambers as a whirlwind would. But sometimes when he's like this, quiet and thoughtful, Arthur will take all of the righteous anger and incisive judgment that drives him and turn it inward. He sits alone, keeping his own counsel, and getting tangled up inside his own mind. Merlin can't stand it, and not only because Arthur's foul moods usually lead to Merlin in the stocks, or polishing every sword in the armoury. The even more pathetic truth is that he just doesn't like seeing Arthur sad.
When he gets back, Gaius is still out upon his rounds. Merlin grins and makes his way to one of the many shelves bearing bottles and vials of potions and salves. The room's dark and he hastily conjures enough light to read by, squinting at Gaius's spidery handwriting. Finally finding a likely looking jar containing a thick paste, Merlin tucks it into a pocket and heads out again, pulling the door carefully shut behind him.
There's every possibility that Arthur will just toss Merlin and his salve and his good intentions back out into the corridor, but Merlin supposes he at least has to try. It's his job. Or his destiny. Or maybe both. Sometimes life is tidy like that.
At Arthur's door, Merlin knocks but doesn't wait, slipping into the room and pushing the door shut behind him as quietly as he can. Arthur is still in the tub in front of the fire, his back to the door, the wet tips of his hair dripping onto his shoulders. The firelight is red and ruddy on Arthur's arms where they're draped along the sides of the tub, and the flickering flames hide all the bruises, the scratches and the occasional deeper cut Merlin had noticed earlier. For a long moment Merlin thinks Arthur has fallen asleep in the bath, and he crosses the room on soft feet, getting close before Arthur shifts, water sloshing as he turns to look at Merlin.
"What are you doing back here?"
"I got – Gaius gave me something for your arm." Not quite a lie, Merlin thinks.
"I keep telling you, I'm not – "
"Arthur, please," Merlin says.
Merlin's not sure what it is, but something about the tone of his voice makes Arthur roll his eyes and give in.
"Oh, fine."
There's a splash as Arthur ducks underneath the water and comes up again, water sluicing down his face and chest. Merlin sets the salve down on the table and diligently doesn't look at Arthur until he says, "Pass me a bath sheet, would you?"
Then Merlin keeps his eyes strictly on Arthur's face as he holds the sheet ready, looking away over Arthur's shoulder as he hands it over. Arthur takes the sheet without comment, and as he walks away Merlin notices that the plate of food on the table is largely untouched.
"You should eat," he suggests, and Arthur looks at him around the side of the screen, where he's changing into the clothes Merlin laid out earlier.
"There's rather a lot there," Arthur points out reasonably, his voice briefly muffled as he pulls the tunic over his head. "Angling for an invitation to join me?"
"Maybe," Merlin says, forcing a laugh because, no, but I don't know how else to show you that I'm sorry that losing friends is the reality of your life, and that I'm sorry you blame yourself, would definitely get him thrown out.
"Go on then," Arthur scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Since you were so subtle about it."
Merlin nods, sitting at the table and watching Arthur emerge from the screen, clothes still clinging to his damp skin, scrubbing a corner of the bath sheet roughly through his hair. He drops it on the floor and falls into the seat opposite Merlin with a sigh, reaching for a piece of bread.
They eat in silence, and while Merlin is not usually above cadging Arthur's food, he doesn't eat much. Instead he watches Arthur. He's unusually quiet, his shoulders slightly hunched as he picks at his food. Merlin keeps getting ready to say something, to offer some kind of comfort, but Arthur doesn't look like he's in one of those rare moods when he'll accept such a gesture without complaint.
"Well," Arthur says eventually, before Merlin has managed to come up with a way to broach the subject. "What bloody awful concoction does Gaius want me to ingest this time? I'm sure half of them are just very poor jokes on his part."
Merlin, who's thought the same thing on occasion, just grins. "No ingesting," he promises. "It's just a salve. I don't even think there's any toad paste."
Arthur raises one eyebrow, his lip curling in a perfect moue of disgust. "Toad..."
"Yeah, you take – You know what? Never mind. There isn't any in here."
"Better not be," Arthur says, leaning back in his chair and looking at Merlin expectantly. "Well?
"Hmm?"
"Where is it? I'll apply it later."
"No you won't," Merlin says smartly.
Arthur blinks. "What?" Sometimes he still looks faintly surprised at the way Merlin talks to him.
"You'll forget," Merlin explains patiently, "And in the morning you'll wake up sore and obviously that'll somehow be my fault, and you'll find all sorts of interesting new ways to make my life hell."
Arthur actually looks amused for half a moment before he shrugs. "Alright, then. You do it."
"What?"
Bugger. Merlin hadn't thought of that. This is the problem with his tendency to do things on a whim – it can lead to unexpected outcomes. Like, apparently, having to apply a pain relieving salve to Arthur's wounded shoulder. It shouldn't be a problem, but Merlin can't lie to himself; it really, really is one. It simply isn't fair that Arthur can sometimes be every bit as wonderful as he is infuriating. It's even less fair that Arthur is clearly still tying himself up in knots over the loss of his men, and all Merlin can think is that he is going to have to put his hands on Arthur's stupidly attractive skin.
He doesn't feel even a little bit like a good person as he says, "Alright. You'll have to take off your shirt and lie down."
Arthur nods and wipes his hands on the napkin, getting to his feet and turning towards the bed. Merlin starts tidying the table, mainly so he doesn't have to watch Arthur remove his tunic. I can do this, Merlin thinks determinedly. This is a matter of his health. Tending an injury. I can do this.
Still, he lingers at the table for a long moment, tidying away the plates and leftover food. When he turns back again, Arthur has already managed to shed his tunic, the long soak in hot water obviously having lessened the ache at least a little. Merlin looks away as Arthur awkwardly shuffles out of the loose breeches he'd pulled on earlier, probably unwilling to have to wrestle out of them later. When Merlin looks back Arthur is face down on the bed, sheets kicked down to his hips, a hastily bundled blanket tucked under his injured shoulder. Merlin shakes himself and takes a few steps forward and all that does is make it worse because Arthur is so...he is so annoyingly bloody attractive, and this is a completely inappropriate time for Merlin to notice.
Merlin's even on the verge of taking a detour to build up the fire, on the flimsy premise that Arthur should stay warm. Then Arthur coughs significantly and shifts on the bed.
"Where are you, idiot?"
"Tidying up after you," Merlin says smartly. "As usual."
Arthur gives a snort that might be laughter, or might be derision, or might mean you should be grateful for the honour of tidying up after me. Either way, it's familiar enough that Merlin is able to relax and approach the bed. Arthur is lying dead centre in the large bed, his injured arm held out to one side, the other tucked under his head, and he's looking away from Merlin, off towards the window. The injury looks even worse now that all the grime and dried blood has been rinsed away from Arthur's soft skin. His whole shoulder blade seems swollen, and there is a truly magnificent bruise already starting to form. Merlin hisses sympathetically, fishing the salve from his pocket. He drops it onto the bed by Arthur's side, quickly rolling up his sleeves.
Then there's nothing else for it so he shuffles onto the bed on his knees, settling back on his heels. Arthur doesn't move or comment, so Merlin uncaps the salve and dips one finger into it, rubbing it against his thumb. It smells of mint and lavender, and the creamy mixture warms against his skin. With wary fingertips, Merlin paints a thick stripe of the salve over Arthur's shoulder blade. Arthur doesn't say anything, barely reacts at all, other than turning his face further into the crook of his arm. Merlin spreads the cream about carefully, and after a moment Arthur gives a soft sigh.
"Harder, Merlin," Arthur says, and Merlin is suddenly so, so glad that Arthur's face is turned away from him, his eyes closed, because Merlin's fairly sure he's blushing furiously at the request. Certainly he feels hotter than he did, and he trips over his words.
"There's – it's really badly bruised, Arthur. I don't want to hurt you."
"Merlin, these remedies work best when you stimulate the circulation. "
"O...kay..."
"And to do that," Arthur says, unusually patient, "You need to press harder."
Merlin nods, before realising Arthur can't see him and then clears his throat and says, "Alright."
This time he sets both palms to Arthur's shoulder blade, kneads carefully with the heels of his hands. Arthur lets out a long sigh and Merlin bites back on a smile. As he presses against the tightly knotted muscles, he can feel Arthur slowly relaxing, the tensions and frustrations and inexpressible grief of the last few days leaching out of him.
The room is silent apart from the crackling of the fire and the soft noises the salve makes as he works it into Arthur's sore muscles. Merlin finds it worryingly easy to lose himself in the motions, in testing the resistance of Arthur's muscles, the pressure it takes to make his breathing hitch. Merlin's fingers dip into the pot for more salve every now and then but apart from that he works silently, without pause. The skin beyond the swelling is cooler when Merlin's fingers accidentally brush over it, and the scab at the centre of the bruising is rough, although it softens quickly under the salve. Merlin can't help thinking of the corresponding dent in Arthur's armour that he'll have to take care of later. Still, he doesn't hurry along, only stopping when Arthur shifts under his hands and clears his throat.
"Enough?" Merlin asks, and Arthur nods into his arm.
"I should think so," he says.
"Alright," Merlin says. "Turn over?"
Arthur nods and pushes himself up with his good arm, sitting up, careful not to lean his salve-smeared back against the bedding, the covers piled in his lap. He still has that tired, aged look in his eyes even though he's moving a little more freely, turning to the side so that Merlin doesn't have to climb across him to get to his injured arm.
"Merlin?" Arthur asks, and Merlin realises he's been caught looking at Arthur, lost in wondering how to take that look off Arthur's face.
Merlin shakes himself and smiles, hoping it looks more genuine than it feels. "Sorry. Right. Yes."
Arthur frowns. "Are you sure you're recovered from your illness? You look even more gormless than usual."
"No. I mean yes, I'm fine."
Arthur looks at him a bit dubiously, but just rolls his eyes and shrugs. "Right. Get on with it, then. I would like to get to sleep at some point tonight."
Merlin means to give some sarcastic answer, but what comes out of his mouth instead, the words tangling together, is, "I think you're a good man. A good leader."
Arthur's eyebrows twitch in surprise and Merlin ducks his head, feeling like an idiot. As if Arthur actually cares what he thinks. This is the moment where Arthur will point out in no uncertain terms that as a servant, Merlin's opinion really doesn't matter.
"I – right. Okay," Merlin says, reaching for the salve again, hoping they can just pretend he never opened his stupid mouth.
Arthur clears his throat awkwardly and says, of all things, "Thank you."
Merlin smiles at him and some of the tension in the room dissipates. He shifts to sit cross-legged at Arthur's side and reaches for his arm. Arthur extends it more easily than before and Merlin looks at the salve with a new respect. As he watches, Arthur tests the movement of his arm, looking almost surprised.
"Better?" Merlin asks, and Arthur nods. "Alright," Merlin says into the quiet of the room, scooping out more of the salve and laying it thickly across Arthur's shoulder and chest, trying very hard not to think. Before too long, the salve has mostly soaked into Arthur's skin, and it's probably time for Merlin to leave. But the tension is still leaching out of Arthur, so slowly, and Merlin doesn't want to just leave, when maybe he could help.
With only a little more salve, Merlin traces his fingers down from Arthur's shoulder, along the slight swell of his upper arm and lower, into the crook of his elbow. From there, he moves down, one finger tracing the pale blue line of Arthur's vein, down to the incongruously delicate shape of his wrist. Merlin's heart is in his throat, expecting that Arthur will shake him off any minute with a frustrated, it doesn't hurt there, idiot. Instead Arthur keeps his silence and Merlin repeats the movement again, his fingers curling around Arthur's wrist for a moment.
It's strange to think that the blood of kings runs in those veins. Will always said that nobility was just an accident of birth, and Merlin's sometimes wondered what Arthur would be like if he was a farmer, or a blacksmith or a peasant, anything other than a king-in-waiting. He'd be the same, is the conclusion Merlin usually draws. He'd be just the same mix of infuriating and wonderful as he is now. He'd probably go on to do all the same things the dragon swears he's destined for, just through the sheer force of his will and arrogance.
Merlin realises with a jolt that he still has Arthur's wrist held lightly in his hand. He can feel the pulse thrumming there, a flutter under Arthur's skin. With the blunt tip of one fingernail, Merlin traces the meandering path of a blood vessel from the ball of Arthur's thumb, through the web at his wrist, to the larger, stronger vein running the length of his arm.
Arthur swallows before he speaks, so his voice isn't unexpected. The hoarseness of it, however...
"What are you doing?"
"I can stop?" Merlin suggests. He risks a glance up to where Arthur has leaned back against the pillows. His eyes are dark all over again, but in a different way this time, and as Merlin watches, he shakes his head in a rough, jerky motion. Merlin swallows dryly and almost freezes but catches himself at the last moment. There's still a sheen of the salve on Arthur's shoulder and Merlin runs his palm across it before sliding down to cradle Arthur's bicep, the warmth of the salve acting quickly, heating the cool skin.
He wraps both hands around Arthur's upper arm and slides them down, slowly, until he's at Arthur's wrist again. There's only a tiny amount of the salve left on his hands, but he works his fingers between Arthur's, sliding and twisting and eventually stopping altogether. Merlin sits very, very still, and wonders how long he has before Arthur realises they are essentially holding hands.
It's not long before Arthur takes an audible breath. Merlin can imagine him pulling his hand away, turning Merlin out of his chambers, and never speaking of this again.
No, Merlin thinks abruptly. No.
He tightens his hold on Arthur's hand and lifts it to his mouth, pressing his lips to Arthur's wrist, where the skin is warm and thin, hot with the blood beneath, and he dares a glance up at Arthur, who is watching him through wide, wary eyes. He doesn't say anything, though, doesn't protest or laugh, nothing. So Merlin parts his lips against the fine skin below his mouth, allows his tongue the indulgence of a flicker against Arthur's pulse. He tastes of bathwater and the healing salve, warm and clean, even familiar underneath it all.
He says, "Merlin," in a cracked, helpless voice, and his fingers clutch at Merlin's.
Merlin drops kisses along the length of Arthur's vein, to the crook of his elbow where he stays for a moment, savouring the warmth beneath his mouth. Then Arthur abruptly shifts, leaving Merlin no real choice but to look up at him. The expression on Arthur's face is one Merlin has seen before, but only ever in fleeting glances, checked as soon as Arthur catches himself. It's a look like Arthur doesn't know whether to be annoyed or endeared by something Merlin's done. It's a feeling Merlin's familiar with and he can't help smiling.
That seems to do it for Arthur and he cups his free hand around the back of Merlin's neck, pulling him into a kiss that is more gentle than Merlin would have expected. Arthur's lips are warm and soft, moving slowly for a moment until he stops.
"It's okay," Merlin says, not quite sure which 'it' he means. "You're okay, I want – "
Arthur says his name once more, then pulls him into a kiss that's much more like the ones Merlin has allowed himself to imagine, late at night, touching himself and thinking, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. This kiss is deeper, possessing, Arthur's lips warm and soft. His fingers slip through Merlin's hair, trailing over the back of his neck, but the other still clutches his hand, the angle awkward between them as Arthur leans closer.
Arthur's the one who's been through an ordeal, but Merlin's the one who can't loosen his grip on Arthur's hand, can't stop glancing at his face, checking to see if he's really there. Sometimes Arthur's life feels like the biggest responsibility Merlin will ever know.
"I'm glad you're home," he whispers. And I'm sorry they're not, of course I am, but I'm so, so glad you are.
Arthur kisses him again, his lips, the flush on his cheeks, the soft skin under his eyes and it's real, he's here, and Merlin only just bites his tongue in time to stop himself telling Arthur that he is never allowed to go anywhere without Merlin again, not ever. When Merlin kisses the side of Arthur's throat, he can taste the salve on his lips, faintly astringent. Some boldness overcomes him and he moves closer, trying to push Arthur further down into the pillows. For once, Arthur is agreeable, watching Merlin with bright, intent eyes.
"Let me," Merlin says, kissing Arthur's mouth, his collarbone, his chest. "Let me do this for you."
Arthur's hand closes on his shoulder like a vice, stopping him from going any further.
"Don't be absurd," he says, pulling Merlin up to eye level with ease and glaring at him. "If you're doing this out of some misplaced sense of pity, then the stocks will be the least of your worries."
"No!" Merlin protests. "No. Of course not."
"Well, then," Arthur says, pulling him down into another kiss. They end up in a messy kind of sprawl, Arthur half upright against the pillows and Merlin straddling his hips. Merlin's sharply aware that Arthur is naked under the sheets, hardening from the way Merlin's hips are twitching, unable to hold still as Arthur yanks at his tunic and tosses it aside. That done, he uses his good arm to drag Merlin into another kiss.
Merlin cradles Arthur's face in his hands, feeling like he has something precious and delicate between his palms. He knows saying that would earn him, at the very least, a lot of extra work, so Merlin just kisses Arthur again, surprised at how quickly this has turned into liquid heat in his veins, a kind of magic that is not magic. He rolls his hips and Arthur groans into his mouth. Merlin could become addicted to that sensation very quickly, so he does it again, and again, until Arthur takes hold of his hips and keeps him still. He lifts his head to kiss Merlin again.
When Arthur's hand finds its way under Merlin's shirt, warm and confident, Merlin shakes against him, presses his face to Arthur's neck, turning, seeking until the strong pulse beats against his lips in a constant reassuring thrum, regular and hot and vital. Merlin has wondered what Arthur might be like in these moments, and he is savagely glad to realise Arthur is just as eager and unstudied as any other young man.
Merlin grinds himself down against Arthur without a thought for anything but this moment. Arthur's kisses have turned clumsy now, brief, burning things that find Merlin's chin or cheek as often as his mouth. When Arthur comes first, soaking the sheet between them, Merlin freezes for a moment, unsure what to do. A contented rumble issues from Arthur's chest, too cat-like for Merlin not to think about teasing him. Later, though, because right then, Arthur stretches underneath him.
"Don't be a martyr, Merlin," Arthur tells him.
A laugh bubbles out of Merlin's mouth before Arthur seals it in with a kiss, his hands under Merlin's shirt again, a palm on either side of his spine, guiding him. It doesn't take long – of course it doesn't, how could it, with Arthur hot and glorious beneath him? – before Merlin judders to a halt, his pulse roaring in his ears and his throat tense as he spends himself.
He comes back to himself with his fingers still tangled in Arthur's hair. After a heady, breathless moment, Merlin stands on shaky legs. He ignores the spreading stickiness in his breeches and steps over to Arthur's abandoned bath. He soaks a cloth in the now cool water and wrings it out. He can feel Arthur watching him. He deliberately keeps his back turned until he has finished wondering if Arthur will want to pretend this never happened. Merlin hitches his mouth into a smile and pads back over to the bed, meaning to pass the cloth to Arthur. Before he can, Arthur catches hold of his wrist. He rubs his thumb over Merlin's pulse a few times, looking like he's struggling with something.
"Arthur – "
Arthur silences him with a look. Then he says, very carefully and deliberately, "I am glad I have you to come home to, Merlin."