[fic] The Deceived Heart, 1b/1
Nov. 28th, 2010 09:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
da_ya_riTitle: The Deceived Heart
Fandom: Merlin BBC
Rating: very light R
Word Count: 12,269
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Warnings: sleepwalking, brief violence
Spoilers: mentions of 1.07; takes place between S1 and S2
Summary: Merlin thought they were just going on a regular hunting trip, but of course Arthur finds a sorceress to annoy, and she puts a sleepwalking curse on him. Figures that it's up to Merlin to find a way to lift it.
A/N: Continued from last post.
Part 1
***
He isn't sure what wakes him, whether he really did hear something from Arthur's chambers or if it was just a strange dream rousing him back into full consciousness. But Merlin jolts awake with a start that suggests the former, and is halfway out of bed before he fully realizes what he's doing. It takes him a moment to notice that he's not in his own room, and then the memory of their new sleeping arrangement rushes back into his mind, and he collides with the cupboard in his haste to open the door.
The room is dark and quiet, rays of moonlight throwing shafts of brightness on the floor where the curtains have parted. Arthur's boots and coat are gone, and so is Arthur himself, although the disarray of sheets on the bed shows that he did rest undisturbed, if only for a few hours. The door is closed—Arthur must have shut it neatly behind himself upon leaving to wherever he's headed tonight.
Merlin lets out a curse that his mother surely would have washed his mouth out for, had she been there to hear it. He trips back into the antechamber to hastily tug on his boots and a coat, throws open the door, and starts running.
***
Arthur is not in Gaius' study, not in the stables and not anywhere near the throne room, and finally, Merlin is desperate and worried enough to use a location spell. He lets the burn of magic pull him across the drawbridge and towards the forest, his soft footfalls on dewy grass and the crickets' chirping the only sounds breaking the nightly quietude. The clouds have drifted away, the large waxing moon casting his path into an unearthly blueish light that makes him trip over hidden stones, but he doesn't slow down. He can't slow down, not with Arthur wandering through the forest unaware of where he's going and why.
Silence seems to billow out from the trees to engulf him when he reaches the woods. His steps are muted on the mossy underground, and even the occasional cry of a far-away owl gets swallowed up by the canopy of branches above. Arthur seems to be heading in roughly the general direction they took on their hunting trip, choosing the same winding, slightly uneven trail that Merlin had followed to the tavern just a couple of hours ago. Merlin quickens his steps, trying not to make too much noise, and prays to all the Gods that might be listening not to let Arthur run into any nocturnal boars.
Asleep, Arthur doesn't move with the same decisive swiftness of his waking hours. It takes Merlin a surprisingly short time to find him, and he lets out a tremendous sigh of relief when he finally catches a glimpse of Arthur's red coat through the trees. He jogs the rest of the way, easily catching up with Arthur's slow, dragging steps, and just hovers next to him for a moment, unsure what to do.
"Arthur?" he whispers, anxiously checking his slack features for any hint of recognition. "Arthur? Sire?"
Arthur doesn't even blink. He just keeps walking, swaying a little whenever his booted feet catch on a root or stone, and Merlin cautiously reaches out to touch his arm as lightly as he can. Encouraged by the lack of any discernible reaction, he starts pulling on the fabric of his sleeve, very carefully, and whispers, "Arthur, stop. Please stop now."
Miraculously, Arthur does; it seems to take a moment for his sleeping mind to process the words, but then his steps slow even more and finally drag to a halt. The moonlight illuminates his face just enough for Merlin to see his vacant expression, the way his eyes stare straight ahead although Merlin is right next to him. His coat is unbuttoned, hair still sleep-rumpled, and he doesn't seem to notice the chill in the air, or the wet forest floor squelching beneath his boots and slowly soaking through the leather.
Merlin swallows heavily. His heart is pounding, although he's not sure why. "Let's go back," he says, pitching his voice to a low, soothing timbre, "let's get you back to your room, Arthur, okay? We'll just go back the way we've come, it's not far, you must be cold. Just follow me, yeah?"
He slides his fingers down Arthur's sleeve, and holds his breath when his hand touches skin. But Arthur doesn't stir, and his eyes remain glassy and unfocused even when Merlin slips his hand into Arthur's, careful not to grip it too tightly when he slowly coaxes him to turn back around.
Arthur follows his lead again, the way he never does when he's awake—Merlin would laugh at the sheer irony if he didn't feel like there's a clenched fist tightening in his gut, squeezing a strange ache into his muscles. His breath is coming in unsteady bursts, chest tightening against the chill that creeps underneath his jacket. He starts walking very slowly, keeping his gaze on Arthur's impassive face, but Arthur just follows him with still unsteady steps at the light tug on his hand, his expression never changing. Merlin releases a quiet sigh of relief and falls into step next to him, trying to keep an eye out for tree roots and stones.
They make their way back like that, advancing slowly beneath the towering shapes of looming trees, their path only lit by the occasional ray of moonlight filtering through the canopy of leaves. Merlin is careful not to grip Arthur's fingers too tightly, because he really doesn't want to explain to a wide-awake crown prince why they're holding hands in the forest in the middle of the night. He keeps up a steady stream of quiet chatter, afraid that the absence of his voice would startle Arthur awake now that he's started talking, keeping his tone even and calm although his heart is still beating way too quickly.
"Just follow me, I'll take you back to your room," he says, so focused on glancing between the ground and Arthur's face that he nearly cracks his head on a low-hanging branch. "Your room is warm, Arthur, I stoked the fire before we went to bed. You don't need to be out here, it's just a stupid curse from an incompetent sorceress, but I'll find a way to lift it, I promise, it'll be okay."
Arthur never reacts, doesn't even twitch when an owl shrieks nearby and a small flock of nocturnal birds takes off into the night sky in a flutter of wings. They're emerging from the forest, stepping out onto the rocky road leading to the castle, and from there onwards, the rest of their way seems easy. He carefully steers Arthur around puddles, although they do get mud on their boots, and feels his heart go lighter and lighter the nearer they come to the castle.
Despite his increasing relief, Merlin can't help wondering what goes on in Arthur's mind, in the small, half-awake part of it that has succumbed to the spell and brought him out here. Merlin has never been enchanted, despite his life-long experience with magic—he doesn't know how it feels to completely lose control of his body and mind like this. But he thinks if he were forced to roam the castle grounds at night in search of something he has no idea how to find, he would be scared.
"You're doing great, just keep walking," he murmurs, through a curiously tight throat, and just barely manages to rein in the urge to give Arthur's hand a reassuring squeeze, or reach up to trail shaking fingers over the pale, chilled skin of his neck in comfort. "Trust me, Arthur, you'll be fine. I'll keep you safe."
It could be just his imagination, but Arthur seems a little more pliant after that, obediently stopping to hide in the shadow beneath the gate until the guards on the battlements have trudged past them on their nightly patrol. Merlin quickly tugs him across the courtyard and up into a stairwell, taking care to warn him about the steps in a whisper; Arthur mounts them easily, though with the slowness that seems to be characteristic of sleepwalking. They don't run into any guards, but Merlin's pulse only resettles into its normal pattern when he's finally closed the door of Arthur's chambers behind them.
He carefully disentangles his fingers from Arthur's when he's deposited him on the bed, and Arthur just sleeps on with open eyes, oblivious. Merlin takes off his boots and jacket, expecting him to wake any second, now that he's touching him and sliding the thick coat off his arms, but the restless, enchanted part of his mind seems to be soothed by the familiarity of his room. Arthur's eyelids start to droop as soon as Merlin has put the boots away, and Merlin gently tells him to lie down if he feels sleepy.
He didn't know that people could just drop back into true rest even after walking around in their sleep, but Arthur does. His eyes close as soon as his head hits the pillow, and a mere second later, his breathing settles into the slow, deep pattern of real sleep, as if he'd just laid down after an exhausting day.
Merlin just watches him for a moment, takes in the oddly young, relaxed look on his features. Then he tugs the blankets up to Arthur's chin, smiling when Arthur immediately huffs out an indignant breath and pushes them back down without waking. He quietly retreats to the antechamber without finding the reason why his heart is still pounding too quickly, and lies awake for a long time, doing his best to ignore the strange, achy feeling lodged deep beneath his ribs.
***
Arthur is oddly quiet the next morning, a tiny, troubled crease taking permanent residence between his eyebrows when Merlin joins him for breakfast. He overslept quite outrageously, and so Arthur must have ordered some passing servant to fetch his meal, but the reprimand he expects never comes.
They eat in the sort of silence that feels too heavy even for Merlin to break with idle chatter. He sits by the window afterwards, chipping flakes of dried mud off the boots Arthur wore last night and sneaking surreptitious glances at where Arthur is making a valiant effort to concentrate on a pile of official-looking papers. He's just as distracted as Merlin is, though, keeps looking back at him when he thinks Merlin doesn't notice, quickly-hidden, unreadable gazes that set Merlin's teeth on edge, although he doesn't know why.
Arthur finally clears his throat, after a few minutes of staring at the same paragraph with unmoving eyes, and asks, tentatively, "I didn't... go out last night?"
"Mmm," Merlin hums, pretending to concentrate on rubbing a stubborn stain out of Arthur's left boot. He doesn't want to tell Arthur about their nightly walk, resents the idea of troubling him over something he can't control, and Arthur obviously has no memory of the night before.
The leather is soft beneath his hands, conveniently distracting because he still remembers the way Arthur's hand felt in his, broad and strong and trusting even in his sleep. The memory makes his insides flutter strangely, like the wings of a startled bird. But Merlin knows he will answer truthfully if Arthur asks him again, although both of them woke up in their respective beds this morning and he doesn't see any reason for making Arthur worry needlessly.
Arthur doesn't, though. He just gives Merlin a lingering look that feels like a physical touch, and turns back to the papers he's poring over. But his shoulders seems to relax, letting go of a tension he'd been carrying with him all morning, and Merlin turns back to the boot in his hands, his chest finally feeling a little lighter.
A nearly inaudible whisper of magic later, the stain finally comes out, and Merlin stretches, depositing the boots next to the table on his way to Arthur's wardrobe. "I told you," he remarks airily as he rummages through the clothes inside, searching for the winter coats to see if they need mending. "Sleeping in the antechamber was a good idea."
The snappy retort Merlin expected never comes, though, and when he turns around, the look on Arthur's face startles him. He looks as deeply uncomfortable as Merlin has ever seen him, a strange, awkward embarrassment worked into the tense curve of his jaw and lurking beneath the wrinkles on his forehead. It's the same inexplicably mortified look from the day before, when Merlin had argued his way into the antechamber, but this time, Arthur's eyes have gone dark with something that almost looks like self-loathing.
Fortunately Arthur's gaze is still fixed on whatever treaty or report he's studying, so he doesn't see Merlin stand there gaping at him for a full minute, fur-lined coats in hand. He contemplates telling Arthur to stop being an idiot and just accept that the whole thing is not his fault already, but then he'd probably have to tell him about the sorceress. Or he could trip spectacularly over the rug and hope that Arthur would be too distracted by mocking him to continue thinking about how it's unprincely to sleepwalk, or some nonsense like that. And Arthur would certainly not let him get away with pouring the pitcher of water over his head in the hopes of shocking his brain back into working order.
In the end he doesn't do any of those things, just retreats back to his seat at the window and inspects the bundle of clothes for holes and loose threads. He stays in Arthur's chambers for the rest of the day, dutifully mending his winter coats although Arthur mostly ignores him. It's not really a manservant's work, and Merlin knows this—usually he'd just dump the pile of coats on the head seamstress' table and ignore her dirty look. But no matter how often the needle pricks his finger, he needs a reason to stay, and this is as good an excuse as any.
Arthur keeps raising a hand from time to time to rub absently at his chest, a faint grimace of discomfort passing across his face. Merlin thinks he can probably feel the curse's magic crawling just beneath his skin, and concludes that Arthur must know that he's enchanted by now, although he never even said a word. It's puzzling, and he doesn't understand why he hasn't ridden out to find the sorceress yet—although Merlin certainly isn't one to complain, if Arthur's uncharacteristic silence means that no one will burn at the stake, however this episode ends.
But he just can't leave Arthur like this, when he's so obviously troubled about something that not even a late afternoon training session can take his mind off of. If Merlin didn't know better, he'd almost think Arthur wishes he had walked around last night as well. Usually he'd simply assume that Arthur doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of actually having been helpful just by sleeping next door—but something tells him there's more to this.
Merlin wants to ask if it's because of the sleepwalking, since he's not so sure anymore, with how worked up Arthur got over the thing with the antechamber—but the words stick uncomfortably in his throat, refusing to come out. Over the two years they've known each other, Merlin has grown quite familiar with the twists and turns of Arthur's moods, and he usually knows when to provoke him into one of their bickering matches to make him blow off some steam and when to back off. But this is different, and it frustrates Merlin that he can't even say how—he just knows it is.
It makes him feel clumsy and inadequate, this alien sensation of threading on thin ice even when he just makes some idle remark about how the autumn air is slowly starting to smell like snow. He's always known where he stood with Arthur—it has taken a lot of shoving and shouldering, but the place by Arthur's side has never been an unfamiliar one, even though they squabbled over every step of the way.
This is new, though, and it'd be easy to think he's reading too much into it if it weren't for the closed-down look on Arthur's face whenever their gazes meet, however briefly, the sort of guarded vigilance Merlin never sees when they're alone. And Merlin can't ask, knows instinctively that pushing Arthur now would be the worst thing to do, and so he just keeps sewing, and Arthur keeps pretending to read, as the sun dips below the horizon.
***
To say that dinner is awkward would be the most grievous understatement of the day, and Merlin exhales the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding when he finally closes the door to the antechamber behind himself. He falls face-first onto his narrow bed after changing into his night clothes, dimly wondering at how tired he is although he just sat around in Arthur's chambers mending clothes. Then he decides that it's just been an emotionally exhausting day, tugs the blanket over his head, and falls asleep.
He wakes up what feels like mere minutes later, rubbing sleep from his eyes and wondering drowsily what roused him. The window above is dark, although the moon illuminates the room enough for Merlin to make out the dim outlines of the cupboard and the door.
Then he hears the footsteps coming from next door, the shuffling drag of unclothed feet on the rug in front of the hearth, and is out of bed and in Arthur's room before he can so much as blink.
Predictably, Arthur isn't in bed, but he's also not out the door yet, and Merlin heaves a sigh of relief as he shuts the door to the antechamber behind himself, briefly noticing that he must have forgotten to close the curtains, since the entire room is bathed in moonlight. For a moment he isn't even sure whether Arthur really is sleepwalking, but then he turns around to face Merlin, with an already familiar expressionless look on his face.
He doesn't even seem to be trying to get to the door, Merlin notices, puzzled; Arthur just shuffles over to the table, waiting there for a moment before proceeding towards the hearth. Merlin jolts forward as if tugged on an invisible string, brief fear sparking through his nerves at the glowing hot coals still resting there. But Arthur doesn't get too close, probably feeling the heat even in his sleep—he pauses again, next to the window this time, before pivoting on his heel and retracing his steps back towards the table.
It's almost heartbreaking to watch. If Merlin didn't know better, he'd think Arthur was trying to get out, forgetting the way to the door in his mostly-asleep state. But he escaped just fine last night, too, so Merlin concludes that can't be it—he seems to be looking for something, although there's no excitement or urgency in his sluggish movements.
He carefully steps further into the room, wincing at the chilling feeling of the icy stone floor against the bare soles of his feet. Whatever inclined him to stay still and watch has passed, and now he just wants to wake Arthur, stop his slow, oddly hopeless trek across the room in search of something he won't find here. Merlin walks around Arthur when he stops by the window again, and puts both hands on his arms, the muscles under his hands warm and pliant with sleep.
"Arthur," he says, deciding not to wonder why his voice comes out soft and unguarded, sounding almost tender instead of decisive. "Arthur, wake up."
Although he'd been prepared for Arthur to start and instinctively jerk back from his hands, the prince takes his waking slow. He blinks once, twice, and then his eyes refocus on Merlin's, a drowsy sort of recognition slowly taking over his features.
"M'lin?" he slurs, swaying forward a little, and Merlin tightens his hold to steady him, realizing that Arthur isn't much more awake than he was just a moment ago. His eyes keep drooping closed, and Merlin feels the muscles under his hands tense weakly as though fighting the heavy pull of real, restful sleep that's trying to engulf Arthur, now that the curse has run its course for the night.
Without a word, Merlin steers him towards the bed, trying to keep him from stumbling without waking him up more, and gently coaxes him to lie down with a hand on his shoulder. Arthur murmurs something unintelligible when Merlin tugs the blankets up and rests his hand there for a moment, covering the slow rise and fall of his chest.
He can feel the enchantment even through the fabric of his night shift, throbbing in time with Arthur's heartbeat like it's reacting to his touch. It doesn't have the sharp tang of malevolent sorcery, though—oddly enough, Merlin feels it calm under his hand, probably pacified by the proximity of the ever-present curl of magic in his own blood. It feels almost— gentle, somehow, a guiding force rather than a curse, easily tapping into Arthur's subconscious at night to direct his sleeping steps where his waking mind would never go.
In the end, Merlin can't bring himself to leave, although Arthur succumbed to sleep again as soon as his head hit the pillow. He briefly returns to the antechamber to drag his bundle of sheets off the bed, and carries a chair to Arthur's bedside, careful not to let the legs scrape the floor. Then he just sits there swathed in a cocoon of blankets, his sleepy gaze fixed on Arthur's relaxed features, and finally lets his eyes droop shut to the steady cadence of Arthur's breathing.
***
Ever since Merlin can remember, people have been telling him that he's not really the sharpest knife in the drawer. It's the sort of good-natured teasing that Merlin tolerates simply because he has always known it's true—but when he finally gets it, he is still sort of surprised how long it's taken him to realize that the truth has been right in front of his nose all along.
He pauses in the middle of scrubbing Gaius' table, staring at the wet rag in his hand and the stain he's trying to get rid of, and feels his mouth slowly drop open on its own accord. His idle thoughts had just made yet another detour to the sleepwalking curse and Arthur's supposedly deceived heart, and suddenly, understanding crashed down on his mind like an avalanche without preamble and buried all rational thought with a rapid succession of realizations.
The sorceress cursed Arthur to spend his nights "roaming the lands in his hours of rest," as the she had so eloquently put it, following the invisible pull of whatever it is he needs to stop deceiving himself about. And Merlin went to the forest to pick herbs for Gaius on the first day after their encounter, and the next morning, Arthur had shown up on his doorstep looking like he'd spent the night wandering through dew-dampened fields. On the second day, Merlin had gone back to the tavern, only to find Arthur following the same forest track at night. And Merlin spent yesterday moving about in Arthur's chambers, which explains why Arthur didn't venture outside the night before.
Which means, Merlin concludes dizzily, that the whole thing hasn't been so much about finding "the one Arthur's heart holds dear," to put it in the sorceress' words, but rather about getting Arthur to stop "denying his soul the counterpart it seeks" by chatting up random pretty women in the hopes of finding a counterpart that isn't quite so oblivious.
It all makes sense now, even the prince's odd reluctance to let Merlin move into the antechamber—Arthur had probably caught on to the true implications of his nightly walks far more quickly, and did everything in his power to keep Merlin from finding out. His discomfort and embarrassment make sense now as well, along with about a million other things—the way he hasn't asked Merlin to help him bathe in a rather long time, for example, and how he keeps swallowing a lot when Merlin dresses him lately, and the glances he gives him when he thinks it safe, quiet, covert looks filled with something Merlin has deemed unreadable until now.
"I am so stupid," Merlin says to the room at large, astonished at the sheer extent of his idiocy. The wet cloth in his hand is soaking a damp patch into the wooden desk, but he can't recover his higher brain functions enough to move his hand.
Gaius just hums noncommittally, not looking up from where he's sorting herbs at the other end of the table. Merlin waits just a moment longer, his mind suspended in the slow unfolding of a dawning realization, and when he feels himself begin to smile, he makes a beeline for the door.
***
He has just managed to banish the wide, possibly insane grin from his heated face when he bursts into Arthur's chambers, not bothering to knock. Arthur looks up from where he's been studying an assortment of papers strewn across the table, his annoyed expression melting into a caged sort of surprise when their gazes meet. Nevertheless, Merlin closes the door behind himself before speaking, not too keen on whoever passes through the hallway overhearing what he has to say.
In one breath, Merlin blurts, "You stuck-up, arrogant, idiotic, emotionally constipated, stupid prat," and then leans back against the door, slightly weak in the knees after running up countless flights of stairs, and just concentrates on gasping for air for a while.
To his credit, Arthur doesn't seem all that surprised by the barrage of insults; he doesn't even look angry, he's just starting to get that wary, trapped look on his face again that Merlin sort of wishes he had the breath to talk away. He doesn't manage much more than a wheeze and a vaguely inappropriate hand gesture, though, and that merely results in Arthur slowly pushing his chair back with a guarded expression, as though preparing for a fight.
Arthur finally clears his throat, and says, voice measured, "I beg your pardon?"—which is about the moment Merlin decides that there are more important things on the agenda than breathing. He closes in on Arthur with two big strides, puts his hands on the back of his chair to steady himself, leans down, and kisses him.
It's nothing like Merlin thought it would be—or, well, like he's never really imagined it could until about five minutes ago. For one, Arthur's mouth is half-open, whether to snap at him or just suck in a breath Merlin doesn't know, and their teeth click together before Merlin can readjust the angle. But then he finds the soft, ripe bow of Arthur's bottom lip and licks at it before he can stop himself, the soft, nearly inaudible sound from the back of Arthur's throat making warmth curl low in his belly.
Merlin feels Arthur lean into him ever-so-slightly, but then the three seconds it took for his brain to catch up are over, and suddenly Arthur's hand is on his chest, shoving him back hard enough to make him stumble against the table.
He's up and out of the chair before Merlin can even blink, face flushed and eyes positively livid. His hands curl and uncurl at his sides as though he can just barely keep himself from shoving Merlin again or just punching him outright, and they're both breathing hard now, their rapid exhales the only sound in the deafening silence.
"How—," Arthur finally chokes out, through a throat tight with what sounds like offended rage, but Merlin hears the desperate embarrassment underneath, mingling with the sort of fear he didn't think Arthur would ever have to feel. "Merlin, how dare you—"
Merlin doesn't know who moves forward first, or whose hands are the first to raise. He just spends an oddly quiet moment listening to the roar of blood in his ears, spurred on by his thundering pulse, and realizes, quite suddenly, that Arthur thinks he just kissed him to break the enchantment.
Then they're suddenly on each other, scrabbling fingers and shoving hands, completely silent through the sudden, violent skirmish save for their panting breaths. Merlin is trying to trap Arthur's hands between their chests so he can bury his fingers in Arthur's shirt and yank him close, and Arthur is struggling just as hard to shake off Merlin's hold. Merlin is suddenly, inexplicably angry, not so much at Arthur, but it still twists a rush of adrenalin through his limbs, dulling the brief spasm of pain when Arthur shoves at his shoulder hard enough for his collarbone to creak.
It might be a combination of residual mortification and the humiliated anger in Arthur's eyes, but something is slowing the prince down enough for Merlin to finally crowd him back against the wall, forcefully enough that his head thuds against the stone. Arthur grimaces in pain, and briefly stops trying to throw Merlin off, but the moment is long enough for Merlin to trap him between his weight and the wall.
The aggressive energy hasn't quite drained out of Merlin yet, is still simmering hotly just beneath his skin, but his previous indignation is dulled, muted at the look of furious dismay on Arthur's features when he realizes that he'd have to break Merlin's arm to get away. This close to him, Merlin can feel that the spell is broken, the hum of magic no longer a tightly-curled ball between Arthur's ribs, the only frantic pounding being that of Arthur's heart.
Merlin closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see Arthur's humiliated glare anymore, the expression in his eyes so clearly daring him to laugh at him for what he's found out, and presses their damp foreheads together, bringing his hands up to firmly hold Arthur's head in place when he tries to turn his face away. Arthur's breath is coming in sharp, short bursts, like he's sustained a mortal injury and tries not to inhale too deeply for fear of aggravating the wound. But the fight gradually goes out of him, until he stops pawing at Merlin's shoulder and just stands there, muscles thrumming with restless energy under Merlin's hands.
Finally, Merlin takes a deep, reassuring breath, and tilts Arthur's face up with gentle thumbs under his jaw to press a chaste, close-mouthed kiss to his temple. Arthur shudders, but Merlin doesn't move away, trailing his lips across Arthur's cheek in soft pecks until he's reached his mouth, and doesn't fight the rush of relief when Arthur turns slightly in Merlin's grip to meet him halfway.
It's less hurried this time, just the slow, spit-slicked slide of skin on skin until Merlin tentatively licks at the tightly-closed seam of Arthur's lips. Arthur sighs against him, a damp huff of air as he opens his mouth to let Merlin nudge his tongue with his own, and Merlin feels the last of the tension drain out of his muscles.
Arthur makes a soft, involuntary sound when Merlin sucks lightly on his bottom lip, his hands encircling Merlin's wrists. Merlin loosens his own hold a little, shifting his weight backwards, but Arthur just shifts with him and leans in to claim his mouth again. His hands come to rest on Merlin's shoulders for a moment before sliding down to press into the dip of his lower back, and Merlin's breath rushes out of him in a half-sigh half-moan, his hips instinctively canting forward into the sudden, delicious pressure of Arthur's groin against his.
He doesn't need to shove a thigh between Arthur's to know that they're both uncomfortably hard, but he does it anyway just to hear Arthur's bitten-off groan at the sudden contact. His head feels oddly light, dizzy with the suddenness of the arousal curling through his abdomen, quickening the blood in his veins until he feels almost drunk with it. Dimly, he realizes that his hands are tearing uselessly at Arthur's shirt while Arthur's suddenly clumsy fingers are busy trying to work loose the laces of Merlin's trousers.
It feels almost crazy, this maddened scrabbling of hands when they haven't even spoken yet and Arthur was still trying to punch him in the face not a minute ago. But Arthur just crowds right back into him when Merlin tries to back off a little, walking him backwards to the bed, and the perfect fit of his big, warm hands securely fastened over his hips conveniently shuts up the tiny part of Merlin's brain that thinks they're going too fast.
He exhales wetly against Arthur's cheek when his thighs hit the bed, and apparently Arthur doesn't need the space Merlin intended to give him after all. He just tilts his head down to suck a bruise into the side of Merlin's neck when he tugs him down into the soft mattress, leaving Merlin unable to do anything but gasp for air with the way his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest.
Arthur rolls them over, and when Merlin finally opens his eyes after the sudden surge of vertigo, Arthur's expression has shed the last vestiges of the desperate mortification from before. Now he just gazes up at Merlin with an amazed, wondering look in his eyes, at last willing to trust Merlin to let this happen despite everything else, and when Arthur reaches for him again, Merlin can't do anything but follow.
***
When Merlin wakes that night, it's to the sound of Arthur's soft, deep breathing, and an unmistakable damp feeling under his cheek that means he has drooled on Arthur's shirt.
He dimly recalls falling asleep to the feeling of Arthur wrapping an arm around his waist to pull him close, but Merlin apparently turned around in his sleep to climb half on top of him, tangling their legs together in a way that makes his calf twitch with the beginnings of a cramp. Arthur's nose is buried in his hair, puffing steady streams of damp air against the side of his head with every exhale, but the circle of his arms around Merlin is still firm, as though unwilling to let him go again even in his sleep.
The thought causes something in his chest to twist up and go soft at the same time, an unbearable and yet oddly welcome feeling that makes his skin itch with the soft heaviness of emotion curling in his belly. But since Arthur isn't awake to see the stupidly besotted grin on his face anyway, Merlin doesn't see why he should suppress it.
He watches the moonlight paint the room in a blue glow, smiling somewhat inanely until his eyelids start to droop again. Then he puts his head back down to let himself be lulled back to sleep by the rise and fall of Arthur's chest, and this time, there is no throb of magic under Merlin's ear, just the steady, strong beat of his heart.
Fandom: Merlin BBC
Rating: very light R
Word Count: 12,269
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Warnings: sleepwalking, brief violence
Spoilers: mentions of 1.07; takes place between S1 and S2
Summary: Merlin thought they were just going on a regular hunting trip, but of course Arthur finds a sorceress to annoy, and she puts a sleepwalking curse on him. Figures that it's up to Merlin to find a way to lift it.
A/N: Continued from last post.
Part 1
He isn't sure what wakes him, whether he really did hear something from Arthur's chambers or if it was just a strange dream rousing him back into full consciousness. But Merlin jolts awake with a start that suggests the former, and is halfway out of bed before he fully realizes what he's doing. It takes him a moment to notice that he's not in his own room, and then the memory of their new sleeping arrangement rushes back into his mind, and he collides with the cupboard in his haste to open the door.
The room is dark and quiet, rays of moonlight throwing shafts of brightness on the floor where the curtains have parted. Arthur's boots and coat are gone, and so is Arthur himself, although the disarray of sheets on the bed shows that he did rest undisturbed, if only for a few hours. The door is closed—Arthur must have shut it neatly behind himself upon leaving to wherever he's headed tonight.
Merlin lets out a curse that his mother surely would have washed his mouth out for, had she been there to hear it. He trips back into the antechamber to hastily tug on his boots and a coat, throws open the door, and starts running.
Arthur is not in Gaius' study, not in the stables and not anywhere near the throne room, and finally, Merlin is desperate and worried enough to use a location spell. He lets the burn of magic pull him across the drawbridge and towards the forest, his soft footfalls on dewy grass and the crickets' chirping the only sounds breaking the nightly quietude. The clouds have drifted away, the large waxing moon casting his path into an unearthly blueish light that makes him trip over hidden stones, but he doesn't slow down. He can't slow down, not with Arthur wandering through the forest unaware of where he's going and why.
Silence seems to billow out from the trees to engulf him when he reaches the woods. His steps are muted on the mossy underground, and even the occasional cry of a far-away owl gets swallowed up by the canopy of branches above. Arthur seems to be heading in roughly the general direction they took on their hunting trip, choosing the same winding, slightly uneven trail that Merlin had followed to the tavern just a couple of hours ago. Merlin quickens his steps, trying not to make too much noise, and prays to all the Gods that might be listening not to let Arthur run into any nocturnal boars.
Asleep, Arthur doesn't move with the same decisive swiftness of his waking hours. It takes Merlin a surprisingly short time to find him, and he lets out a tremendous sigh of relief when he finally catches a glimpse of Arthur's red coat through the trees. He jogs the rest of the way, easily catching up with Arthur's slow, dragging steps, and just hovers next to him for a moment, unsure what to do.
"Arthur?" he whispers, anxiously checking his slack features for any hint of recognition. "Arthur? Sire?"
Arthur doesn't even blink. He just keeps walking, swaying a little whenever his booted feet catch on a root or stone, and Merlin cautiously reaches out to touch his arm as lightly as he can. Encouraged by the lack of any discernible reaction, he starts pulling on the fabric of his sleeve, very carefully, and whispers, "Arthur, stop. Please stop now."
Miraculously, Arthur does; it seems to take a moment for his sleeping mind to process the words, but then his steps slow even more and finally drag to a halt. The moonlight illuminates his face just enough for Merlin to see his vacant expression, the way his eyes stare straight ahead although Merlin is right next to him. His coat is unbuttoned, hair still sleep-rumpled, and he doesn't seem to notice the chill in the air, or the wet forest floor squelching beneath his boots and slowly soaking through the leather.
Merlin swallows heavily. His heart is pounding, although he's not sure why. "Let's go back," he says, pitching his voice to a low, soothing timbre, "let's get you back to your room, Arthur, okay? We'll just go back the way we've come, it's not far, you must be cold. Just follow me, yeah?"
He slides his fingers down Arthur's sleeve, and holds his breath when his hand touches skin. But Arthur doesn't stir, and his eyes remain glassy and unfocused even when Merlin slips his hand into Arthur's, careful not to grip it too tightly when he slowly coaxes him to turn back around.
Arthur follows his lead again, the way he never does when he's awake—Merlin would laugh at the sheer irony if he didn't feel like there's a clenched fist tightening in his gut, squeezing a strange ache into his muscles. His breath is coming in unsteady bursts, chest tightening against the chill that creeps underneath his jacket. He starts walking very slowly, keeping his gaze on Arthur's impassive face, but Arthur just follows him with still unsteady steps at the light tug on his hand, his expression never changing. Merlin releases a quiet sigh of relief and falls into step next to him, trying to keep an eye out for tree roots and stones.
They make their way back like that, advancing slowly beneath the towering shapes of looming trees, their path only lit by the occasional ray of moonlight filtering through the canopy of leaves. Merlin is careful not to grip Arthur's fingers too tightly, because he really doesn't want to explain to a wide-awake crown prince why they're holding hands in the forest in the middle of the night. He keeps up a steady stream of quiet chatter, afraid that the absence of his voice would startle Arthur awake now that he's started talking, keeping his tone even and calm although his heart is still beating way too quickly.
"Just follow me, I'll take you back to your room," he says, so focused on glancing between the ground and Arthur's face that he nearly cracks his head on a low-hanging branch. "Your room is warm, Arthur, I stoked the fire before we went to bed. You don't need to be out here, it's just a stupid curse from an incompetent sorceress, but I'll find a way to lift it, I promise, it'll be okay."
Arthur never reacts, doesn't even twitch when an owl shrieks nearby and a small flock of nocturnal birds takes off into the night sky in a flutter of wings. They're emerging from the forest, stepping out onto the rocky road leading to the castle, and from there onwards, the rest of their way seems easy. He carefully steers Arthur around puddles, although they do get mud on their boots, and feels his heart go lighter and lighter the nearer they come to the castle.
Despite his increasing relief, Merlin can't help wondering what goes on in Arthur's mind, in the small, half-awake part of it that has succumbed to the spell and brought him out here. Merlin has never been enchanted, despite his life-long experience with magic—he doesn't know how it feels to completely lose control of his body and mind like this. But he thinks if he were forced to roam the castle grounds at night in search of something he has no idea how to find, he would be scared.
"You're doing great, just keep walking," he murmurs, through a curiously tight throat, and just barely manages to rein in the urge to give Arthur's hand a reassuring squeeze, or reach up to trail shaking fingers over the pale, chilled skin of his neck in comfort. "Trust me, Arthur, you'll be fine. I'll keep you safe."
It could be just his imagination, but Arthur seems a little more pliant after that, obediently stopping to hide in the shadow beneath the gate until the guards on the battlements have trudged past them on their nightly patrol. Merlin quickly tugs him across the courtyard and up into a stairwell, taking care to warn him about the steps in a whisper; Arthur mounts them easily, though with the slowness that seems to be characteristic of sleepwalking. They don't run into any guards, but Merlin's pulse only resettles into its normal pattern when he's finally closed the door of Arthur's chambers behind them.
He carefully disentangles his fingers from Arthur's when he's deposited him on the bed, and Arthur just sleeps on with open eyes, oblivious. Merlin takes off his boots and jacket, expecting him to wake any second, now that he's touching him and sliding the thick coat off his arms, but the restless, enchanted part of his mind seems to be soothed by the familiarity of his room. Arthur's eyelids start to droop as soon as Merlin has put the boots away, and Merlin gently tells him to lie down if he feels sleepy.
He didn't know that people could just drop back into true rest even after walking around in their sleep, but Arthur does. His eyes close as soon as his head hits the pillow, and a mere second later, his breathing settles into the slow, deep pattern of real sleep, as if he'd just laid down after an exhausting day.
Merlin just watches him for a moment, takes in the oddly young, relaxed look on his features. Then he tugs the blankets up to Arthur's chin, smiling when Arthur immediately huffs out an indignant breath and pushes them back down without waking. He quietly retreats to the antechamber without finding the reason why his heart is still pounding too quickly, and lies awake for a long time, doing his best to ignore the strange, achy feeling lodged deep beneath his ribs.
Arthur is oddly quiet the next morning, a tiny, troubled crease taking permanent residence between his eyebrows when Merlin joins him for breakfast. He overslept quite outrageously, and so Arthur must have ordered some passing servant to fetch his meal, but the reprimand he expects never comes.
They eat in the sort of silence that feels too heavy even for Merlin to break with idle chatter. He sits by the window afterwards, chipping flakes of dried mud off the boots Arthur wore last night and sneaking surreptitious glances at where Arthur is making a valiant effort to concentrate on a pile of official-looking papers. He's just as distracted as Merlin is, though, keeps looking back at him when he thinks Merlin doesn't notice, quickly-hidden, unreadable gazes that set Merlin's teeth on edge, although he doesn't know why.
Arthur finally clears his throat, after a few minutes of staring at the same paragraph with unmoving eyes, and asks, tentatively, "I didn't... go out last night?"
"Mmm," Merlin hums, pretending to concentrate on rubbing a stubborn stain out of Arthur's left boot. He doesn't want to tell Arthur about their nightly walk, resents the idea of troubling him over something he can't control, and Arthur obviously has no memory of the night before.
The leather is soft beneath his hands, conveniently distracting because he still remembers the way Arthur's hand felt in his, broad and strong and trusting even in his sleep. The memory makes his insides flutter strangely, like the wings of a startled bird. But Merlin knows he will answer truthfully if Arthur asks him again, although both of them woke up in their respective beds this morning and he doesn't see any reason for making Arthur worry needlessly.
Arthur doesn't, though. He just gives Merlin a lingering look that feels like a physical touch, and turns back to the papers he's poring over. But his shoulders seems to relax, letting go of a tension he'd been carrying with him all morning, and Merlin turns back to the boot in his hands, his chest finally feeling a little lighter.
A nearly inaudible whisper of magic later, the stain finally comes out, and Merlin stretches, depositing the boots next to the table on his way to Arthur's wardrobe. "I told you," he remarks airily as he rummages through the clothes inside, searching for the winter coats to see if they need mending. "Sleeping in the antechamber was a good idea."
The snappy retort Merlin expected never comes, though, and when he turns around, the look on Arthur's face startles him. He looks as deeply uncomfortable as Merlin has ever seen him, a strange, awkward embarrassment worked into the tense curve of his jaw and lurking beneath the wrinkles on his forehead. It's the same inexplicably mortified look from the day before, when Merlin had argued his way into the antechamber, but this time, Arthur's eyes have gone dark with something that almost looks like self-loathing.
Fortunately Arthur's gaze is still fixed on whatever treaty or report he's studying, so he doesn't see Merlin stand there gaping at him for a full minute, fur-lined coats in hand. He contemplates telling Arthur to stop being an idiot and just accept that the whole thing is not his fault already, but then he'd probably have to tell him about the sorceress. Or he could trip spectacularly over the rug and hope that Arthur would be too distracted by mocking him to continue thinking about how it's unprincely to sleepwalk, or some nonsense like that. And Arthur would certainly not let him get away with pouring the pitcher of water over his head in the hopes of shocking his brain back into working order.
In the end he doesn't do any of those things, just retreats back to his seat at the window and inspects the bundle of clothes for holes and loose threads. He stays in Arthur's chambers for the rest of the day, dutifully mending his winter coats although Arthur mostly ignores him. It's not really a manservant's work, and Merlin knows this—usually he'd just dump the pile of coats on the head seamstress' table and ignore her dirty look. But no matter how often the needle pricks his finger, he needs a reason to stay, and this is as good an excuse as any.
Arthur keeps raising a hand from time to time to rub absently at his chest, a faint grimace of discomfort passing across his face. Merlin thinks he can probably feel the curse's magic crawling just beneath his skin, and concludes that Arthur must know that he's enchanted by now, although he never even said a word. It's puzzling, and he doesn't understand why he hasn't ridden out to find the sorceress yet—although Merlin certainly isn't one to complain, if Arthur's uncharacteristic silence means that no one will burn at the stake, however this episode ends.
But he just can't leave Arthur like this, when he's so obviously troubled about something that not even a late afternoon training session can take his mind off of. If Merlin didn't know better, he'd almost think Arthur wishes he had walked around last night as well. Usually he'd simply assume that Arthur doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of actually having been helpful just by sleeping next door—but something tells him there's more to this.
Merlin wants to ask if it's because of the sleepwalking, since he's not so sure anymore, with how worked up Arthur got over the thing with the antechamber—but the words stick uncomfortably in his throat, refusing to come out. Over the two years they've known each other, Merlin has grown quite familiar with the twists and turns of Arthur's moods, and he usually knows when to provoke him into one of their bickering matches to make him blow off some steam and when to back off. But this is different, and it frustrates Merlin that he can't even say how—he just knows it is.
It makes him feel clumsy and inadequate, this alien sensation of threading on thin ice even when he just makes some idle remark about how the autumn air is slowly starting to smell like snow. He's always known where he stood with Arthur—it has taken a lot of shoving and shouldering, but the place by Arthur's side has never been an unfamiliar one, even though they squabbled over every step of the way.
This is new, though, and it'd be easy to think he's reading too much into it if it weren't for the closed-down look on Arthur's face whenever their gazes meet, however briefly, the sort of guarded vigilance Merlin never sees when they're alone. And Merlin can't ask, knows instinctively that pushing Arthur now would be the worst thing to do, and so he just keeps sewing, and Arthur keeps pretending to read, as the sun dips below the horizon.
To say that dinner is awkward would be the most grievous understatement of the day, and Merlin exhales the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding when he finally closes the door to the antechamber behind himself. He falls face-first onto his narrow bed after changing into his night clothes, dimly wondering at how tired he is although he just sat around in Arthur's chambers mending clothes. Then he decides that it's just been an emotionally exhausting day, tugs the blanket over his head, and falls asleep.
He wakes up what feels like mere minutes later, rubbing sleep from his eyes and wondering drowsily what roused him. The window above is dark, although the moon illuminates the room enough for Merlin to make out the dim outlines of the cupboard and the door.
Then he hears the footsteps coming from next door, the shuffling drag of unclothed feet on the rug in front of the hearth, and is out of bed and in Arthur's room before he can so much as blink.
Predictably, Arthur isn't in bed, but he's also not out the door yet, and Merlin heaves a sigh of relief as he shuts the door to the antechamber behind himself, briefly noticing that he must have forgotten to close the curtains, since the entire room is bathed in moonlight. For a moment he isn't even sure whether Arthur really is sleepwalking, but then he turns around to face Merlin, with an already familiar expressionless look on his face.
He doesn't even seem to be trying to get to the door, Merlin notices, puzzled; Arthur just shuffles over to the table, waiting there for a moment before proceeding towards the hearth. Merlin jolts forward as if tugged on an invisible string, brief fear sparking through his nerves at the glowing hot coals still resting there. But Arthur doesn't get too close, probably feeling the heat even in his sleep—he pauses again, next to the window this time, before pivoting on his heel and retracing his steps back towards the table.
It's almost heartbreaking to watch. If Merlin didn't know better, he'd think Arthur was trying to get out, forgetting the way to the door in his mostly-asleep state. But he escaped just fine last night, too, so Merlin concludes that can't be it—he seems to be looking for something, although there's no excitement or urgency in his sluggish movements.
He carefully steps further into the room, wincing at the chilling feeling of the icy stone floor against the bare soles of his feet. Whatever inclined him to stay still and watch has passed, and now he just wants to wake Arthur, stop his slow, oddly hopeless trek across the room in search of something he won't find here. Merlin walks around Arthur when he stops by the window again, and puts both hands on his arms, the muscles under his hands warm and pliant with sleep.
"Arthur," he says, deciding not to wonder why his voice comes out soft and unguarded, sounding almost tender instead of decisive. "Arthur, wake up."
Although he'd been prepared for Arthur to start and instinctively jerk back from his hands, the prince takes his waking slow. He blinks once, twice, and then his eyes refocus on Merlin's, a drowsy sort of recognition slowly taking over his features.
"M'lin?" he slurs, swaying forward a little, and Merlin tightens his hold to steady him, realizing that Arthur isn't much more awake than he was just a moment ago. His eyes keep drooping closed, and Merlin feels the muscles under his hands tense weakly as though fighting the heavy pull of real, restful sleep that's trying to engulf Arthur, now that the curse has run its course for the night.
Without a word, Merlin steers him towards the bed, trying to keep him from stumbling without waking him up more, and gently coaxes him to lie down with a hand on his shoulder. Arthur murmurs something unintelligible when Merlin tugs the blankets up and rests his hand there for a moment, covering the slow rise and fall of his chest.
He can feel the enchantment even through the fabric of his night shift, throbbing in time with Arthur's heartbeat like it's reacting to his touch. It doesn't have the sharp tang of malevolent sorcery, though—oddly enough, Merlin feels it calm under his hand, probably pacified by the proximity of the ever-present curl of magic in his own blood. It feels almost— gentle, somehow, a guiding force rather than a curse, easily tapping into Arthur's subconscious at night to direct his sleeping steps where his waking mind would never go.
In the end, Merlin can't bring himself to leave, although Arthur succumbed to sleep again as soon as his head hit the pillow. He briefly returns to the antechamber to drag his bundle of sheets off the bed, and carries a chair to Arthur's bedside, careful not to let the legs scrape the floor. Then he just sits there swathed in a cocoon of blankets, his sleepy gaze fixed on Arthur's relaxed features, and finally lets his eyes droop shut to the steady cadence of Arthur's breathing.
Ever since Merlin can remember, people have been telling him that he's not really the sharpest knife in the drawer. It's the sort of good-natured teasing that Merlin tolerates simply because he has always known it's true—but when he finally gets it, he is still sort of surprised how long it's taken him to realize that the truth has been right in front of his nose all along.
He pauses in the middle of scrubbing Gaius' table, staring at the wet rag in his hand and the stain he's trying to get rid of, and feels his mouth slowly drop open on its own accord. His idle thoughts had just made yet another detour to the sleepwalking curse and Arthur's supposedly deceived heart, and suddenly, understanding crashed down on his mind like an avalanche without preamble and buried all rational thought with a rapid succession of realizations.
The sorceress cursed Arthur to spend his nights "roaming the lands in his hours of rest," as the she had so eloquently put it, following the invisible pull of whatever it is he needs to stop deceiving himself about. And Merlin went to the forest to pick herbs for Gaius on the first day after their encounter, and the next morning, Arthur had shown up on his doorstep looking like he'd spent the night wandering through dew-dampened fields. On the second day, Merlin had gone back to the tavern, only to find Arthur following the same forest track at night. And Merlin spent yesterday moving about in Arthur's chambers, which explains why Arthur didn't venture outside the night before.
Which means, Merlin concludes dizzily, that the whole thing hasn't been so much about finding "the one Arthur's heart holds dear," to put it in the sorceress' words, but rather about getting Arthur to stop "denying his soul the counterpart it seeks" by chatting up random pretty women in the hopes of finding a counterpart that isn't quite so oblivious.
It all makes sense now, even the prince's odd reluctance to let Merlin move into the antechamber—Arthur had probably caught on to the true implications of his nightly walks far more quickly, and did everything in his power to keep Merlin from finding out. His discomfort and embarrassment make sense now as well, along with about a million other things—the way he hasn't asked Merlin to help him bathe in a rather long time, for example, and how he keeps swallowing a lot when Merlin dresses him lately, and the glances he gives him when he thinks it safe, quiet, covert looks filled with something Merlin has deemed unreadable until now.
"I am so stupid," Merlin says to the room at large, astonished at the sheer extent of his idiocy. The wet cloth in his hand is soaking a damp patch into the wooden desk, but he can't recover his higher brain functions enough to move his hand.
Gaius just hums noncommittally, not looking up from where he's sorting herbs at the other end of the table. Merlin waits just a moment longer, his mind suspended in the slow unfolding of a dawning realization, and when he feels himself begin to smile, he makes a beeline for the door.
He has just managed to banish the wide, possibly insane grin from his heated face when he bursts into Arthur's chambers, not bothering to knock. Arthur looks up from where he's been studying an assortment of papers strewn across the table, his annoyed expression melting into a caged sort of surprise when their gazes meet. Nevertheless, Merlin closes the door behind himself before speaking, not too keen on whoever passes through the hallway overhearing what he has to say.
In one breath, Merlin blurts, "You stuck-up, arrogant, idiotic, emotionally constipated, stupid prat," and then leans back against the door, slightly weak in the knees after running up countless flights of stairs, and just concentrates on gasping for air for a while.
To his credit, Arthur doesn't seem all that surprised by the barrage of insults; he doesn't even look angry, he's just starting to get that wary, trapped look on his face again that Merlin sort of wishes he had the breath to talk away. He doesn't manage much more than a wheeze and a vaguely inappropriate hand gesture, though, and that merely results in Arthur slowly pushing his chair back with a guarded expression, as though preparing for a fight.
Arthur finally clears his throat, and says, voice measured, "I beg your pardon?"—which is about the moment Merlin decides that there are more important things on the agenda than breathing. He closes in on Arthur with two big strides, puts his hands on the back of his chair to steady himself, leans down, and kisses him.
It's nothing like Merlin thought it would be—or, well, like he's never really imagined it could until about five minutes ago. For one, Arthur's mouth is half-open, whether to snap at him or just suck in a breath Merlin doesn't know, and their teeth click together before Merlin can readjust the angle. But then he finds the soft, ripe bow of Arthur's bottom lip and licks at it before he can stop himself, the soft, nearly inaudible sound from the back of Arthur's throat making warmth curl low in his belly.
Merlin feels Arthur lean into him ever-so-slightly, but then the three seconds it took for his brain to catch up are over, and suddenly Arthur's hand is on his chest, shoving him back hard enough to make him stumble against the table.
He's up and out of the chair before Merlin can even blink, face flushed and eyes positively livid. His hands curl and uncurl at his sides as though he can just barely keep himself from shoving Merlin again or just punching him outright, and they're both breathing hard now, their rapid exhales the only sound in the deafening silence.
"How—," Arthur finally chokes out, through a throat tight with what sounds like offended rage, but Merlin hears the desperate embarrassment underneath, mingling with the sort of fear he didn't think Arthur would ever have to feel. "Merlin, how dare you—"
Merlin doesn't know who moves forward first, or whose hands are the first to raise. He just spends an oddly quiet moment listening to the roar of blood in his ears, spurred on by his thundering pulse, and realizes, quite suddenly, that Arthur thinks he just kissed him to break the enchantment.
Then they're suddenly on each other, scrabbling fingers and shoving hands, completely silent through the sudden, violent skirmish save for their panting breaths. Merlin is trying to trap Arthur's hands between their chests so he can bury his fingers in Arthur's shirt and yank him close, and Arthur is struggling just as hard to shake off Merlin's hold. Merlin is suddenly, inexplicably angry, not so much at Arthur, but it still twists a rush of adrenalin through his limbs, dulling the brief spasm of pain when Arthur shoves at his shoulder hard enough for his collarbone to creak.
It might be a combination of residual mortification and the humiliated anger in Arthur's eyes, but something is slowing the prince down enough for Merlin to finally crowd him back against the wall, forcefully enough that his head thuds against the stone. Arthur grimaces in pain, and briefly stops trying to throw Merlin off, but the moment is long enough for Merlin to trap him between his weight and the wall.
The aggressive energy hasn't quite drained out of Merlin yet, is still simmering hotly just beneath his skin, but his previous indignation is dulled, muted at the look of furious dismay on Arthur's features when he realizes that he'd have to break Merlin's arm to get away. This close to him, Merlin can feel that the spell is broken, the hum of magic no longer a tightly-curled ball between Arthur's ribs, the only frantic pounding being that of Arthur's heart.
Merlin closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see Arthur's humiliated glare anymore, the expression in his eyes so clearly daring him to laugh at him for what he's found out, and presses their damp foreheads together, bringing his hands up to firmly hold Arthur's head in place when he tries to turn his face away. Arthur's breath is coming in sharp, short bursts, like he's sustained a mortal injury and tries not to inhale too deeply for fear of aggravating the wound. But the fight gradually goes out of him, until he stops pawing at Merlin's shoulder and just stands there, muscles thrumming with restless energy under Merlin's hands.
Finally, Merlin takes a deep, reassuring breath, and tilts Arthur's face up with gentle thumbs under his jaw to press a chaste, close-mouthed kiss to his temple. Arthur shudders, but Merlin doesn't move away, trailing his lips across Arthur's cheek in soft pecks until he's reached his mouth, and doesn't fight the rush of relief when Arthur turns slightly in Merlin's grip to meet him halfway.
It's less hurried this time, just the slow, spit-slicked slide of skin on skin until Merlin tentatively licks at the tightly-closed seam of Arthur's lips. Arthur sighs against him, a damp huff of air as he opens his mouth to let Merlin nudge his tongue with his own, and Merlin feels the last of the tension drain out of his muscles.
Arthur makes a soft, involuntary sound when Merlin sucks lightly on his bottom lip, his hands encircling Merlin's wrists. Merlin loosens his own hold a little, shifting his weight backwards, but Arthur just shifts with him and leans in to claim his mouth again. His hands come to rest on Merlin's shoulders for a moment before sliding down to press into the dip of his lower back, and Merlin's breath rushes out of him in a half-sigh half-moan, his hips instinctively canting forward into the sudden, delicious pressure of Arthur's groin against his.
He doesn't need to shove a thigh between Arthur's to know that they're both uncomfortably hard, but he does it anyway just to hear Arthur's bitten-off groan at the sudden contact. His head feels oddly light, dizzy with the suddenness of the arousal curling through his abdomen, quickening the blood in his veins until he feels almost drunk with it. Dimly, he realizes that his hands are tearing uselessly at Arthur's shirt while Arthur's suddenly clumsy fingers are busy trying to work loose the laces of Merlin's trousers.
It feels almost crazy, this maddened scrabbling of hands when they haven't even spoken yet and Arthur was still trying to punch him in the face not a minute ago. But Arthur just crowds right back into him when Merlin tries to back off a little, walking him backwards to the bed, and the perfect fit of his big, warm hands securely fastened over his hips conveniently shuts up the tiny part of Merlin's brain that thinks they're going too fast.
He exhales wetly against Arthur's cheek when his thighs hit the bed, and apparently Arthur doesn't need the space Merlin intended to give him after all. He just tilts his head down to suck a bruise into the side of Merlin's neck when he tugs him down into the soft mattress, leaving Merlin unable to do anything but gasp for air with the way his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest.
Arthur rolls them over, and when Merlin finally opens his eyes after the sudden surge of vertigo, Arthur's expression has shed the last vestiges of the desperate mortification from before. Now he just gazes up at Merlin with an amazed, wondering look in his eyes, at last willing to trust Merlin to let this happen despite everything else, and when Arthur reaches for him again, Merlin can't do anything but follow.
When Merlin wakes that night, it's to the sound of Arthur's soft, deep breathing, and an unmistakable damp feeling under his cheek that means he has drooled on Arthur's shirt.
He dimly recalls falling asleep to the feeling of Arthur wrapping an arm around his waist to pull him close, but Merlin apparently turned around in his sleep to climb half on top of him, tangling their legs together in a way that makes his calf twitch with the beginnings of a cramp. Arthur's nose is buried in his hair, puffing steady streams of damp air against the side of his head with every exhale, but the circle of his arms around Merlin is still firm, as though unwilling to let him go again even in his sleep.
The thought causes something in his chest to twist up and go soft at the same time, an unbearable and yet oddly welcome feeling that makes his skin itch with the soft heaviness of emotion curling in his belly. But since Arthur isn't awake to see the stupidly besotted grin on his face anyway, Merlin doesn't see why he should suppress it.
He watches the moonlight paint the room in a blue glow, smiling somewhat inanely until his eyelids start to droop again. Then he puts his head back down to let himself be lulled back to sleep by the rise and fall of Arthur's chest, and this time, there is no throb of magic under Merlin's ear, just the steady, strong beat of his heart.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-11-28 09:54 am (UTC)I love the boys being all clueless, sooo cute! Merlin being all worried, and Arthur being all 'wtf am I doing? I don't like it ;-;' = &hearts &hearts &hearts
no subject
Date: 2010-11-28 10:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-28 05:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-28 05:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-28 06:25 pm (UTC)Your vivid descriptions of the seasons and of Merlin's concern for Arthur are amazing, and I absolutely adore the sorceress's personality. There are so many things about this fic that I love, from the plot to the details to Merlin's obliviousness and concern to the Arthur/Merlin dynamic.
I can honestly say that I enjoyed every second of my life I spent reading this. This is an instant favorite. <3
no subject
Date: 2010-11-29 07:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-28 08:25 pm (UTC)LOL Das hat mich zum ersten Mal heute so richtig zum Lachen gebracht *noch immer Tränen lach* Das wirkt so erbärmlich, dass es schon wieder brüllend komisch ist. Aber bis hierhin gefällt mir die FF schon mal sehr. Sie ist im canon!universe und das ist dir wirklich gelungen. Die Magierin hat mich ein wenig überrascht, weil sie so relaxt reagiert hat, aber gut. Sie sei entschuldigt XD
Ich hab zwei kleine Fehler entdeckt, falls es dich interessiert ^^"
Awwww, Honigbrot *___* Oder Arthur mit Honig beschmiert ♥ Ähm ja, Merlin ist aber irgendwoe genauso blind wie Arthur, hm?
Genau wie in der Serie LOLUnd Arthurs Gesichtsausdruck... *dahin schmelz*Die ganze Idee für die FF find ich einfach super süß *nods* Und dann noch die ganzen kleinen Details, die du dir hast einfallen lassen - wie Arthurs Ausflug und das Händchenhalten im Wald, dem Honig, der Sabberattacke auf Arthurs Shirt, und so weiter - ... einfach einsame spitze ♥
I am so stupid
Amen *mich bekreuzig und niederknie*
Awww, das war sooooo eine schöne Geschichte!!! Ich hätte als Merlin zwar noch mehr Nächte den Schlafwandler angeschaut (nicht im evil Sinn, sondern aus purer Faszination, was Arthur macht), aber so war es auch schön =) Ein tolles Geburtstaggeschenk für das junge Fräulein, deren Name abgekürzt dem eines
nicht ganz so realen XDEngels gleicht LOL Leider kann ich heut, morgen und Dienstag kein Beta-lesen machen - ich wollts dir nur sagen, damit du dich net wunderst *die Tage keine Zeit hab* *knutsch*no subject
Date: 2010-11-29 07:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-28 11:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-29 07:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-29 07:30 am (UTC)(Also, ICON LOVE! XD;)
no subject
Date: 2010-11-29 12:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-29 07:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-29 12:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-29 07:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-29 02:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-29 07:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-29 10:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-29 10:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-29 01:51 pm (UTC)Cat
no subject
Date: 2010-11-29 05:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-29 05:41 pm (UTC)I loved this.
Like, really.
And now I have a big ol' stupid grin on my face after reading it. :)
Well done.
no subject
Date: 2010-11-30 04:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-29 07:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-30 04:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-29 11:07 pm (UTC)Which reminds me, I love your writing! How you included so many real details, painted crystal clear picture. It was truly brilliant! And Merlin's obliviousness was completely believable as well. Not to mention the kiss at the end was absolutely delicious! LOVED the way Arthur tried to resist for such a long time until Merlin went slower. Oh it was brilliant! So so brilliant! I can't praise you enough! Loved every word of it!
no subject
Date: 2010-11-30 05:28 pm (UTC)I'm beyond happy that you like my writing! ♥♥ Once again, thank you so much for all your kind words--I'm grinning from ear to ear right now! <333
no subject
Date: 2010-11-30 08:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-01 07:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-02 04:37 am (UTC)Beautiful writing, thank you for sharing it.
no subject
Date: 2010-12-02 07:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-08 07:32 pm (UTC)XO
no subject
Date: 2010-12-08 07:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-11 05:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-12 07:53 am (UTC)(insert EPIC KEYBOARD SMASHING here)
Date: 2010-12-12 09:59 am (UTC)AND THERE IS A WASHED AND NICELY-SMELLING SEBASTIAN PILLOW ON MY BED AND ASDF;fkw;akfwpafwkofawfnFWPKEOFKWOWSLEEP AIN’T COMING EASY TONIGHT, BABY. XD /creepy fangirlIt’s funny because I spent good portions of the day preparing to read this (admittedly, I like reading fanfics at night when my family isn’t buzzing around and I’m all warm underneath my blanket, ahaha) by watching Colin/Bradley interviews and Arthur/Merlin slash fanvids on YouTube. AND WHO COULD FORGET THE LEGENDARY ~YOUR’RE THE VOICE~. Seriously, that video is gold and it is probably what got me through my second batch of midterms. When Colin was like, “John Farmer… ;D” I NEARLY DIED. XD;;;; I LEGIT LOVE THOSE TWO. CAN THEY JUST GET DECLARE THEIR LOVE FOR EACH OTHER NOW OKAY THANKS.
So I completely fail at the bullet point thing this time around because I was in such a frenzy to get it finished. XD;;;;; I kept telling myself, “Okay, I’ll start my bullet point list right after this paragraph— …well, okay, maybe after this one,” and by then I was already at Arthur and Merlin’s intense make-out session and, well, you know I couldn’t pause there. XD;; But seriously, if I was fangirling over part one, part two just kicked me in the teeth (in a good way!). It was perfectly awkward and sweet and tension-y and erotic and was unf all over. Merlin taking charge = brillliiiaaaant~ And you totally hit my HNNGHHHHHUNFFFF meter with the grinding, shiiiiiiiit. I nearly squeaked, seriously. My second-to-last fanfic that was borderline R/M was just filled with dry grinding. IDK, IDK WHY IT GETS ME, BUT IT DOES. I FIND IT FREAKISHLY HOT. And that ending was SO FUCKING CUTE, oh my gosh. ♥♥♥♥ It was so tender and adorable—a good contrast to the raw, uncontrolled energy of before, and completely perfect.
There is absolutely nothing that I did not love about this fic. I am just so grateful that you would write this for my birthday. I can’t say thank you enough. I LOVE YOU. And not just for this—for everything. ♥♥ -Hugs and squishes! ♥-
BY THE WAY, WE NEED TO PLAN AN IM DATE. XD
no subject
Date: 2011-01-09 08:25 am (UTC)WE DO! WE DO! *curses time zones* It would be so awesome to talk to you in real time instead *___* ♥
no subject
Date: 2011-01-09 08:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-08 10:47 pm (UTC)You write longing so well! I loved the conclusion of it--no words (goodness knows they're no good with those) and just each other. ♥
no subject
Date: 2011-01-09 08:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-12 04:52 am (UTC)The scene with the honey bread was so full of UST, nghhh <3. But my favourite scene was definitely the last (well, next to last, really), with the attempted-kissing and misunderstandings, which obviously leads to more kissing with these boys. Very in-character and just perfectly done.
<33 definitely adding to my mems!
no subject
Date: 2011-04-12 03:26 pm (UTC)Okay, tl;dr I kind of love you right now, and thank you so much, again!! *flails at you* <333
no subject
Date: 2012-06-23 12:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-23 04:40 pm (UTC)