Fic: Strange Beasts, Part 3: Smoke
Title: Strange Beasts
Author: alby_mangroves
Disclaimer: Merlin is not mine.
Word Count: This chapter: 1480
~Previous
Emerging from the bustle and noise of the dining hall into the castle's darkened corridors feels like stepping from daylight into night.
Listing under Arthur's weight and scraping his knuckles on the stone wall, Merlin hisses under his breath and tightens his grip around Arthur's waist.
Heavy wooden doors clang closed behind Merlin and his warm burden, and he blinks, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting and ears roaring with sudden silence.
With Arthur's heavy arm slung across his shoulders, Merlin alternates between awkward shuffling and ungainly lumbering. Swearing under his breath, he maneuvers his way down the corridor, trying not to slam them both into the unforgiving granite.
Seemingly oblivious, the Prince is a solid weight of relaxed muscle draped over Merlin's bony shoulders.
Smiling like a glassy-eyed loon, Arthur stumbles, reflexively tightening his arm around Merlin's neck, head lolling until it finds a home nestled under Merlin's jaw.
"You know," he slurs hot breath into Merlin's neck, "I've lived here m'whole life."
"Yes, Arthur, I know that," Merlin replies with a grunt. It's so very hard to concentrate on the discomfort of their awkward embrace rather than on the heat from Arthur's large hand dangling over Merlin's sternum, and flaxen hair snagging on the scruff peppering Merlin' jaw.
"I've met quite a few people, too," Arthur continues with a drunk's conviction, warm and solid and all over Merlin like an inebriated stole.
"Royalty and noblemen, countless performers and strange beasts..." Arthur's voice drifts in the deserted corridor, and it's probably just Merlin's imagination, but Arthur's heavy arm flexes infinitesimally, his bicep and forearm pincer-tight around Merlin's neck.
Merlin has been elbow-deep in Arthur's dirty clothes and bedding. He has emptied the Prince's chamber pot and prepared his bath, but somehow, until this very moment, he never knew Arthur smelled of warm leather and clean sweat. He's not sure how he missed it, but there it is, right in his nose like a spike to the brain-the unmistakable tang of the man.
Unable to escape the Prince's surprisingly strong grip, he stumbles along with Arthur anchored solidly against him, and the scent of him is so close and heady Merlin can barely think straight.
"Your cushy life has been one big party, I'm sure," Merlin forces out, finally hefting Arthur's weight down the corridor and into the doorway of the Prince's chambers, where he leans them both against the doorjamb.
He tries to extricate himself from Arthur's drunken embrace, but the Prince won't release him, won't relax his hold.
"Please, Arth-"
"But none, Merlin, none so strange a beast as you," Arthur continues as if he hasn't heard Merlin answer, murmuring into the taut skin of Merlin's throat.
He lifts his blond head, and it suddenly seems that he's not as drunk as Merlin had thought.
Arthur's even breaths are tainted with the sweetness of honey mead, and his eyes are sharp and curious in the dim corridor, candle-flame echoes dancing within them like fairies on the lake.
A foreign sharpness twists between Merlin's ribs again, and the entire surface of his skin tingles with anticipation, for what-he's not sure.
Merlin doesn't recall casting a spell to suck the air from his lungs, but he seems to be breathless, drowning right here in the doorway to Arthur's rooms.
Arthur blinks, abruptly breaking the spell, gaze slightly unfocused once more as befits a man with a few under his belt. "None like you," he repeats, blue eyes almost rolling back in his head, casting fluttering shadows over his cheeks.
Somehow, Merlin's heart keeps thumping as he searches Arthur's face for some indication of meaning, but finds him slackened, already half unconscious.
Extricating his shaking hand from around Arthur's waist, he wedges a shoulder against him to stop him from falling and opens the door, half dragging, half manhandling Arthur inside and to his bed.
With Arthur's arm still around his shoulders, Merlin tries to let him down gently, but Arthur won't have it, he won't let go of Merlin's neck.
He grunts his displeasure and tightens his arm, grasping a fistful of Merlin's shirt and overbalancing them both until they're slipping on the slate floor like ungainly puppies.
Arthur drops backward, spilling bonelessly over the plush coverlets and pillows in pink-cheeked, ruffle-feathered, long-limbed disarray.
Merlin is neither so lucky nor so graceful, having landed face down in Arthur's armpit.
Still wedged against the prince's chest by a remarkably strong grip on the neck of his shirt, he finds he can't easily get out from under Arthur's arm.
"For crying out loud," he mutters into Arthur's flank, exasperated by this ridiculous situation, and the whole evening, and in fact, his entire life- spent keeping secrets about one thing or another.
He'll be asleep in a minute, Merlin thinks, and then I can slip out.
Blood beats relentlessly in his ears and he realizes that his entire body is so tense; he's almost a plank of wood thrown across Arthur's bed.
Beside him, the prince dozes quietly, and Merlin thinks it might be all right to relax a little, just enough not to be so uncomfortably stiff. Piece by tiny piece, he tries to ease his rigid body into limpness, but somehow there's always more tension to shed and he hovers, shaking with it, afraid to let it go.
Finally, sensing no change in Arthur's breathing, he allows himself to really sink with a great sigh, relieved beyond measure to finally have lungs full of air again, grinning when Arthur does not stir.
Giving in to the lull of Arthur's even, deep breaths, Merlin's eyes widen suddenly as he becomes aware of being gathered so close into the prince's solid bulk, they're literally cuddling.
He'll never know, Merlin tells himself while a swarm of butterflies takes flight inside him, just this once.
He inhales deeply, nuzzling right into Arthur's side and letting the scent spear him through, from his nose to his balls, to the very soles of his feet.
He rasps his stubbled cheek over the deep red and gold of Arthur's festive tunic and smiles against the velvety suede which drapes Arthur's hard contours in plush softness.
Arthur shivers, perhaps touched by the chill that creeps over the keep in the small hours, and Merlin responds without thinking, he merely flicks his golden-eyed gaze at the dying embers in the hearth, setting them immediately, deliciously alight.
Emboldened by his master's oblivion, Merlin folds his entire lanky body around Arthur's solid one, fitting himself into Arthur's side so perfectly, not even a lick of smoke could come between them.
Just for a moment, he thinks as the heat from the fire spreads through the room, and as if in response, Arthur's arm tightens, pressing imprints of ceremonial motifs into Merlin's cheek.
His chest rumbles with a deep, throat-clearing grunt, and Merlin stills rigid again as he realizes the prince isn't unconscious after all.
"I've worked it out," Arthur rasps suddenly.
"What?" Merlin mutters muffled shock into Arthur's ribs, scrambling for the ways he can deny all the things that must be denied.
Dread burns through his veins, turning blood to ash at the implication that Arthur knows.
Arthur snores lightly in response, and Merlin breathes a sigh of relief, but it's short-lived.
"I've worked out why you're different, Merlin," Arthur's eventual reply comes softly, remarkably coherent. "And it's not just because you're the village idiot."
Merlin snorts. "Why then, Arthur?"
The silence stretches so long, Merlin thinks Arthur has fallen asleep again. But no, just as he gives up hope of knowing, Arthur licks his lips and continues.
"Everyone wants something from me. Everyone but you. You don't want anything except the clothes you stand in and the food you put in your mouth. You don't want riches, or advancement, or my father's ear."
Merlin swallows thickly, unfolding himself from the prince's side. He looks at Arthur's glistening mouth, as red as if he'd rubbed cherries over it, and waits breathlessly for more words to slip out, grateful this isn't about magic.
"You're just you, like nothing else matters. You don't want anything." Arthur's voice fades at the last, and as he turns into the bedding it's clear he's finally asleep, mouth slightly ajar, tiny snores rumbling deep in his chest.
Merlin watches him, a guilty ache spreading its smoky fingers around his heart and throttling it. Suddenly, he feels like a fraud.
"You don't know how wrong you are," he whispers, knowing the truth of it, though the idea is as new as spring lambs not yet upright on their wobbly legs.
He does want something, very much, though he didn't even know it until this moment.
With Arthur's arm still around his shoulders, he lowers himself to lie next to the prince, imaging they're still lazing in the sunny heather, free as larks.
Just a moment longer, he thinks, closing his eyes against the real world.
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