Guilt is to the Spirit
Author: lairofthedragon
Title: Guilt is to the Spirit
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/s: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon
Character/s: Merlin, Arthur Pendragon
Summary: Somedays, the guilt just becomes too much.
Warnings: None
Word Count: 985
Prompt: We need to talk
Author's Notes: The title is taken from a quote by Elder David A. Bednar: "Guilt is to the spirit what pain is to the body."
“Merlin, we need to talk about your drinking problem.”
The wine Merlin has been sipping on promptly makes its way out his nose.
“M’ what?!” Merlin yelps in between coughs, looking up. Arthur is standing in the tavern, right in front of him, and he looks more concerned than Merlin has ever seen. He rubs at his nose with the palm of his hand when Arthur looks pointedly at the half-full goblet of wine in his hand.
“You’ve been spending every other day in the tavern. You’re never there when I need you, and now that I’ve finally found you -- for the first time in days, might I add -- you’re drinking wine,” Arthur explains slowly, speaking to Merlin as though he’s a five-year-old. Which he isn’t because five-year-olds don’t drink alcohol. Obviously.
Arthur reaches out to take the goblet from Merlin’s grasp and sniffs it, wrinkling his nose. “And it’s not even good wine.”
“‘M not-- I don’t--” Merlin tries to deny, but he finds that he can’t find the words -- and no, that’s not because of how much alcohol he’s ingested, not at all. He and his tongue just haven’t been on the best of terms these past few hours, and it doesn’t want to do as it’s bid. “‘S not a problem.”
“Please, Merlin. Just stop,” Arthur says, putting down the goblet and moving to take a seat in front of Merlin. “What’s wrong.”
“I-- Nothin’s wrong.” Merlin grumbles. He tries to get up but Arthur’s hand darts out, grips his wrist, and Merlin is pulled back down.
“You’re not leaving here until you talk,” Arthur announces, not letting go of his wrist. “Or I swear to god, Merlin, you’ll spend the next few days doing nothing but mucking out the horses.”
Merlin looks at Arthur, bewildered, but Arthur merely raises first one eyebrow, then the other, and Merlin deflates, sinking lower in his chair.
“Can I ‘t least ‘ave ‘nother drink?” he asks hopefully, leaning across the table and making grabby hands for his goblet, but Arthur pushes it away. Merlin lets his chin hit the wood and groans. “Not nearly drunk ‘nough for this,” he mumbles.
“I beg to differ,” Arthur retorts, scrunching up his nose in disgust and moving the goblet to the other end of the bar. “So, what’s on your mind?”
You, Merlin wants to say, but he won’t because that’s just asking for trouble. Arthur’s been on his mind since the day they met. They’re best friends; they’re each other’s destiny.
And that had satisfied him, until a few days ago when he realised that he wanted more, but he couldn’t have it. Arthur is a King -- Arthur is the King, and he’s beautiful and noble and righteous, and who is Merlin but a sorcerer who lurks in the shadows and lives a lie?
The guilt that suddenly floods him makes him feel nauseous, and isn’t that funny because guilt is what drove him to drink in the first place.
“I don’ wanna talk t’ you,” he slurs, because he’s worried that once he does start talking, all the things he doesn’t want Arthur to know will suddenly spill out and he’ll never be looked at in the same way again.
Arthur sighs.
“If you don’t want to talk to me, talk to someone else,” Arthur whispers into the silence. “To Gwen, to Gwaine. Just. Don’t suffer alone, alright? You’ve got friends.”
Merlin looks up at him. Arthur is avoiding eye contact, clearly hurt by Merlin’s refusal to open up, and Merlin can feel his heart breaking in his chest and the guilt threatening to suffocate him again.
“Not t’day?” he whispers, begging Arthur to understand. “Someday. Not t’day.” He closes his eyes and rolls his head until the wooden surface of the table is resting against his cheek. It feels nice and cool against his fevered skin. Maybe he should make it a habit to sleep on tables from now on.
Arthur’s chair scrapes against the floor as he stands up. For a moment, Merlin thinks Arthur’s walking away and leaving him alone, but a second later he feels someone’s arms wrap themselves around him and he’s being hoisted up and out of his own chair. He manages one drunken grumble of protest before Arthur begins walking the both of them away, skirting between the tables and chairs, and right out the door into the cold night air.
“Where’re we going?” Merlin asks later, when they’re walking through the citadel and it becomes clear that they’re not headed to Gaius’s chambers.
“My chambers,” Arthur says. “Clearly, I can’t trust you not to go back to the tavern the second I take my eyes off you again.”
“‘S right.” Merlin nods gravely, thinking about all the times he used magic and betrayed Arthur; of all the times he lied to him . “Shouldn’t trust me. ‘T all.”
Arthur stops and turns to face Merlin.
“What are you talking about?” he asks, clearly confused and obviously more than slightly worried.
“‘S nothing,” Merlin says, instantly regretting his previous words. “Nothing,” he repeats.
They start walking again, and before Merlin knows it, he’s sitting on Arthur’s bed, and Arthur is kneeling in front of him and taking off his boots. He disappears from sight after manhandling Merlin under the covers.
“We’re talking about this in the morning.” Arthur’s voice comes from somewhere far away. Merlin startles as a cup of water is pushed into his hands and he’s made to drink.
“Sure,” he assents to appease Arthur, but come morning, he’ll be sober. Come morning, he’ll be able to deflect any questions Arthur might have about why he’s been so absent lately, about why he’s wallowing and drinking and avoiding any and all of his friends.
Come morning, they won’t talk about this at all.