[Fic] The Falling out of Love Potion (pt. 2) - for morcalivan
Title:The Falling out of Love Potion.
Author: Anonymous
Recipient: morcalivan
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Merlin/Arthur
Warnings: None!
Spoilers: Just general for series one.
Rating: NC-17.
Word Count: 14,016 words.
Summary: Gaius has a potion. It shouldn’t be drunk, no really, except that Merlin has just found out he’s in a sad pickle.
Author's Note: Beta read by the splendid and shiny one_dreamery All further mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction - none of this ever happened. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
[Part One]
Arthur wakes up at around eight, finding no breakfast, no stoked fire and no manservant in his room. He curses loudly enough for half the castle to hear. He gets out of bed, obviously already out of sorts, stomps to the door and hails -- almost physically tackles -- the first passing servant to find out what has happened to his own and to require their services so that he can break his fast this not-so-fine morning. Half an hour later, more or less, he gets his breakfast. A maid, blushing and servile, brings it up only to scurry away quickly, almost as if she's afraid of Arthur on the basis of his reputation alone. That's laughable. That is also why he usually prefers Merlin; he never acts around Arthur as if he is overly conscious of his princely status. Merlin's friendly and concerned but never sycophantic.
Arthur is planning to wreak vengeance upon Merlin for his absence when someone knocks on his door. The sound is a dry, urgent rap that heralds nothing good. As soon as Arthur has let out a measured, “Come in,” Gaius appears. Arthur does not remember sending for Gaius and the physician doesn't usually regale him with his presence when Arthur hasn't asked. His presence here would be baffling on that score alone, but Arthur Pendragon can put two and two together. There's no Merlin, but here is Gaius. Gaius must therefore be here on Merlin's behalf.
“Sire, I'm here to inform you that Merlin won't be able to attend you today. He has caught an illness and it's to be feared it's contagious.”
Arthur can't wrap his head around that concept. Merlin was perfectly fine yesterday. Yes, he was scratching himself, but Arthur is sure that nothing was the matter with him. He laughed and laughed all evening long and he looked both happy and healthy.
“Ah, I see,” he says noncommittally. Arthur is suspicious - not by nature and not generally, as he has always entrusted his health to Gaius, but this time something just doesn't sit right. He believes that Merlin is trying to wiggle out of his chores by pretending to be ill. He wouldn't put it past Merlin, even though Arthur is fairly sure Gaius wouldn't help him along if that were the case, unless he thought Arthur was overworking Merlin without telling Arthur himself.
“I'll pass by after training to see how he's doing,” Arthur offers sweetly, wanting to get to the bottom of this.
“No, sire!” Gaius hurries to exclaim. “Merlin's disease is contagious and as the prince it would be only wise for you to keep away from him. You're the heir to the throne and I'm sure the king himself would not approve of your risking your life so, when there's no reason.” Gaius is employing a very level, expository tone and that in and of itself makes Arthur even more suspicious than he was before the volley of words. Gaius loves Merlin, but right now, he's sounding as if he's more concerned with keeping Arthur away from him than with Merlin's own immediate well-being. That is not Gaius.
“Very well,” Arthur intones lazily, feigning disinterest. “I'm sure Merlin will get back to work as soon as he is able to, as long as he doesn't die from whatever's afflicting him. Pity, he was starting to get the hang of a few things. I'll have to train a new servant.” Arthur watches Gaius get a little paler, but his face is not very expressive right now, as if he's hiding something. Arthur will find out what that something is.
Now, he's got some young, unproved knights to train and massacre, but later he'll test his detecting skills.
****
Merlin has been shut in his room, bolt drawn, for the past five hours. He's starting to suffer from cabin fever. He knows he can't get out and that there's no solution to this quandary right now. He's tempted to try a spell or two on himself just to see if he can solve this easily and quickly, but he tells himself to wait some more. Gaius stormed off hours before telling him he'd first go and warn Arthur that Merlin wouldn't be putting in an appearance today -- or maybe ever, if Merlin listened to the dramatic side of his brain -- and later he'd go and secrete himself in the library in search of an antidote to the antidote to the love potion.
Since he has nothing better to do, Merlin marches into the workroom and rips off a page from one of Gaius' blank books, the ones he uses to note down potion dosages and such. He plods back to his room, redraws the bolt while noticing that he's still glowing very, very brightly and flops down onto his bed. He starts artistically folding the ripped piece of paper, trying to reproduce shapes. By the third time he's spectacularly failed at trying to create a paper dragon, he just closes his eyes and whispers, “Scieppan draca.” He's holding a tiny, winged and perfect parchment dragon in his hands now. If he could only stop glowing, life would be almost perfect, except he thinks he may be getting brighter, if at all possible.
****
Gaius hasn't found a solution in any of Geoffrey's books, which he thinks is normal given that not that many people are both magical and have quaffed down an anti-love potion that makes them glow. The peddler Gaius requisitioned the potions from had sold various bottles of the elixir to a variety of peasants and none of them had exhibited any such symptom, which means that the potion is decidedly interacting with Merlin's magic to create the lamentable, glowing side-effect.
Gaius exhales and casts aside the last dusty and heavy tome. There is nothing for it. He'll have to go and visit the dragon. Gaius consigns the book he just consulted back to Geoffrey and wearily plods away from the Archives. He makes his way through the meandering hallways and passageways of the castle, descends three flights of stairs and, benefiting from a moment of distraction on the part of the sentries guarding the dungeons, steals down and into the cave the Dragon is imprisoned in.
He gingerly walks across the protruding ledge in the cave and calls out, “I know you are there. I've come on Merlin's behalf.”
For a few long moments, nothing happens, but Gaius is aware of the fact the Dragon is there, chained, and can't possibly escape; Gaius decides to wait him out. The beast will appear when convenient.
That's confirmed when the Dragon Uther imprisoned twenty years ago swoops down with a mighty whooshing sound to come and perch on the rock directly in front of Gaius. Gaius gives it a chiding look as if to say, you might impress Merlin, but not me, though he decides to be careful.
“The young warlock meant to put a spoke in the wheels of destiny,” the Dragon states cryptically, by way of greeting.
Gaius takes a step forwards, paying attention to his movements as he doesn't want to fall into the chasm. “Merlin seems to be suffering from the side effects of a potion he drank,” Gaius explains carefully.
“As I said,” the dragons says angrily, as if talking to a child and not a venerable man of Gaius' age and experience.
“Would you have a remedy or know of one?” Gaius insinuates, though he's affronted by the beast's attitude. Gaius suspects the Dragon of playing a game with them all, which is the only reason that keeps his conscience at bay. Gaius is, in fact, by no means sure that the winged creature has ever had Merlin's best interests at heart; the fact the Dragon has only one thing on his mind, that being exercising his revenge upon the king that slayed his kind, is not something that makes Gaius trust him, even though he'd be the first to acknowledge Uther's cruelty in this matter.
“The young warlock's body is rejecting the substance he ingested. What he did is not meant to be; his magic won't allow it. The little man-made potion cannot alter destiny or make a difference; it is time Merlin acknowledged that he is magic and that his magic is linked to his destiny and Albion's. The potion has had no effect on him; its potency is but a trifle when compared to Merlin's magic. The side-effects, as you mortals call them, will only disappear when Merlin embraces his destiny and confesses.”
Gaius is having difficulties grasping everything that the Dragon has just said, mostly because he still doesn't know what Merlin's decision to fall out of love with someone has to do with his magic. Gaius is wary, though he's beginning to think the Dragon may have had a larger part in this than the one he admitted to.
“If King Uther should find out,” Gaius says and trails off, hoping to convince the Dragon to undo what he's done. They both know what Uther would do in case he found out he'd housed and given a job to a real sorcerer.
“Uther mustn't, then,” the Dragon concludes and tilts its huge head as if to make a point. Gaius would like to say something more, but the Dragon dismisses him by spitting out a little smoke and taking off, wings flapping and chain rattling behind him.
Gaius loves Merlin like a son, he does, but sometimes the boy manages to get into very peculiar scrapes. It as if he had to deal with a five year old.
****
As soon as training is over, Arthur hurries back to his room. He sheds his mail, washes methodically and changes back into a simple shirt and breeches, and all of that by himself because his manservant is officially too ill to attend him. Ill, my arse! So Arthur, extremely put out and a lot curious as to how Merlin could have managed to persuade level-headed Gaius to cover for him, sprints out of his room again barely half an hour after having entered it.
Gaius warned him earlier today that whatever Merlin has is highly contagious; Arthur would stop and consider before exposing himself to such a danger if he thought it was true, but he has every reason to believe it isn't. Even if it was, however, he'd probably risk it all the same. He's a prince and not afraid of any ailment, though he knows he could be brought down by one. Besides, he'd want to see Merlin if he wasn't well or worse. He'd want to talk to him, and tease him a bit because then Merlin would grin at him and he's sure Merlin would mend. Arthur has saved Merlin once, and now he thinks he could save him every time, and if that's preposterous, that's also what he wants to be true.
It's five in the afternoon and autumn to boot; the corridor he's striding along is ill-lit and draughty. He sees, however, a young page boy walking quickly just in the direction opposite to his. Arthur stops him. The page boy, who's all of fifteen and perhaps ganglier and more slender than Merlin himself, blushes and stammers something that could verily have been, “Your highness.”
Arthur smirks, being used to the reaction, though he soon recovers and asks,” Have you seen Gaius, the physician, today?” He's asking because Arthur saw Gaius crossing the courtyard with a furtive air at around noon and wants some extra information as to what the physician, and for that matter, Merlin, are up to.
“I know Gaius,” the boy says, not answering Arthur's question immediately. Instead he rambles on, adding, “He splintered my arm three months ago and now it's as good as new.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow.
The boy clears his throat, “Yes, well. I saw him go into the Archives, my lord. He and my lord Geoffrey are fast friends.” The boy, who does have something in common with Arthur's Merlin, prattles on till the prince dismisses him with a pat on the back. Arthur watches him scamper off and sniggers. He soon regains his composure and tromps down the hallway, mounting up the stairs leading to the eastern turret and the physician's quarters.
When he sees the sturdy door, he knocks on it but obtains no answers. He knocks again to get a similar result. He's more than a little fazed. Shouldn't Merlin be inside lying very ill on his bed of woe? If Merlin's persuaded Gaius into stringing Arthur along to scarper off with a comely maid, Arthur will wring his manservant's neck, no qualms about it. Really - Merlin has no business going and falling for random girls.
Arthur tries the handle because this he has to see through; it's all so suspicious. The door doesn't give. It's locked and probably even bolted from the inside. Now Arthur knows Gaius never bothers to lock his door in case someone in need should want in in an emergency, so this doesn't add up. He tries one last time, hollering, “Merlin!” Nothing. With the rattle he's making, he should have woken Merlin up if he was inside. So he isn't. Arthur has the wish to catch him red-handed, so to speak. He marches off in a tiff. He has a plan.
****
“Pickled bollocks,” Merlin vocalises as soon as the door to the workshop ceases rattling and he hears the noise of retreating footsteps. Merlin is potentially a dead man. If Arthur had come in and seen him like this he'd already be on his way to the dungeons. Merlin is trapped. He's still glowing, more so than even this morning, and since the sun has gone down, his brilliancy, luminescence, or whatever one wants to call it, has become even more evident. He's a beacon in the night and he can't escape Camelot in this condition - he'd be spotted and tracked. His only real hope lies with Gaius now. Hopefully Arthur will be too distracted to come back and try again. Yeah, and if wishes were horses, magic would be legal in Camelot.
There is nothing for it but to try a self-spell.
“Gewendan eft dæghwāmlīce,” he intones as loudly as he can.
No, he's still very much glowing.
This is going to be a long evening.
****
Arthur is the prince. As the prince, Arthur has the keys to every room, broom closet or dungeon in the castle. He doesn't have the keys to the physician's quarters because they're not under his direct responsibility and care, but he does possess a set of skeleton keys in case he misplaces one of the keys that should be in his keeping. Therefore, it's pretty easy for Arthur to get back down to his room, retrieve the skeleton key he keeps in his cabinet and march towards Gaius' workshop, fuming and raging and wanting to strangle his own manservant, who he'd thought would never lie to him.
Fifteen minutes after having first tried the door to Gaius', Arthur is back there, feet planted in front of it as if it has a will of its own in trying to thwart his efforts. This time, he doesn't even bother to knock, for he's more than sure that Merlin is not in, but is, in the contrary, in the company of some giggling maiden that has no business pawing his manservant. He'll send the girl off to serve an octogenarian Lord who lives in the vicinity of the Marshlands, see if he doesn't.
The sight that presents itself to him upon opening the door is, truth to say, not exactly expected, not even remotely so; it could never have been in a decent, normally-functioning universe. There is Merlin, sitting behind one of those hyper-cluttered workbenches of Gaius', head propped up on his head, elbows planted on the bench. He is also glowing and twinkling anomalously. Merlin shoots up upon seeing Arthur striding in and starts babbling. “I swear I can explain this, Arthur.”
Arthur's mouth is hanging open; he's perfectly aware of that. He'd close it, but he's paralysed. People don't glow, unless one means it in a metaphorical sense. This is not metaphorical at all and not natural either.
“Arthur?” Merlin's totally broken, devastated voice is what shakes him out of his stupor. Merlin is still shedding light.
“You're not ill, are you?” Arthur demands and he almost wishes the question back since he knows it was one of his stupidest to date.
Merlin backs three steps away, runs a hand through his hair so that it looks even more unkempt than it was a scant minute before, and says, “No, I…I was...”
Arthur walks backwards so that he can close and latch the door he flung open when entering. He doesn't let Merlin out of his field of vision because he knows what this looks like, what it is. “How long?” he asks bitterly.
“What?” Merlin asks.
Arthur roars, “Come on, Merlin. I'm not an idiot.” He feels betrayed and bitter. Merlin is glowing and his eyes are golden and it's clear that - that this is... He can't even think it let alone use the words, but he'd very much like for Merlin to speak up, say something. He wants him to grovel and beg and he almost wants to hurt him, till he realises that that's not what he really craves, either. Merlin has to give him the truth somehow because Arthur doesn't know what to think anymore. He'd thought this a game played between them: Merlin trying to weasel out of his workload game, entailing a little taunting, a little punishment and then the start of a new game. This, this is totally different. This is serious.
“I--” Merlin begins, but his voice comes off rusty.
“Merlin,” Arthur says, and this time he's composed. Bitter, but composed.
“I'm a sorcerer. Always have been. Before you ask, I never asked for it. I was just born this way, and if you're wondering why I never told you, well, I bet you know why.”
Arthur's legs feel strange, as if all of a sudden they can't support his weight, but he won't let it show, so he stands up straighter and says, “I believe that is the truth.” He doesn't offer more, though he watches Merlin, seemingly unperturbed. Merlin's eyes are foreign and gold and different, barely human. There's a hint of power in there, in Merlin's eyes, and an even more worrying hint of tears. It's as if the confession has just broken Merlin, and Arthur really doesn't even begin to comprehend why he should feel like the bad guy now when he's the one who was lied to and tricked into believing things that were neither real nor true. Was Merlin's loyalty ever real, or was it just insurance against Uther?
“I'm not my father,” he hints. Merlin stares at him, wide-eyed and childlike and yet so very alien and mysterious. What is this creature, Arthur asks himself. His simple manservant or a dark sorcerer of the kind his father has always warned him against? Certainly, Merlin has wormed his way into Arthur's heart from day one and Arthur's affection for him has never had neither rhyme nor reason. It's always been too powerful, something to be curbed and tamed. Before Merlin, he'd never looked at servants twice, and now he seeks their regard and wants their love and respect. Before Merlin, he'd never looked at a boy with lust in his eyes or fire in his veins; now, he does. Before Merlin, the world was quite different and simple; now, Arthur doesn't know which way is up or down, or whether his father is right or wrong.
“Do you want to kill me?” Arthur asks placidly. “Are you here for that?”
Merlin laughs and then he cries a little. He's out of his mind; Arthur can see that. He can almost touch the despair with his fingers because Merlin, Merlin can't really hide anything, except perhaps the one thing that counts. And Arthur, like an idiot, feels for him, because he always does. Merlin can break him with his innocent boyishness and his optimistic enthusiasm. When he looks devastated, though, Merlin can break him twice as fast. The point, however, is not to show how Merlin, now a potential enemy, is affecting him. Arthur needs the truth now more than ever. He needs to know.
“No! Why? What? No!” Merlin argues, and it doesn't make a lick of sense.
“Are you here because you want to ingratiate yourself and then kill me?”
Merlin's shoulders slump. One tear runs down from his eyes and his voice is a wreck of what it usually is when he says. “No, I want you to live and become the...greatest...king there will ever be. I can't really help what I am. I'm magic, but all of it is really at your service, I swear. I--”
Arthur frowns. “Why should I believe you? My father warned me against sorcerers. He said they know how to lure you and take you in. They can pretend they're your friends when they're not.”
Merlin moves towards Arthur in a flail of limbs, despair and incoherence. “Because I love you, you idiot! Because I love you and I didn't mean for you to find out like this; I meant to tell you that I'm magic when you were my friend, when I had your trust. Some day. And I'd have chosen the right moment and I'd have explained.” Merlin moves even closer and Arthur doesn't flinch or back away. He can't; he's astounded and his heart is pounding to the rhythm set by an invisible army on the march.
“But I drank a stupid potion so I could stop loving you and be a better friend and all that happened is this,” Merlin blabbers, pointing to his glowing limbs, and all of a sudden, as if the words were enough to break the spell, Merlin stops glowing and looks ordinary again, an ordinary, willowy blue-eyed idiot who's all distraught and has just told Arthur that he doesn't want to love him. And Arthur, Arthur is mentally staggering through it all. Merlin gasps and flashes him a broken smile that could melt hearts made of stone. And the truth is Arthur's isn't, for all that he dislikes any excessive display of emotion.
“Why?” Arthur probes carefully, voice dry because he can't let anything show, even though this time he'd even want to. “Why did you drink that? Why?”
“Because you don't, prat!” Merlin explains, a tad hysterically. “Because you don't and I didn't want it like that.”
Arthur swallows, but his mouth is feeling dry and his head is pounding and his heart hammering when he asks, “So now you've got rid of the unwanted feeling, haven't you?” His voice is as dry as dust analysis, but it belies the internal turmoil that is churning inside him. He should be thinking about the magic and the betrayal of trust and partly he is, but what is shattering him right now is the fact that Merlin, for all his professions of loyalty, doesn't even want to love him and did so unwillingly. That Merlin went to the point of guzzling down a dangerous substance that even outed him as a sorcerer so as not to love him hurts. He thought he had it.
“Oh,” Merlin says quietly in a self-deprecatory way. “But everything just went awry. You're right. I'm a dolt and yesterday, I thought the potion had worked, but now I know it never really has, so see, it was just an epic cock-up.”
It figures, only Merlin could declare his love so stupidly, so badly, so epically unromantically. The good thing is Arthur never was a romantic and probably never will be. He can risk this now; he can. He does have it. He strides up to Merlin, grabs him by the collar of his already rumpled shirt and crushes his mouth to his. Merlin scrunches his eyes shut, trembles for a second under him and parts his lips. Arthur kisses him roughly, with some pent up rage and a large part of crazed, ecstatic enthusiasm, cupping the nape of Merlin's neck with his other hand. Merlin moans out loud as Arthur's tongue explores his mouth madly, tongue swirling and gliding against Merlin's, mingling with his. Then Merlin grasps a handful of Arthur's hair, tugs and it hurts a little. They part and Merlin, the sweet idiot, still has his eyes closed, though he won't let go of the lock of Arthur's hair he's desperately tugging on.
“Ouch,” Arthur jokes, “you don't want me bald, do you?”
Merlin lets go and opens his eyes again and they're quite something, Merlin's eyes - no longer an alien gold, they are smiling a little for him, and yes, Merlin can smile with his eyes and Arthur can't help but lean in again. This time he kisses him differently, more kindly, trapping Merlin's lower lip between his and retreating, then touching his lips again in a soft little peck. Merlin's lips are soft and plump and Arthur watches, pleased, as Merlin wets them and then surges up to meet him again. It's a lip to lip hello, just brushing and soft grazing till Arthur makes it deep again and starts physically shoving Merlin, who's been very malleable up to now, backwards towards the boy's own room and bed. Arthur also needs a few seconds to regroup because suddenly he feels like he needs more air. A feeling of excitation that travelled down his spine for a few moments there has to be taken care of, and he just needs to get it under control before he becomes as stupid as Merlin. Somebody has to know what they're doing and given Merlin's happy, flustered expression, that somebody is not going to be his manservant.
So Arthur marches him into the tiny room and shoves him down onto the very narrow bed, but receives not a protest. Arthur eyes the piece of furniture critically, wondering if it'll hold their joined weights, when he thinks sod it all and straddles a lust-befuddled Merlin, who hugs him tight to himself and kisses his temple.
Merlin wraps an arm around Arthur's waist and stares up at him and Arthur's heart starts beating as if he has just run for his life or duelled against the worthiest of opponents. He bends down, fixing his gaze on Merlin's lips, which are opening, and Arthur's gently eases his tongue in again. His hands start roving, caressing Merlin's arm, kneading a shoulder. He pulls back a little; Arthur's mouth strays and he starts mouthing Merlin's neck just as Merlin throws his head back and starts practically purring, his fist clenching the fabric of Arthur's shirt. Arthur lays a series of tiny nibbling kisses all over Merlin's throat and around his collarbone, one after the other and he feels like he could never tire of this hot and heavy sampling of Merlin's skin, till he finds Merlin's shirt a terrible impediment to any further exploration.
He sits back in Merlin's lap, feeling the proof of Merlin's very real arousal and passion for him. He grips the hem of Merlin's shirt. Comprehension dawns on Merlin's features and his manservant sits up and pulls his own shirt off, a little hurriedly, a little comically, asking, “Is this what you want of me?”
“Yes,” Arthur answers, voice low. He disposes of his own finer tunic, throwing it somewhere behind him and not caring where it lands, and then he feels Merlin running his hands up and down his torso, in a gentle exploratory sweep. Arthur has to drink in air because that makes him hot and bothered and hard in a second flat. This is Merlin, stupid and awkward even in bed, wanting him. It makes him feel great; it makes him feel cherished like he's never been.
He lowers himself down again while Merlin's legs make room for him. His instinct is to rock down against Merlin, build up a rhythm. The bed really does creak ominously and Merlin laughs. “We'll break it and then Gaius will kill me and then your father will draw and quarter me because he'll find out I touched the crown prince.”
“You can touch me however much you want, wherever you want,” Arthur says, mock seductively and it's the right thing to say, the right amount of inconsequential humour and goofy seduction to bring into this, for Merlin unfreezes and wraps his arms around his middle and kisses his shoulder.
“Want you,” Merlin says, head buried in Arthur's chest and this time Arthur really can't stop himself. He rocks down and Merlin whimpers and his hips shoot up on instinct to meet his. They kiss once more and then Arthur presses Merlin down, trails kisses down Merlin's too pale, too lean torso, a torso that is not bulky enough for a man his age. Arthur reluctantly climbs off him to get rid of his riding boots and breeches and everything else that can come between them. He doesn't feel as if he needs to put up a show; Merlin is already flushed from head to toe and if he looks down at his own chest, he will have to admit that a rosy tint is spreading there too. Once he's naked, though, he lets himself stand proudly before Merlin, chest sticking out, hands hanging calmly at his side. He's got nothing to hide, neither his excitement, which his anatomy is betraying, nor his commitment to this. He feels wanted and he wants madly in return.
Merlin reaches out. He still has his trousers on but the rest of him looks more enticing than Arthur could have believed possible; bed-tousled hair and clean cut limbs that are both coltish and graceful draw him. Arthur looks down at him from where he is standing, at the high colour on Merlin's cheeks, but mostly he cants his head and quirks up an eyebrow as if to point to Merlin's trousers, lamenting their presence.
“Oh,” Merlin goes, and his hands start to fumble the laces. Arthur stalks toward him from where he is and swats Merlin's hands away. He undoes the frayed laces himself, but doesn't tug the trousers off; instead, he cups Merlin through the fabric and is rewarded with a keening sound as Merlin screws his eyes shut once more. It sounds as if he can't take it. Arthur massages him, feels his hardness and watches his mouth part in an astounded gasp. He studies Merlin with the attention of a hawk and has to admire him as his chest rises and falls quickly, shoulders shaking.
“I... ah,” Merlin tries to say. And then, “Stop,” he shouts pained. Arthur kisses the corner of his lips and stops. Just as Merlin turns his head to meet his, Arthur moves away. He frees Merlin from his brown boots and his trousers, slips them down his legs, past the bony knees and off. They're easily got rid of and then off the small clothes come too. And there, he runs a hand down Merlin's, flank, past a hip, down his leg and Merlin shivers and reaches for him once more and this time Arthur goes, settles on him, chest to chest, lower limbs trapped between Merlin's spread legs, Merlin's erection flat against his belly and leaking a little at the tip, just a tiny bead. Merlin is panting now, as if he can't breathe properly. Arthur himself feels giddy and daring and happy: if one of them hadn't come out and said it they wouldn't be here.
“Arthur?” Merlin asks, noting probably that Arthur has suddenly stilled. Arthur surges up, searches out Merlin's mouth with his, kisses him deeply and warmly and wetly and rocks forward against Merlin. That wrenches a deep moan from Arthur's throat. It'd be embarrassing if he wasn't so crazy for it. He's usually not vocal in bed, not much. He grunts and puffs and breathes faster like any other man, but he's seldom moaned out loud for all the world to hear, having been trained to keep things like his bed partners secret.
Arthur kneels back, lets his fingers roam and gazes at Merlin, asking silently.
“You're bonkers if you don't know that already,” Merlin hints and Arthur's finger pushes in as Merlin throws one arm over his head. Arthur pushes in, waits, retreats, circles around the skin there and works two fingers inside, feeling the softness against the pad of his fingers. Merlin bites his lip and arches up. He's taken up racehorse levels of panting and looks thoroughly agonised.
“Is it--? Does it hurt?” Arthur wants him, but he is no barbarian and he has nothing and he'd cut his own hand off before doing something Merlin doesn't want or doesn't like.
Merlin licks his lips, exhales, and his hand clamps around Arthur's forearm. “Yes.”
Arthur stops.
“No, it hurts in a good way,” Merlin says softly and persuades Arthur to continue though they have nothing here. Then Arthur's ready to slap a hand against his forehead because the workshop is near and Gaius is sure to have a salve or lotion that would do. He says as much.
“Read labels, this time,” Merlin cautions, and though he's aiming for humour, he's also half-serious. Arthur levers himself reluctantly up, feeling the cold slap of air on his skin, whereas he'd been nicely warmed by Merlin's fever-hot body, and rushes back into the lab totally naked. He'd feel like a cretin if it wasn't for his need to hurry and find something. He rummages inside a drawer, finds nothing and proceeds to check the shelves. Finally his fingers close around a vial. The label reads massage oil so he makes a dash for Merlin's room and Merlin's bed. Dashing is a bad idea because the bed creaks once more when he sort of bounces onto it.
“I won't be able to explain the bed wreckage to Gaius,” Merlin warns him as Arthur settles back between Merlin's legs. He uses the oil on himself and slicks Merlin up with his fingers as best he can. Merlin inhales and says, “Go on, prat.” There's little room for humour now.
And Arthur does; he pushes in as slowly as he can and incrementally sinks deeper in. He covers Merlin, settling a good part of his weight on him, and waits a few long moments, to try to adapt to the tightness around him and so that Merlin can adjust too. He whispers in Merlin's ears once he's bottomed out and can go no farther, and Merlin clings to him and then tugs him up by the hair and kisses him. It's molten hot and sloppy and crazy. Arthur thrusts, hips shooting forward quite out of his control, while looking for a rhythm and a position that can be pleasurable for them both. The heat is unbelievable, the tightness even more so.
Merlin arches under him and starts raving, saying incoherent nothings that Arthur wants to drown with his mouth. Kissing, now, is more difficult. Arthur's losing his sense of coordination as he thrusts in deep but not as hard as he could. He wants this to be soft and not frenzied, though lust is blinding him and his heart is skipping beats. Merlin pushes back against him, while at the same time he tries to bring himself off by sneaking a hand between them. Arthur lets him and bends his head so that he can kiss his throat. Arthur's spine flexes as he presses in once more, trying to seek a new angle, trying to undo Merlin, trying to give as much as he can in return for this boy's devoted, blind, passionate, calf love. And then he must have done something spectacularly right, for Merlin starts thrashing and writhing, so Arthur does it again, though he feels as if something is squeezing his heart within his chest. Merlin's head moves restlessly against the thin, straw-filled pillow, till he decides to bury his nose in it. Arthur slides almost all the way out, sinks in again, rests all his weight on Merlin and starts pumping shallowly. That's when Merlin bends his back into an almost-perfect arc, hips shooting off the mattress in a way that nearly dislodges Arthur. Who'd have suspected Merlin, reedy and lanky as he is, had this much strength in him.
Also right then, Merlin clenches around him like a vise and Arthur grunts out. He grunts out again as he watches Merlin, for Merlin closes his eyes, as if he can't take this. Merlin has this slack-jawed, tortured expression on his face; he groans, a low level sound that comes deep from somewhere, and shudders. He balls his fist, hits the mattress with it, and trembles violently. Arthur feels him coming underneath him and can do very little to stop himself from following. Less than thirty seconds later, he has, and he knows it was more the sight of Merlin than the friction or stimulation provided. He collapses onto him, clammy, bed-warm skin a pleasure to feel sliding against his own. He slips free.
“Merlin?”
“You want me to compliment you on your performance? I'm biased....because I...You know. So stop fishing.”
“Okay,” Arthur says and kisses Merlin's lips chastely once more. “You know I'm not totally unaffected, do you?” he asks, but Merlin's snoring.
****
When Gaius repairs to his quarters, he finds his door locked, as he earlier today bid Merlin to do to avoid anyone witnessing his apprentice's condition. He has the key, though, and turns it into the lock. He's quite surprised to find that Merlin has prudently latched the door shut.
“Merlin,” Gaius calls, but he receives no answer. Pity, Merlin must have fallen asleep. Gaius knows how to open his own door even when it is latched shut. It's very easy; all that is required is stealing a hand between the door and its frame and pulling the latch back. When he steps inside, the room is very still, so he walks towards Merlin's bedroom in search of his apprentice. They have to discuss the dragon's words about confessions being the only way to stop the unearthly glowing. What Gaius certainly doesn't expect to see is that Merlin has stopped glowing all by himself. What he certainly can't believe, to the point that he rubs his old eyes, is that the crown prince of Camelot is lying belly down on Merlin's bed, completely naked and with an equally naked and sleeping Merlin quashed underneath him, head burrowed against his chest.
Well, at least Merlin won't risk discovery now: he only has to fear Uther's wrath if he ever should find out about Merlin and the prince's intimate, for lack of a better word, relationship. Gaius gently closes the door to Merlin's room and goes to make himself a herbal tisane. He sorely deserves one.
The End.
Author: Anonymous
Recipient: morcalivan
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Merlin/Arthur
Warnings: None!
Spoilers: Just general for series one.
Rating: NC-17.
Word Count: 14,016 words.
Summary: Gaius has a potion. It shouldn’t be drunk, no really, except that Merlin has just found out he’s in a sad pickle.
Author's Note: Beta read by the splendid and shiny one_dreamery All further mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction - none of this ever happened. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
[Part One]
Arthur wakes up at around eight, finding no breakfast, no stoked fire and no manservant in his room. He curses loudly enough for half the castle to hear. He gets out of bed, obviously already out of sorts, stomps to the door and hails -- almost physically tackles -- the first passing servant to find out what has happened to his own and to require their services so that he can break his fast this not-so-fine morning. Half an hour later, more or less, he gets his breakfast. A maid, blushing and servile, brings it up only to scurry away quickly, almost as if she's afraid of Arthur on the basis of his reputation alone. That's laughable. That is also why he usually prefers Merlin; he never acts around Arthur as if he is overly conscious of his princely status. Merlin's friendly and concerned but never sycophantic.
Arthur is planning to wreak vengeance upon Merlin for his absence when someone knocks on his door. The sound is a dry, urgent rap that heralds nothing good. As soon as Arthur has let out a measured, “Come in,” Gaius appears. Arthur does not remember sending for Gaius and the physician doesn't usually regale him with his presence when Arthur hasn't asked. His presence here would be baffling on that score alone, but Arthur Pendragon can put two and two together. There's no Merlin, but here is Gaius. Gaius must therefore be here on Merlin's behalf.
“Sire, I'm here to inform you that Merlin won't be able to attend you today. He has caught an illness and it's to be feared it's contagious.”
Arthur can't wrap his head around that concept. Merlin was perfectly fine yesterday. Yes, he was scratching himself, but Arthur is sure that nothing was the matter with him. He laughed and laughed all evening long and he looked both happy and healthy.
“Ah, I see,” he says noncommittally. Arthur is suspicious - not by nature and not generally, as he has always entrusted his health to Gaius, but this time something just doesn't sit right. He believes that Merlin is trying to wiggle out of his chores by pretending to be ill. He wouldn't put it past Merlin, even though Arthur is fairly sure Gaius wouldn't help him along if that were the case, unless he thought Arthur was overworking Merlin without telling Arthur himself.
“I'll pass by after training to see how he's doing,” Arthur offers sweetly, wanting to get to the bottom of this.
“No, sire!” Gaius hurries to exclaim. “Merlin's disease is contagious and as the prince it would be only wise for you to keep away from him. You're the heir to the throne and I'm sure the king himself would not approve of your risking your life so, when there's no reason.” Gaius is employing a very level, expository tone and that in and of itself makes Arthur even more suspicious than he was before the volley of words. Gaius loves Merlin, but right now, he's sounding as if he's more concerned with keeping Arthur away from him than with Merlin's own immediate well-being. That is not Gaius.
“Very well,” Arthur intones lazily, feigning disinterest. “I'm sure Merlin will get back to work as soon as he is able to, as long as he doesn't die from whatever's afflicting him. Pity, he was starting to get the hang of a few things. I'll have to train a new servant.” Arthur watches Gaius get a little paler, but his face is not very expressive right now, as if he's hiding something. Arthur will find out what that something is.
Now, he's got some young, unproved knights to train and massacre, but later he'll test his detecting skills.
****
Merlin has been shut in his room, bolt drawn, for the past five hours. He's starting to suffer from cabin fever. He knows he can't get out and that there's no solution to this quandary right now. He's tempted to try a spell or two on himself just to see if he can solve this easily and quickly, but he tells himself to wait some more. Gaius stormed off hours before telling him he'd first go and warn Arthur that Merlin wouldn't be putting in an appearance today -- or maybe ever, if Merlin listened to the dramatic side of his brain -- and later he'd go and secrete himself in the library in search of an antidote to the antidote to the love potion.
Since he has nothing better to do, Merlin marches into the workroom and rips off a page from one of Gaius' blank books, the ones he uses to note down potion dosages and such. He plods back to his room, redraws the bolt while noticing that he's still glowing very, very brightly and flops down onto his bed. He starts artistically folding the ripped piece of paper, trying to reproduce shapes. By the third time he's spectacularly failed at trying to create a paper dragon, he just closes his eyes and whispers, “Scieppan draca.” He's holding a tiny, winged and perfect parchment dragon in his hands now. If he could only stop glowing, life would be almost perfect, except he thinks he may be getting brighter, if at all possible.
****
Gaius hasn't found a solution in any of Geoffrey's books, which he thinks is normal given that not that many people are both magical and have quaffed down an anti-love potion that makes them glow. The peddler Gaius requisitioned the potions from had sold various bottles of the elixir to a variety of peasants and none of them had exhibited any such symptom, which means that the potion is decidedly interacting with Merlin's magic to create the lamentable, glowing side-effect.
Gaius exhales and casts aside the last dusty and heavy tome. There is nothing for it. He'll have to go and visit the dragon. Gaius consigns the book he just consulted back to Geoffrey and wearily plods away from the Archives. He makes his way through the meandering hallways and passageways of the castle, descends three flights of stairs and, benefiting from a moment of distraction on the part of the sentries guarding the dungeons, steals down and into the cave the Dragon is imprisoned in.
He gingerly walks across the protruding ledge in the cave and calls out, “I know you are there. I've come on Merlin's behalf.”
For a few long moments, nothing happens, but Gaius is aware of the fact the Dragon is there, chained, and can't possibly escape; Gaius decides to wait him out. The beast will appear when convenient.
That's confirmed when the Dragon Uther imprisoned twenty years ago swoops down with a mighty whooshing sound to come and perch on the rock directly in front of Gaius. Gaius gives it a chiding look as if to say, you might impress Merlin, but not me, though he decides to be careful.
“The young warlock meant to put a spoke in the wheels of destiny,” the Dragon states cryptically, by way of greeting.
Gaius takes a step forwards, paying attention to his movements as he doesn't want to fall into the chasm. “Merlin seems to be suffering from the side effects of a potion he drank,” Gaius explains carefully.
“As I said,” the dragons says angrily, as if talking to a child and not a venerable man of Gaius' age and experience.
“Would you have a remedy or know of one?” Gaius insinuates, though he's affronted by the beast's attitude. Gaius suspects the Dragon of playing a game with them all, which is the only reason that keeps his conscience at bay. Gaius is, in fact, by no means sure that the winged creature has ever had Merlin's best interests at heart; the fact the Dragon has only one thing on his mind, that being exercising his revenge upon the king that slayed his kind, is not something that makes Gaius trust him, even though he'd be the first to acknowledge Uther's cruelty in this matter.
“The young warlock's body is rejecting the substance he ingested. What he did is not meant to be; his magic won't allow it. The little man-made potion cannot alter destiny or make a difference; it is time Merlin acknowledged that he is magic and that his magic is linked to his destiny and Albion's. The potion has had no effect on him; its potency is but a trifle when compared to Merlin's magic. The side-effects, as you mortals call them, will only disappear when Merlin embraces his destiny and confesses.”
Gaius is having difficulties grasping everything that the Dragon has just said, mostly because he still doesn't know what Merlin's decision to fall out of love with someone has to do with his magic. Gaius is wary, though he's beginning to think the Dragon may have had a larger part in this than the one he admitted to.
“If King Uther should find out,” Gaius says and trails off, hoping to convince the Dragon to undo what he's done. They both know what Uther would do in case he found out he'd housed and given a job to a real sorcerer.
“Uther mustn't, then,” the Dragon concludes and tilts its huge head as if to make a point. Gaius would like to say something more, but the Dragon dismisses him by spitting out a little smoke and taking off, wings flapping and chain rattling behind him.
Gaius loves Merlin like a son, he does, but sometimes the boy manages to get into very peculiar scrapes. It as if he had to deal with a five year old.
****
As soon as training is over, Arthur hurries back to his room. He sheds his mail, washes methodically and changes back into a simple shirt and breeches, and all of that by himself because his manservant is officially too ill to attend him. Ill, my arse! So Arthur, extremely put out and a lot curious as to how Merlin could have managed to persuade level-headed Gaius to cover for him, sprints out of his room again barely half an hour after having entered it.
Gaius warned him earlier today that whatever Merlin has is highly contagious; Arthur would stop and consider before exposing himself to such a danger if he thought it was true, but he has every reason to believe it isn't. Even if it was, however, he'd probably risk it all the same. He's a prince and not afraid of any ailment, though he knows he could be brought down by one. Besides, he'd want to see Merlin if he wasn't well or worse. He'd want to talk to him, and tease him a bit because then Merlin would grin at him and he's sure Merlin would mend. Arthur has saved Merlin once, and now he thinks he could save him every time, and if that's preposterous, that's also what he wants to be true.
It's five in the afternoon and autumn to boot; the corridor he's striding along is ill-lit and draughty. He sees, however, a young page boy walking quickly just in the direction opposite to his. Arthur stops him. The page boy, who's all of fifteen and perhaps ganglier and more slender than Merlin himself, blushes and stammers something that could verily have been, “Your highness.”
Arthur smirks, being used to the reaction, though he soon recovers and asks,” Have you seen Gaius, the physician, today?” He's asking because Arthur saw Gaius crossing the courtyard with a furtive air at around noon and wants some extra information as to what the physician, and for that matter, Merlin, are up to.
“I know Gaius,” the boy says, not answering Arthur's question immediately. Instead he rambles on, adding, “He splintered my arm three months ago and now it's as good as new.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow.
The boy clears his throat, “Yes, well. I saw him go into the Archives, my lord. He and my lord Geoffrey are fast friends.” The boy, who does have something in common with Arthur's Merlin, prattles on till the prince dismisses him with a pat on the back. Arthur watches him scamper off and sniggers. He soon regains his composure and tromps down the hallway, mounting up the stairs leading to the eastern turret and the physician's quarters.
When he sees the sturdy door, he knocks on it but obtains no answers. He knocks again to get a similar result. He's more than a little fazed. Shouldn't Merlin be inside lying very ill on his bed of woe? If Merlin's persuaded Gaius into stringing Arthur along to scarper off with a comely maid, Arthur will wring his manservant's neck, no qualms about it. Really - Merlin has no business going and falling for random girls.
Arthur tries the handle because this he has to see through; it's all so suspicious. The door doesn't give. It's locked and probably even bolted from the inside. Now Arthur knows Gaius never bothers to lock his door in case someone in need should want in in an emergency, so this doesn't add up. He tries one last time, hollering, “Merlin!” Nothing. With the rattle he's making, he should have woken Merlin up if he was inside. So he isn't. Arthur has the wish to catch him red-handed, so to speak. He marches off in a tiff. He has a plan.
****
“Pickled bollocks,” Merlin vocalises as soon as the door to the workshop ceases rattling and he hears the noise of retreating footsteps. Merlin is potentially a dead man. If Arthur had come in and seen him like this he'd already be on his way to the dungeons. Merlin is trapped. He's still glowing, more so than even this morning, and since the sun has gone down, his brilliancy, luminescence, or whatever one wants to call it, has become even more evident. He's a beacon in the night and he can't escape Camelot in this condition - he'd be spotted and tracked. His only real hope lies with Gaius now. Hopefully Arthur will be too distracted to come back and try again. Yeah, and if wishes were horses, magic would be legal in Camelot.
There is nothing for it but to try a self-spell.
“Gewendan eft dæghwāmlīce,” he intones as loudly as he can.
No, he's still very much glowing.
This is going to be a long evening.
****
Arthur is the prince. As the prince, Arthur has the keys to every room, broom closet or dungeon in the castle. He doesn't have the keys to the physician's quarters because they're not under his direct responsibility and care, but he does possess a set of skeleton keys in case he misplaces one of the keys that should be in his keeping. Therefore, it's pretty easy for Arthur to get back down to his room, retrieve the skeleton key he keeps in his cabinet and march towards Gaius' workshop, fuming and raging and wanting to strangle his own manservant, who he'd thought would never lie to him.
Fifteen minutes after having first tried the door to Gaius', Arthur is back there, feet planted in front of it as if it has a will of its own in trying to thwart his efforts. This time, he doesn't even bother to knock, for he's more than sure that Merlin is not in, but is, in the contrary, in the company of some giggling maiden that has no business pawing his manservant. He'll send the girl off to serve an octogenarian Lord who lives in the vicinity of the Marshlands, see if he doesn't.
The sight that presents itself to him upon opening the door is, truth to say, not exactly expected, not even remotely so; it could never have been in a decent, normally-functioning universe. There is Merlin, sitting behind one of those hyper-cluttered workbenches of Gaius', head propped up on his head, elbows planted on the bench. He is also glowing and twinkling anomalously. Merlin shoots up upon seeing Arthur striding in and starts babbling. “I swear I can explain this, Arthur.”
Arthur's mouth is hanging open; he's perfectly aware of that. He'd close it, but he's paralysed. People don't glow, unless one means it in a metaphorical sense. This is not metaphorical at all and not natural either.
“Arthur?” Merlin's totally broken, devastated voice is what shakes him out of his stupor. Merlin is still shedding light.
“You're not ill, are you?” Arthur demands and he almost wishes the question back since he knows it was one of his stupidest to date.
Merlin backs three steps away, runs a hand through his hair so that it looks even more unkempt than it was a scant minute before, and says, “No, I…I was...”
Arthur walks backwards so that he can close and latch the door he flung open when entering. He doesn't let Merlin out of his field of vision because he knows what this looks like, what it is. “How long?” he asks bitterly.
“What?” Merlin asks.
Arthur roars, “Come on, Merlin. I'm not an idiot.” He feels betrayed and bitter. Merlin is glowing and his eyes are golden and it's clear that - that this is... He can't even think it let alone use the words, but he'd very much like for Merlin to speak up, say something. He wants him to grovel and beg and he almost wants to hurt him, till he realises that that's not what he really craves, either. Merlin has to give him the truth somehow because Arthur doesn't know what to think anymore. He'd thought this a game played between them: Merlin trying to weasel out of his workload game, entailing a little taunting, a little punishment and then the start of a new game. This, this is totally different. This is serious.
“I--” Merlin begins, but his voice comes off rusty.
“Merlin,” Arthur says, and this time he's composed. Bitter, but composed.
“I'm a sorcerer. Always have been. Before you ask, I never asked for it. I was just born this way, and if you're wondering why I never told you, well, I bet you know why.”
Arthur's legs feel strange, as if all of a sudden they can't support his weight, but he won't let it show, so he stands up straighter and says, “I believe that is the truth.” He doesn't offer more, though he watches Merlin, seemingly unperturbed. Merlin's eyes are foreign and gold and different, barely human. There's a hint of power in there, in Merlin's eyes, and an even more worrying hint of tears. It's as if the confession has just broken Merlin, and Arthur really doesn't even begin to comprehend why he should feel like the bad guy now when he's the one who was lied to and tricked into believing things that were neither real nor true. Was Merlin's loyalty ever real, or was it just insurance against Uther?
“I'm not my father,” he hints. Merlin stares at him, wide-eyed and childlike and yet so very alien and mysterious. What is this creature, Arthur asks himself. His simple manservant or a dark sorcerer of the kind his father has always warned him against? Certainly, Merlin has wormed his way into Arthur's heart from day one and Arthur's affection for him has never had neither rhyme nor reason. It's always been too powerful, something to be curbed and tamed. Before Merlin, he'd never looked at servants twice, and now he seeks their regard and wants their love and respect. Before Merlin, he'd never looked at a boy with lust in his eyes or fire in his veins; now, he does. Before Merlin, the world was quite different and simple; now, Arthur doesn't know which way is up or down, or whether his father is right or wrong.
“Do you want to kill me?” Arthur asks placidly. “Are you here for that?”
Merlin laughs and then he cries a little. He's out of his mind; Arthur can see that. He can almost touch the despair with his fingers because Merlin, Merlin can't really hide anything, except perhaps the one thing that counts. And Arthur, like an idiot, feels for him, because he always does. Merlin can break him with his innocent boyishness and his optimistic enthusiasm. When he looks devastated, though, Merlin can break him twice as fast. The point, however, is not to show how Merlin, now a potential enemy, is affecting him. Arthur needs the truth now more than ever. He needs to know.
“No! Why? What? No!” Merlin argues, and it doesn't make a lick of sense.
“Are you here because you want to ingratiate yourself and then kill me?”
Merlin's shoulders slump. One tear runs down from his eyes and his voice is a wreck of what it usually is when he says. “No, I want you to live and become the...greatest...king there will ever be. I can't really help what I am. I'm magic, but all of it is really at your service, I swear. I--”
Arthur frowns. “Why should I believe you? My father warned me against sorcerers. He said they know how to lure you and take you in. They can pretend they're your friends when they're not.”
Merlin moves towards Arthur in a flail of limbs, despair and incoherence. “Because I love you, you idiot! Because I love you and I didn't mean for you to find out like this; I meant to tell you that I'm magic when you were my friend, when I had your trust. Some day. And I'd have chosen the right moment and I'd have explained.” Merlin moves even closer and Arthur doesn't flinch or back away. He can't; he's astounded and his heart is pounding to the rhythm set by an invisible army on the march.
“But I drank a stupid potion so I could stop loving you and be a better friend and all that happened is this,” Merlin blabbers, pointing to his glowing limbs, and all of a sudden, as if the words were enough to break the spell, Merlin stops glowing and looks ordinary again, an ordinary, willowy blue-eyed idiot who's all distraught and has just told Arthur that he doesn't want to love him. And Arthur, Arthur is mentally staggering through it all. Merlin gasps and flashes him a broken smile that could melt hearts made of stone. And the truth is Arthur's isn't, for all that he dislikes any excessive display of emotion.
“Why?” Arthur probes carefully, voice dry because he can't let anything show, even though this time he'd even want to. “Why did you drink that? Why?”
“Because you don't, prat!” Merlin explains, a tad hysterically. “Because you don't and I didn't want it like that.”
Arthur swallows, but his mouth is feeling dry and his head is pounding and his heart hammering when he asks, “So now you've got rid of the unwanted feeling, haven't you?” His voice is as dry as dust analysis, but it belies the internal turmoil that is churning inside him. He should be thinking about the magic and the betrayal of trust and partly he is, but what is shattering him right now is the fact that Merlin, for all his professions of loyalty, doesn't even want to love him and did so unwillingly. That Merlin went to the point of guzzling down a dangerous substance that even outed him as a sorcerer so as not to love him hurts. He thought he had it.
“Oh,” Merlin says quietly in a self-deprecatory way. “But everything just went awry. You're right. I'm a dolt and yesterday, I thought the potion had worked, but now I know it never really has, so see, it was just an epic cock-up.”
It figures, only Merlin could declare his love so stupidly, so badly, so epically unromantically. The good thing is Arthur never was a romantic and probably never will be. He can risk this now; he can. He does have it. He strides up to Merlin, grabs him by the collar of his already rumpled shirt and crushes his mouth to his. Merlin scrunches his eyes shut, trembles for a second under him and parts his lips. Arthur kisses him roughly, with some pent up rage and a large part of crazed, ecstatic enthusiasm, cupping the nape of Merlin's neck with his other hand. Merlin moans out loud as Arthur's tongue explores his mouth madly, tongue swirling and gliding against Merlin's, mingling with his. Then Merlin grasps a handful of Arthur's hair, tugs and it hurts a little. They part and Merlin, the sweet idiot, still has his eyes closed, though he won't let go of the lock of Arthur's hair he's desperately tugging on.
“Ouch,” Arthur jokes, “you don't want me bald, do you?”
Merlin lets go and opens his eyes again and they're quite something, Merlin's eyes - no longer an alien gold, they are smiling a little for him, and yes, Merlin can smile with his eyes and Arthur can't help but lean in again. This time he kisses him differently, more kindly, trapping Merlin's lower lip between his and retreating, then touching his lips again in a soft little peck. Merlin's lips are soft and plump and Arthur watches, pleased, as Merlin wets them and then surges up to meet him again. It's a lip to lip hello, just brushing and soft grazing till Arthur makes it deep again and starts physically shoving Merlin, who's been very malleable up to now, backwards towards the boy's own room and bed. Arthur also needs a few seconds to regroup because suddenly he feels like he needs more air. A feeling of excitation that travelled down his spine for a few moments there has to be taken care of, and he just needs to get it under control before he becomes as stupid as Merlin. Somebody has to know what they're doing and given Merlin's happy, flustered expression, that somebody is not going to be his manservant.
So Arthur marches him into the tiny room and shoves him down onto the very narrow bed, but receives not a protest. Arthur eyes the piece of furniture critically, wondering if it'll hold their joined weights, when he thinks sod it all and straddles a lust-befuddled Merlin, who hugs him tight to himself and kisses his temple.
Merlin wraps an arm around Arthur's waist and stares up at him and Arthur's heart starts beating as if he has just run for his life or duelled against the worthiest of opponents. He bends down, fixing his gaze on Merlin's lips, which are opening, and Arthur's gently eases his tongue in again. His hands start roving, caressing Merlin's arm, kneading a shoulder. He pulls back a little; Arthur's mouth strays and he starts mouthing Merlin's neck just as Merlin throws his head back and starts practically purring, his fist clenching the fabric of Arthur's shirt. Arthur lays a series of tiny nibbling kisses all over Merlin's throat and around his collarbone, one after the other and he feels like he could never tire of this hot and heavy sampling of Merlin's skin, till he finds Merlin's shirt a terrible impediment to any further exploration.
He sits back in Merlin's lap, feeling the proof of Merlin's very real arousal and passion for him. He grips the hem of Merlin's shirt. Comprehension dawns on Merlin's features and his manservant sits up and pulls his own shirt off, a little hurriedly, a little comically, asking, “Is this what you want of me?”
“Yes,” Arthur answers, voice low. He disposes of his own finer tunic, throwing it somewhere behind him and not caring where it lands, and then he feels Merlin running his hands up and down his torso, in a gentle exploratory sweep. Arthur has to drink in air because that makes him hot and bothered and hard in a second flat. This is Merlin, stupid and awkward even in bed, wanting him. It makes him feel great; it makes him feel cherished like he's never been.
He lowers himself down again while Merlin's legs make room for him. His instinct is to rock down against Merlin, build up a rhythm. The bed really does creak ominously and Merlin laughs. “We'll break it and then Gaius will kill me and then your father will draw and quarter me because he'll find out I touched the crown prince.”
“You can touch me however much you want, wherever you want,” Arthur says, mock seductively and it's the right thing to say, the right amount of inconsequential humour and goofy seduction to bring into this, for Merlin unfreezes and wraps his arms around his middle and kisses his shoulder.
“Want you,” Merlin says, head buried in Arthur's chest and this time Arthur really can't stop himself. He rocks down and Merlin whimpers and his hips shoot up on instinct to meet his. They kiss once more and then Arthur presses Merlin down, trails kisses down Merlin's too pale, too lean torso, a torso that is not bulky enough for a man his age. Arthur reluctantly climbs off him to get rid of his riding boots and breeches and everything else that can come between them. He doesn't feel as if he needs to put up a show; Merlin is already flushed from head to toe and if he looks down at his own chest, he will have to admit that a rosy tint is spreading there too. Once he's naked, though, he lets himself stand proudly before Merlin, chest sticking out, hands hanging calmly at his side. He's got nothing to hide, neither his excitement, which his anatomy is betraying, nor his commitment to this. He feels wanted and he wants madly in return.
Merlin reaches out. He still has his trousers on but the rest of him looks more enticing than Arthur could have believed possible; bed-tousled hair and clean cut limbs that are both coltish and graceful draw him. Arthur looks down at him from where he is standing, at the high colour on Merlin's cheeks, but mostly he cants his head and quirks up an eyebrow as if to point to Merlin's trousers, lamenting their presence.
“Oh,” Merlin goes, and his hands start to fumble the laces. Arthur stalks toward him from where he is and swats Merlin's hands away. He undoes the frayed laces himself, but doesn't tug the trousers off; instead, he cups Merlin through the fabric and is rewarded with a keening sound as Merlin screws his eyes shut once more. It sounds as if he can't take it. Arthur massages him, feels his hardness and watches his mouth part in an astounded gasp. He studies Merlin with the attention of a hawk and has to admire him as his chest rises and falls quickly, shoulders shaking.
“I... ah,” Merlin tries to say. And then, “Stop,” he shouts pained. Arthur kisses the corner of his lips and stops. Just as Merlin turns his head to meet his, Arthur moves away. He frees Merlin from his brown boots and his trousers, slips them down his legs, past the bony knees and off. They're easily got rid of and then off the small clothes come too. And there, he runs a hand down Merlin's, flank, past a hip, down his leg and Merlin shivers and reaches for him once more and this time Arthur goes, settles on him, chest to chest, lower limbs trapped between Merlin's spread legs, Merlin's erection flat against his belly and leaking a little at the tip, just a tiny bead. Merlin is panting now, as if he can't breathe properly. Arthur himself feels giddy and daring and happy: if one of them hadn't come out and said it they wouldn't be here.
“Arthur?” Merlin asks, noting probably that Arthur has suddenly stilled. Arthur surges up, searches out Merlin's mouth with his, kisses him deeply and warmly and wetly and rocks forward against Merlin. That wrenches a deep moan from Arthur's throat. It'd be embarrassing if he wasn't so crazy for it. He's usually not vocal in bed, not much. He grunts and puffs and breathes faster like any other man, but he's seldom moaned out loud for all the world to hear, having been trained to keep things like his bed partners secret.
Arthur kneels back, lets his fingers roam and gazes at Merlin, asking silently.
“You're bonkers if you don't know that already,” Merlin hints and Arthur's finger pushes in as Merlin throws one arm over his head. Arthur pushes in, waits, retreats, circles around the skin there and works two fingers inside, feeling the softness against the pad of his fingers. Merlin bites his lip and arches up. He's taken up racehorse levels of panting and looks thoroughly agonised.
“Is it--? Does it hurt?” Arthur wants him, but he is no barbarian and he has nothing and he'd cut his own hand off before doing something Merlin doesn't want or doesn't like.
Merlin licks his lips, exhales, and his hand clamps around Arthur's forearm. “Yes.”
Arthur stops.
“No, it hurts in a good way,” Merlin says softly and persuades Arthur to continue though they have nothing here. Then Arthur's ready to slap a hand against his forehead because the workshop is near and Gaius is sure to have a salve or lotion that would do. He says as much.
“Read labels, this time,” Merlin cautions, and though he's aiming for humour, he's also half-serious. Arthur levers himself reluctantly up, feeling the cold slap of air on his skin, whereas he'd been nicely warmed by Merlin's fever-hot body, and rushes back into the lab totally naked. He'd feel like a cretin if it wasn't for his need to hurry and find something. He rummages inside a drawer, finds nothing and proceeds to check the shelves. Finally his fingers close around a vial. The label reads massage oil so he makes a dash for Merlin's room and Merlin's bed. Dashing is a bad idea because the bed creaks once more when he sort of bounces onto it.
“I won't be able to explain the bed wreckage to Gaius,” Merlin warns him as Arthur settles back between Merlin's legs. He uses the oil on himself and slicks Merlin up with his fingers as best he can. Merlin inhales and says, “Go on, prat.” There's little room for humour now.
And Arthur does; he pushes in as slowly as he can and incrementally sinks deeper in. He covers Merlin, settling a good part of his weight on him, and waits a few long moments, to try to adapt to the tightness around him and so that Merlin can adjust too. He whispers in Merlin's ears once he's bottomed out and can go no farther, and Merlin clings to him and then tugs him up by the hair and kisses him. It's molten hot and sloppy and crazy. Arthur thrusts, hips shooting forward quite out of his control, while looking for a rhythm and a position that can be pleasurable for them both. The heat is unbelievable, the tightness even more so.
Merlin arches under him and starts raving, saying incoherent nothings that Arthur wants to drown with his mouth. Kissing, now, is more difficult. Arthur's losing his sense of coordination as he thrusts in deep but not as hard as he could. He wants this to be soft and not frenzied, though lust is blinding him and his heart is skipping beats. Merlin pushes back against him, while at the same time he tries to bring himself off by sneaking a hand between them. Arthur lets him and bends his head so that he can kiss his throat. Arthur's spine flexes as he presses in once more, trying to seek a new angle, trying to undo Merlin, trying to give as much as he can in return for this boy's devoted, blind, passionate, calf love. And then he must have done something spectacularly right, for Merlin starts thrashing and writhing, so Arthur does it again, though he feels as if something is squeezing his heart within his chest. Merlin's head moves restlessly against the thin, straw-filled pillow, till he decides to bury his nose in it. Arthur slides almost all the way out, sinks in again, rests all his weight on Merlin and starts pumping shallowly. That's when Merlin bends his back into an almost-perfect arc, hips shooting off the mattress in a way that nearly dislodges Arthur. Who'd have suspected Merlin, reedy and lanky as he is, had this much strength in him.
Also right then, Merlin clenches around him like a vise and Arthur grunts out. He grunts out again as he watches Merlin, for Merlin closes his eyes, as if he can't take this. Merlin has this slack-jawed, tortured expression on his face; he groans, a low level sound that comes deep from somewhere, and shudders. He balls his fist, hits the mattress with it, and trembles violently. Arthur feels him coming underneath him and can do very little to stop himself from following. Less than thirty seconds later, he has, and he knows it was more the sight of Merlin than the friction or stimulation provided. He collapses onto him, clammy, bed-warm skin a pleasure to feel sliding against his own. He slips free.
“Merlin?”
“You want me to compliment you on your performance? I'm biased....because I...You know. So stop fishing.”
“Okay,” Arthur says and kisses Merlin's lips chastely once more. “You know I'm not totally unaffected, do you?” he asks, but Merlin's snoring.
****
When Gaius repairs to his quarters, he finds his door locked, as he earlier today bid Merlin to do to avoid anyone witnessing his apprentice's condition. He has the key, though, and turns it into the lock. He's quite surprised to find that Merlin has prudently latched the door shut.
“Merlin,” Gaius calls, but he receives no answer. Pity, Merlin must have fallen asleep. Gaius knows how to open his own door even when it is latched shut. It's very easy; all that is required is stealing a hand between the door and its frame and pulling the latch back. When he steps inside, the room is very still, so he walks towards Merlin's bedroom in search of his apprentice. They have to discuss the dragon's words about confessions being the only way to stop the unearthly glowing. What Gaius certainly doesn't expect to see is that Merlin has stopped glowing all by himself. What he certainly can't believe, to the point that he rubs his old eyes, is that the crown prince of Camelot is lying belly down on Merlin's bed, completely naked and with an equally naked and sleeping Merlin quashed underneath him, head burrowed against his chest.
Well, at least Merlin won't risk discovery now: he only has to fear Uther's wrath if he ever should find out about Merlin and the prince's intimate, for lack of a better word, relationship. Gaius gently closes the door to Merlin's room and goes to make himself a herbal tisane. He sorely deserves one.
The End.