Heady
Title: Heady
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur, Arthur/Gwen
Rating: PG
Spoilers: 409 (Lancelot du lac)
Summary: “You’re really going to ask her?” you ask, casual, indifferent. You’ve gotten so good at pretending, that you almost believe you don’t care anymore. But the heady pounding of your heart gives you away.
Also on AO3
“You’re really going to ask her?” you ask, casual, indifferent. You’ve gotten so good at pretending, that you almost believe you don’t care anymore. But the heady pounding of your heart gives you away.
He sits up in bed, and he’s gorgeous as always; blonde hair tussled and hanging over his forehead; bare chested and broad shouldered. You swallow. It’s audible; dry and uncomfortable. He is oblivious.
“Of course I’m going to ask her, idiot,” and he swings out of bed, pulling on breeches as he goes, and you can’t avert your eyes, even if you know you should. He is your other half. He is you. He is not yours.
You want to ask him “why?” You want to know what she’s done to win him over, want to know if there was anything you could have tried, to make him love you back. But, instead, you ask,
“How?” as he disappears behind the screen to change.
You’re disgusted at yourself for feeling so alone, just because he’s no longer in your line of sight, even though he’s in the same room. You want to crawl out of this pathetic body, the one he’d never even dream of touching, and leave it behind. Mostly, you just want him to know. The secret of the magic that pounds through your veins is nothing to the illegal desire, which is slowly moulding over your soul.
“What do you mean, ‘how’?” he laughs, and your spirit soars, because you did that. You made him happy like that. But then, he goes and says something which stabs at your insides. You think you should be used to how much it hurts by now. The amount of times he has unintentionally tortured you is paramount.
“You’re going to run down to hers, and set it all up for me, before she gets back from work. And, Merlin,” he pokes his head round the screen, and you barley have time to hitch back your stupid, goofy grin, before he’s saying, “I want at least a hundred candles. Something that really says ‘I love you’, alright?”
You nod, making some sarcastic comment about his taste, but you forget the words the moment they’re out of you. You forget, even, his reaction to them. You think, with a flicker of something midway between pain and hope, that this might be the beginnings of you moving on.
But then you realise that three of the words he has just spoken are playing on a loop inside your head, in the voice you have fallen for:
I love you. I love you. Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou.
Later, once you are finished lighting the last candle, you slump to the floor, chin resting on your chest, and your eyes closed, as you remind yourself to breathe. Every light burns through your eyelids. It is disturbing the cool, pleasant darkness, which is the inside of your mind, and you want out.
You haul yourself to your feet, and leave the way you came, letting the night air slap you awake. You’re still there, by her window, when she gets home. His hands are over her eyes, her lips curved upwards with curiosity.
You don’t move when he asks her. You just can’t. Nothing is working. Only when she flings her arms around his neck, giving him her answer, do you smile.
She’s said yes.
And, for a moment, it is like the thing holding you to the ground has vanished, and you could fly away. Away from him, away from destiny. Away from everything.
But then, he smiles and it’s like all the things you crave, and it pulls you back, kicking and screaming.
You hate him for doing this to you.
You love him for everything else.
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur, Arthur/Gwen
Rating: PG
Spoilers: 409 (Lancelot du lac)
Summary: “You’re really going to ask her?” you ask, casual, indifferent. You’ve gotten so good at pretending, that you almost believe you don’t care anymore. But the heady pounding of your heart gives you away.
Also on AO3
“You’re really going to ask her?” you ask, casual, indifferent. You’ve gotten so good at pretending, that you almost believe you don’t care anymore. But the heady pounding of your heart gives you away.
He sits up in bed, and he’s gorgeous as always; blonde hair tussled and hanging over his forehead; bare chested and broad shouldered. You swallow. It’s audible; dry and uncomfortable. He is oblivious.
“Of course I’m going to ask her, idiot,” and he swings out of bed, pulling on breeches as he goes, and you can’t avert your eyes, even if you know you should. He is your other half. He is you. He is not yours.
You want to ask him “why?” You want to know what she’s done to win him over, want to know if there was anything you could have tried, to make him love you back. But, instead, you ask,
“How?” as he disappears behind the screen to change.
You’re disgusted at yourself for feeling so alone, just because he’s no longer in your line of sight, even though he’s in the same room. You want to crawl out of this pathetic body, the one he’d never even dream of touching, and leave it behind. Mostly, you just want him to know. The secret of the magic that pounds through your veins is nothing to the illegal desire, which is slowly moulding over your soul.
“What do you mean, ‘how’?” he laughs, and your spirit soars, because you did that. You made him happy like that. But then, he goes and says something which stabs at your insides. You think you should be used to how much it hurts by now. The amount of times he has unintentionally tortured you is paramount.
“You’re going to run down to hers, and set it all up for me, before she gets back from work. And, Merlin,” he pokes his head round the screen, and you barley have time to hitch back your stupid, goofy grin, before he’s saying, “I want at least a hundred candles. Something that really says ‘I love you’, alright?”
You nod, making some sarcastic comment about his taste, but you forget the words the moment they’re out of you. You forget, even, his reaction to them. You think, with a flicker of something midway between pain and hope, that this might be the beginnings of you moving on.
But then you realise that three of the words he has just spoken are playing on a loop inside your head, in the voice you have fallen for:
I love you. I love you. Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou.
Later, once you are finished lighting the last candle, you slump to the floor, chin resting on your chest, and your eyes closed, as you remind yourself to breathe. Every light burns through your eyelids. It is disturbing the cool, pleasant darkness, which is the inside of your mind, and you want out.
You haul yourself to your feet, and leave the way you came, letting the night air slap you awake. You’re still there, by her window, when she gets home. His hands are over her eyes, her lips curved upwards with curiosity.
You don’t move when he asks her. You just can’t. Nothing is working. Only when she flings her arms around his neck, giving him her answer, do you smile.
She’s said yes.
And, for a moment, it is like the thing holding you to the ground has vanished, and you could fly away. Away from him, away from destiny. Away from everything.
But then, he smiles and it’s like all the things you crave, and it pulls you back, kicking and screaming.
You hate him for doing this to you.
You love him for everything else.