fic: i've been breaking my back with the weight of your heart
i've been breaking my back with the weight of your heart
merlin/arthur; pg; ~400 words
arthur's life is a bird in merlin's hands
notes: coda to (and spoilers for) 4x03; written mostly to make myself stop fidgeting uselessly with everything right now.
In the morning, when he finishes dressing the new king, he rests his head in the space between Arthur's shoulders and breathes and breathes.
Perhaps because it is the first day and Arthur is terrified (Merlin can feel it on his skin, through the cloth, in the air), Arthur lets him. He tips his head back and, for a moment, the world is small and theirs. In that moment, all the rest of it (fear pain fight fire guilt deathdeathdeath) is of no concern. it is simply a morning and it is silent and it will never last as long as he wishes because Arthur is steadying himself, standing straight and clearing his throat.
He smiles, shaky, but looks the part and so much more when the sun hits just right. Even then, he is so young, so foolish and trusting and naive and good. He has such a way to go, thinks Merlin, before he can be all that he needs to be. And still, he is all the breath in Merlin's lungs, all the fight that's left in his own two hands and all the love for all the world.
Though he does not know it, may never know it--and this is very real possibility that Merlin is now starting to entertain--Arthur's life is a bird in Merlin's hands, something that can die so, so quickly. How is it, thinks Merlin, that I have kept you alive, and, How is it that I have broken you down? Sometimes, he wishes that Arthur knew the worst of it. Unburden me, please. It spins in his head, night after night, wishful and in vain.
(He feels like a liar, a cheater, a thief, but it does not stop him from basking in Arthur's attention, all his blatant affection, even if misplaced and so, so undeserved.)
And here, he combs a finger through Arthur's hair, so practiced that he barely notices he's done it, right up until Arthur catches his wrist, a quick, almost accidental thing. He drops it then and time resumes.
Merlin thinks of how it always boils down to the same old choice. The truth will set him free (and it will, it will) but if it takes all of this with it too (like a dream, like a memory, so fast, it will), he will take it with himself to the grave.
For now, King Arthur walks and Merlin is beside him. It is a thing of elegance and, for a lie, as close to perfect as it can be.
merlin/arthur; pg; ~400 words
arthur's life is a bird in merlin's hands
notes: coda to (and spoilers for) 4x03; written mostly to make myself stop fidgeting uselessly with everything right now.
In the morning, when he finishes dressing the new king, he rests his head in the space between Arthur's shoulders and breathes and breathes.
Perhaps because it is the first day and Arthur is terrified (Merlin can feel it on his skin, through the cloth, in the air), Arthur lets him. He tips his head back and, for a moment, the world is small and theirs. In that moment, all the rest of it (fear pain fight fire guilt deathdeathdeath) is of no concern. it is simply a morning and it is silent and it will never last as long as he wishes because Arthur is steadying himself, standing straight and clearing his throat.
He smiles, shaky, but looks the part and so much more when the sun hits just right. Even then, he is so young, so foolish and trusting and naive and good. He has such a way to go, thinks Merlin, before he can be all that he needs to be. And still, he is all the breath in Merlin's lungs, all the fight that's left in his own two hands and all the love for all the world.
Though he does not know it, may never know it--and this is very real possibility that Merlin is now starting to entertain--Arthur's life is a bird in Merlin's hands, something that can die so, so quickly. How is it, thinks Merlin, that I have kept you alive, and, How is it that I have broken you down? Sometimes, he wishes that Arthur knew the worst of it. Unburden me, please. It spins in his head, night after night, wishful and in vain.
(He feels like a liar, a cheater, a thief, but it does not stop him from basking in Arthur's attention, all his blatant affection, even if misplaced and so, so undeserved.)
And here, he combs a finger through Arthur's hair, so practiced that he barely notices he's done it, right up until Arthur catches his wrist, a quick, almost accidental thing. He drops it then and time resumes.
Merlin thinks of how it always boils down to the same old choice. The truth will set him free (and it will, it will) but if it takes all of this with it too (like a dream, like a memory, so fast, it will), he will take it with himself to the grave.
For now, King Arthur walks and Merlin is beside him. It is a thing of elegance and, for a lie, as close to perfect as it can be.