Kink Me! #24
Kink Me! #24
Closed to new prompts - go to the newest meme!Welcome to Kink Me! Merlin #24!
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--
They say seven is a magic number, a number chosen by the universe to mark something special. It figures again and again in mythology, in tales of magic, in old religions no longer honoured by the world.
So here, in seven parts, is the tale of Merlin and his Arthur, or Arthur and his Merlin, and their seventh incarnation during the age that humanity knows as the twenty-first century. It is no longer a time of dragons and castles and swords; humanity has found far more deadly weapons to murder itself with.
It is not, however, one of these weapons that Merlin chooses to attack himself with. His weapon of choice is an antique dagger he’d bought at a flea market, convinced of its worth despite Arthur’s scepticism. As if, even though the Camelot of old is gone, erased from history and passing into legend, in his heart there are still dim memories of an earlier age.
--
Arthur grips the steering wheel tightly, trying to block out the noise of blaring horns in the late evening traffic. Peak hour traffic is always a nuisance, but tonight he’d give anything for a clear road.
He wedges his phone between his ear and shoulder as he tries Merlin’s number again. It rings fifteen times before it goes to voicemail. ‘Merlin, it’s me. Again. I’m on my way home, stuck in traffic. I’ll see you soon, okay?’
He’s hung up already when he realises he hadn’t signed off with I love you, and wishes he hadn’t forgotten. Merlin had called once, that afternoon, to ask if Arthur could be home early. Arthur hadn’t been able to promise that he would, and when Merlin had called again around six in the evening, he’d been too busy to answer the phone.
He’s tried calling back six times since then, but there hasn’t been any response. The uneasy feeling in his stomach has been growing exponentially with every unanswered call, as though someone were inflating a balloon inside his chest, tight and too-large, and he feels as though he might burst with anxiety.
--
He takes the stairs three at a time, too full of nervous energy to wait for the lift to take him to their second-floor flat.
‘Merlin?’ he calls as he unlocks the door. Merlin’s Audi had been in its usual spot when Arthur had parked his SUV beside it, so he’s home. Probably asleep or listening to music, Arthur tells himself as he all but runs to the bedroom and flings the door open. No one there.
He opens the door to the en-suite bathroom, his heart pounding. ‘Merlin?’ That’s empty too, the shower curtain drawn back to reveal a wet floor.
It’s when he steps out that he sees Merlin’s shoe on the floor on the far side of the room, beside their bed.
His mind switches to autopilot as he takes a step toward it, wondering vaguely what a shoe is doing in the middle of the floor. The mystery is soon solved.
Merlin is still wearing it.
He’s curled into himself as he does when he sleeps, arms folded protectively over his face, one leg bent and the other flung out. His hair is still wet and glistening from the shower.
Blood has spread around him in a slow pool, the gashes in his wrists like half-closed eyes concealing secrets.
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‘I think it’s happening again,’ Merlin says, facing the window, his back to Arthur.
Even half-befuddled with sleep, Arthur knows instantly what he’s talking about. He scrambles out of bed and wraps his arms around Merlin from the back, knowing that his arms can only give the illusion of safety.
He’s suspected as much for days now. Merlin’s recent paintings are all unfinished, and there are times when he seems to float into a daze, his eyes blank and unseeing. His skin is pale, ashen even.
It terrifies Arthur.
The worst is when Merlin begins wearing long-sleeved sweaters all the time and making excuses to not shower with Arthur, to make love in the dark so Arthur can’t see the cuts on his arms. When Arthur wordlessly pushes up the soft cotton of the black sleeve that falls over his knuckles, Merlin says nothing in response. He just buries his face in Arthur’s chest and sobs as though his heart is breaking.
So is Arthur’s.
They go to visit Dr Gaius together, Merlin clutching Arthur’s hand tightly throughout the appointment. When Dr Gaius writes out a prescription, Merlin turns imploring eyes on Arthur before turning back to the doctor.
‘Gaius, I can’t. I can’t take those medicines. They make me feel like I’m dead, I can’t do anything, I can’t paint, I can’t eat, Gaius, please.’
‘Isn’t there any other kind of treatment we could try?’ Arthur asks, rubbing his thumb along Merlin’s, holding his hand tightly.
Gaius turns his wise, kindly eyes to Arthur. ‘I wish there were something else I could recommend, Arthur. But this is the only thing that will help.’ He stands up and places a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, squeezing gently. ‘Take heart, my dear boy. When you feel better, we’ll reduce the dose. All right?’
--
For the next couple of months, Merlin seems to be improving. He doesn’t get much painting done but he’s begun teaching a course at a local art school, which gets him out of the house on most days, forces him to maintain a routine.
Some days he almost seems his old self, the laughing, brilliant young man Arthur had met at university, full of spirit and so beautiful that it almost aches to look at him. One evening Arthur cooks his favourite meal-pasta with spinach and mushrooms in white sauce with homemade garlic bread-and they share a bottle of wine over the meal, talking and laughing. Later, Merlin begs to be fucked over the kitchen table, responding with exuberance when Arthur grants him his wish, gripping Arthur’s hair with his fingers, wrapping his long legs around Arthur’s waist and dirty-talking them both to orgasm.
--
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--
Present day
Arthur sits in the sterile, colourless corridor, his fingers clutching his own hair, his head bowed. Lance and Gwen are on either side of him, are talking quietly over his head, Gwen’s hand gently stroking his hair and Lance’s hand on his knee, strong and sturdy.
‘Arthur?’ he hears Gwen say, and knows from her tone that it’s not the first time she’s said his name.
‘Yeah,’ he says to the floor, his voice thick with tears, not wanting to face anyone yet.
‘He’s going to be okay, mate,’ Lance reminds him. ‘You know he is. The doctors said so.’
‘I know,’ Arthur says, wiping his eyes with his sleeve as he sits up. ‘I know. But we may not be so lucky next time.’
He doesn’t have to look at the others to know they’re exchanging a glance.
‘What makes you think there’ll be a next time?’ Gwen asks cautiously.
‘All the signs are there, Gwen. All the fucking signs were there, and I didn’t notice. He called me today and I didn’t answer the phone because I was too fucking busy. I could have prevented this, I could have...’ Arthur shakes his head and gets to his feet. ‘Go home, you two. It’s late.’ He goes back into Merlin’s room and shuts the door behind him.
--
‘Arthur?’ Merlin says as he enters, his voice fuzzy with drug-induced sleep.
‘Hey,’ Arthur says gently, sitting down beside him. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you, love. How do you feel?’
‘You didn’t,’ Merlin says, his voice hoarse. ‘I was awake. Arthur...’
‘What is it?’ Arthur smoothes the hair back from Merlin’s forehead. His skin is clammy to the touch.
‘Why are you so good to me?’
‘Merlin-’
‘No, really. You should be furious. You should hate me.’
Arthur wraps his arms around Merlin carefully, minding his injured wrists and the needle in his vein. ‘I love you. I always will. I love you, Merlin.’
Merlin tucks his head beneath Arthur’s chin, his face hidden in Arthur’s neck. ‘You should have let me die,’ he whispers.
‘I can’t,’ Arthur replies, his hand on the crown of Merlin’s head, his lips pressed into Merlin’s hair. ‘I can’t, Merlin. You know I have to fight for you.’
‘I want this. Please, I just want it to be over. Please, Arthur, let me go. Let me go, please.’
Arthur feels the wetness against his skin and lets Merlin cry, keeping his arms tight around him, his heart breaking yet again.
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