Precipitation Part 4 (Arthur/Merlin)
Title: Precipitation Part 4
Author: greymantledlady
Rating: PG
Warnings: More angst, and mountains of hurt/comfort
Summary: Arthur is halfway across the room with a couple of angry strides. ‘Merlin!’ he roars, but Merlin’s slamming the door, thudding his body against it from the inside to hold it shut, making little frantic sobbing pants of breath.
AO3: Precipitation
Previous: Part 3
The first day Merlin doesn't come, Arthur feels dully relieved. The second, sick and miserable and empty. By the third, when he wakes up to the face of a manservant who's not Merlin, he's coldly angry.
Merlin is Arthur’s, Arthur's own, and he has no right to leave him. Arthur wonders furiously what Merlin is doing, with whom he's spending his time; and an odd fierce possessiveness curls tightly in his stomach. He clenches his fists, dismisses the terrified servant-who-is-not-Merlin with a harsh word - and paces.
He paces back and forth the length of his chamber, fighting himself. The part of him that cries No when Merlin is around is loathing, hard with disgust.
Leave him. It sounds like his father's voice.
But the part that is Arthur, the part that is Arthur's heart and soul and essence; that part is what makes him slam his fist down hard on the table, and stalk out of the room towards Gaius's chambers.
He doesn't knock, or anything like that, because he's the King's son, damn it, and he shouldn't have to knock, or ask, or come fetching his manservant because he doesn't show up for three days. Instead, he slams the door open, his palm flat and fierce against the rough wood.
And there, at last, is Merlin.
Merlin, leaning over Gaius's bench, frowning in concentration. The bandage and splint are gone at last, and there’s a matching pale strip of skin showing at each of Merlin’s wrists as he holds up a little jar for Gaius to drop in some sort of black liquid. When the two of them hear the door slam open their heads jerk up.
'Arthur,' Gaius says sternly. Arthur doesn't miss the way he moves forward a little, almost shielding Merlin with his body. But it's Merlin Arthur is there for, and Merlin's frozen, trembling, white-faced.
And then Arthur is halfway across the room with a couple of angry strides; and Merlin drops the bottle with a tiny splintering crash and bolts for the door of his little bedchamber.
Arthur’s right behind him. ‘Merlin!’ he roars, but Merlin’s slamming the door, thudding his body against it from the inside to hold it shut, making little frantic sobbing pants of breath.
‘Arthur,’ Gaius says.
Arthur’s fuming, breathing heavily, and it would be so easy to force his way into that room, to shove the door open despite Merlin’s pitiful weight on the other side. To drag Merlin out, cowering…
He can’t, though. Arthur knows that, dimly, in some vague part of his mind, buried deep underneath the anger. He clenches his fists in frustration, and pounds the door instead.
‘Arthur,’ Gaius says again. Arthur barely hears him. He pounds harder, his fists shaking.
‘Arthur,’ Gaius says a third time, and his voice is sterner than Arthur has ever heard it. He turns to look at the old man, panting and half-defiant.
‘Stop,’ says Gaius, and his tone brooks no argument. ‘Arthur, listen.’
And so Arthur listens - listens at Merlin’s door, to the little sounds from inside.
Little sounds. Little, damp, heartbroken sounds. They’re very, very soft, as though they’re being muffled by a hand or a sleeve; tiny helpless sniffles, quiet gulps of air.
Merlin’s crying. Really crying.
Merlin is crying, and it’s Arthur’s fault, and Arthur has the sudden wild primal urge to tear down the door and take Merlin in his arms and comfort him - hold him - never let him go.
He lurches away, his legs suddenly unsteady, as though he’s drunk too much mead. Gaius is standing there, his face forbidding; he motions to the bench on the other side of the room in an oddly commanding gesture.
Arthur sits. Sits, and props his elbows on the table and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, and waits.
‘Sire,’ Gaius says, and his voice is still stern and hard. ‘He has wept himself to sleep for the past three nights, and he refuses to tell me what is wrong, or to speak about you.’ He waits, his eyebrows demanding an explanation, then adds, quieter, ‘It cannot have escaped your notice that Merlin means a great deal to me.’
‘Yes,’ Arthur creaks. ‘Yes - yes, I see that.’ He rubs his face tiredly, the image of Merlin huddled and small and sobbing himself to sleep rising up to accuse him. What he is supposed to say? I’ve been ignoring him because I can’t control myself around him, maybe. Or, I can’t stop thinking about him and it terrifies me. Or perhaps, I think I’m going mad, Gaius, help me.
He can’t say that to Gaius, can’t say any of that, and so he pushes back the bench roughly and stands. ‘I don’t know, all right?’ he says, and it comes out more desperate and pathetic than he had thought. ‘We had an - an argument, or something. I just don’t know!’ He’s striding for the door as he’s speaking, and Gaius doesn’t try to stop him.
Some visceral force makes Arthur glance back at Merlin’s door, quick and fierce, one more time, but it’s still tightly closed. He swings around to face Gaius before he leaves, and says in a tight voice, ‘Tell Merlin - tell him I’m sorry.’
Gaius looks at him from under his brows, and nods.
~
Arthur spends another day on the training field, and destroys a total of three dummies, five shields, the edge on his favourite sword, and the self-esteem of most of the other knights who had decided to practice with him.
It starts to rain. Arthur carries on training. It rains some more. It rains until the field is a slushy ravaged mess; and then Arthur slips and falls heavily in a particularly muddy patch.
It’s cold and wet and very, very muddy, and Arthur’s furious and humiliated and ready to kill anyone who might have found it amusing. But it turns out that everyone has wisely retired due to adverse conditions; namely, Prince Arthur’s wrath. Arthur snarls.
If Merlin were - were not-angry with him, he would still be sitting there in the rain, and he would tease Arthur about slipping in the mud and his words would have no sting. The realisation catches Arthur in the chest, and he takes a painful little half-breath and hacks his sword fiercely into the ground.
~
Arthur lies in bed. The room is dark, except for the dull glow of the banked fire; Arthur's sent all the servants-who-are-not-Merlin away, and doused his own bedside candle.
He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, hard, so that he can see bright dancing blots and sparks that aren't really there. He's aching all over from training so violently, and he's glad, because the aching is something he can focus on, so as to not think about other things.
Like the way Merlin had cried. Small and heartbroken and...
Or the way Merlin had startled and run away, and barricaded the door with his body, terrified.
Arthur tosses himself over, roughly, and shoves the covers off. He's just thinking about getting up and lighting the candles again, and going for a walk, or doing paperwork, or - or anything, anything to do that will stop him from thinking and thinking and thinking about Merlin. But then he hears a little noise in the darkness, and freezes, because there should not be a noise in his room. There’s the tiny click of the door shutting, and Arthur can just make out a dark formless shape.
The shape stops, just inside the door - hesitates - shuffles. Arthur reaches under the covers, very, very slowly, closing his fingers around the little ivory-handled knife that he keeps there for a last resort, that only he and Merlin ever know about. He waits, hardly breathing.
And then the unknown presence says, in a tiny tear-choked voice, 'Arthur?'
It feels like a bucket of icy water has been tossed over Arthur's head. 'Merlin,' he says, and his voice sounds strangled and strange to his own ears. 'Merlin, what - Merlin, what are you doing here?'
There's a little shifting sound in the dusk, as though Merlin is twisting his hands together or something. 'You said - sorry.'
'I could have killed you,' Arthur says, and squints into the darkness, grasping his own head with rough hands and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His heart is thudding unevenly in his chest and his mind feels fuzzed, sluggish, although his body is tensed and aware. ‘Merlin, I could have killed you.’
Merlin makes a little indescribable sound, like an animal might make on the precipice of flight, and Arthur needs to see his face. He stumbles to the embers of the fire, lighting a taper with unsteady hands and touching it to the candelabra. Warm clear candlelight grows smoothly from the wicks and washes over them.
And there’s Merlin.
Merlin, not meeting his eyes, shielding his face with his hand, his lips parted, unsteady. And oh, dear God, help him, Merlin’s nightshirt, open-necked and half-slipping off one shoulder; and Merlin’s collarbones are sharp and lovely, and the little hollow between them is the softest, most enticing thing Arthur’s ever seen.
And Arthur’s miserable, and tired, and confused; and he’s hardly seen Merlin for three days, and he’s missed him, missed him like a physical ache in his chest. Merlin’s so close, so very, very, dangerously close.
It happens so fast, like the moment after the release of a bowstring - Arthur’s lunging forward, and pulling Merlin towards him in a confused tangle of arms and breath and pounding heartbeats; and then his mouth is crashing down on Merlin’s.
It’s achingly soft, warm as summer, terrible as lightning. Merlin’s lips are moving unsteadily beneath his, and Merlin’s making little gasps into Arthur’s mouth; and Arthur kisses him and kisses him and kisses him as though life itself is captured between them
.
He’s desperate and fraught and longing, and everything is Merlin, the wonderful revelation of him - Merlin’s soft skin and slight shoulders and the warmth of the dip of his back. Arthur’s hand is clasping his waist and holding Merlin’s slender body against his chest, because Merlin’s knees seem to have collapsed. Merlin’s hands are slipping and clutching at Arthur’s shoulders, holding on almost painfully tight, and Arthur has one hand in his dark curls, holding his head.
And Merlin’s crying - crying hot fast tears that spread all over his face and Arthur’s and seep into their mingled mouths, salty-sweet. He cries harder, and harder, until his sobs shake the kiss apart and they melt and collapse together on buckled knees to the ground.
Arthur is shuddering, panting, wonderful bright nonsense colours exploding in his head. But there’s a single clear thought in his head, more instinct than reason: Merlin is crying. Merlin is crying, and distressed, and must be comforted.
‘Shh,’ Arthur breathes, and holds Merlin tightly, and rocks him, babbling nonsense. ‘Merlin - Merlin. Don’t cry, please don’t cry, I can’t bear it. Merlin.’ He breathes his name like a prayer.
‘Just going to - don’t know - what will I - Arthur,’ Merlin chokes out, and Arthur swoops and kisses him madly, on his face, his nose, his neck; little kisses and soft bites and nuzzles against his temple, lunatic, insane. Merlin gasps and sniffle-sobs and makes little moaning noises, and arches into the touch of Arthur’s lips above him; and then Arthur’s crying too, billows of feeling rising up and dissolving into the relief of tears as he holds Merlin in his arms.
And perhaps it is the tears - perhaps it is the intoxicating feel of Merlin nestled against him - but Arthur says desperately, stupidly, ‘Merlin - Merlin! - I love you - I love you.’
The world does not crash into ruin, or kindle into flame; but the air leaves Arthur’s lungs, for he recognises in a shattering instant both his own words and the irrefutable truth of them.
‘Dear God,’ he says heavily. ‘Dear God. I love you.’
~
Next: Part 5
greymantledlady's fic masterlist
Author: greymantledlady
Rating: PG
Warnings: More angst, and mountains of hurt/comfort
Summary: Arthur is halfway across the room with a couple of angry strides. ‘Merlin!’ he roars, but Merlin’s slamming the door, thudding his body against it from the inside to hold it shut, making little frantic sobbing pants of breath.
AO3: Precipitation
Previous: Part 3
The first day Merlin doesn't come, Arthur feels dully relieved. The second, sick and miserable and empty. By the third, when he wakes up to the face of a manservant who's not Merlin, he's coldly angry.
Merlin is Arthur’s, Arthur's own, and he has no right to leave him. Arthur wonders furiously what Merlin is doing, with whom he's spending his time; and an odd fierce possessiveness curls tightly in his stomach. He clenches his fists, dismisses the terrified servant-who-is-not-Merlin with a harsh word - and paces.
He paces back and forth the length of his chamber, fighting himself. The part of him that cries No when Merlin is around is loathing, hard with disgust.
Leave him. It sounds like his father's voice.
But the part that is Arthur, the part that is Arthur's heart and soul and essence; that part is what makes him slam his fist down hard on the table, and stalk out of the room towards Gaius's chambers.
He doesn't knock, or anything like that, because he's the King's son, damn it, and he shouldn't have to knock, or ask, or come fetching his manservant because he doesn't show up for three days. Instead, he slams the door open, his palm flat and fierce against the rough wood.
And there, at last, is Merlin.
Merlin, leaning over Gaius's bench, frowning in concentration. The bandage and splint are gone at last, and there’s a matching pale strip of skin showing at each of Merlin’s wrists as he holds up a little jar for Gaius to drop in some sort of black liquid. When the two of them hear the door slam open their heads jerk up.
'Arthur,' Gaius says sternly. Arthur doesn't miss the way he moves forward a little, almost shielding Merlin with his body. But it's Merlin Arthur is there for, and Merlin's frozen, trembling, white-faced.
And then Arthur is halfway across the room with a couple of angry strides; and Merlin drops the bottle with a tiny splintering crash and bolts for the door of his little bedchamber.
Arthur’s right behind him. ‘Merlin!’ he roars, but Merlin’s slamming the door, thudding his body against it from the inside to hold it shut, making little frantic sobbing pants of breath.
‘Arthur,’ Gaius says.
Arthur’s fuming, breathing heavily, and it would be so easy to force his way into that room, to shove the door open despite Merlin’s pitiful weight on the other side. To drag Merlin out, cowering…
He can’t, though. Arthur knows that, dimly, in some vague part of his mind, buried deep underneath the anger. He clenches his fists in frustration, and pounds the door instead.
‘Arthur,’ Gaius says again. Arthur barely hears him. He pounds harder, his fists shaking.
‘Arthur,’ Gaius says a third time, and his voice is sterner than Arthur has ever heard it. He turns to look at the old man, panting and half-defiant.
‘Stop,’ says Gaius, and his tone brooks no argument. ‘Arthur, listen.’
And so Arthur listens - listens at Merlin’s door, to the little sounds from inside.
Little sounds. Little, damp, heartbroken sounds. They’re very, very soft, as though they’re being muffled by a hand or a sleeve; tiny helpless sniffles, quiet gulps of air.
Merlin’s crying. Really crying.
Merlin is crying, and it’s Arthur’s fault, and Arthur has the sudden wild primal urge to tear down the door and take Merlin in his arms and comfort him - hold him - never let him go.
He lurches away, his legs suddenly unsteady, as though he’s drunk too much mead. Gaius is standing there, his face forbidding; he motions to the bench on the other side of the room in an oddly commanding gesture.
Arthur sits. Sits, and props his elbows on the table and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, and waits.
‘Sire,’ Gaius says, and his voice is still stern and hard. ‘He has wept himself to sleep for the past three nights, and he refuses to tell me what is wrong, or to speak about you.’ He waits, his eyebrows demanding an explanation, then adds, quieter, ‘It cannot have escaped your notice that Merlin means a great deal to me.’
‘Yes,’ Arthur creaks. ‘Yes - yes, I see that.’ He rubs his face tiredly, the image of Merlin huddled and small and sobbing himself to sleep rising up to accuse him. What he is supposed to say? I’ve been ignoring him because I can’t control myself around him, maybe. Or, I can’t stop thinking about him and it terrifies me. Or perhaps, I think I’m going mad, Gaius, help me.
He can’t say that to Gaius, can’t say any of that, and so he pushes back the bench roughly and stands. ‘I don’t know, all right?’ he says, and it comes out more desperate and pathetic than he had thought. ‘We had an - an argument, or something. I just don’t know!’ He’s striding for the door as he’s speaking, and Gaius doesn’t try to stop him.
Some visceral force makes Arthur glance back at Merlin’s door, quick and fierce, one more time, but it’s still tightly closed. He swings around to face Gaius before he leaves, and says in a tight voice, ‘Tell Merlin - tell him I’m sorry.’
Gaius looks at him from under his brows, and nods.
~
Arthur spends another day on the training field, and destroys a total of three dummies, five shields, the edge on his favourite sword, and the self-esteem of most of the other knights who had decided to practice with him.
It starts to rain. Arthur carries on training. It rains some more. It rains until the field is a slushy ravaged mess; and then Arthur slips and falls heavily in a particularly muddy patch.
It’s cold and wet and very, very muddy, and Arthur’s furious and humiliated and ready to kill anyone who might have found it amusing. But it turns out that everyone has wisely retired due to adverse conditions; namely, Prince Arthur’s wrath. Arthur snarls.
If Merlin were - were not-angry with him, he would still be sitting there in the rain, and he would tease Arthur about slipping in the mud and his words would have no sting. The realisation catches Arthur in the chest, and he takes a painful little half-breath and hacks his sword fiercely into the ground.
~
Arthur lies in bed. The room is dark, except for the dull glow of the banked fire; Arthur's sent all the servants-who-are-not-Merlin away, and doused his own bedside candle.
He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, hard, so that he can see bright dancing blots and sparks that aren't really there. He's aching all over from training so violently, and he's glad, because the aching is something he can focus on, so as to not think about other things.
Like the way Merlin had cried. Small and heartbroken and...
Or the way Merlin had startled and run away, and barricaded the door with his body, terrified.
Arthur tosses himself over, roughly, and shoves the covers off. He's just thinking about getting up and lighting the candles again, and going for a walk, or doing paperwork, or - or anything, anything to do that will stop him from thinking and thinking and thinking about Merlin. But then he hears a little noise in the darkness, and freezes, because there should not be a noise in his room. There’s the tiny click of the door shutting, and Arthur can just make out a dark formless shape.
The shape stops, just inside the door - hesitates - shuffles. Arthur reaches under the covers, very, very slowly, closing his fingers around the little ivory-handled knife that he keeps there for a last resort, that only he and Merlin ever know about. He waits, hardly breathing.
And then the unknown presence says, in a tiny tear-choked voice, 'Arthur?'
It feels like a bucket of icy water has been tossed over Arthur's head. 'Merlin,' he says, and his voice sounds strangled and strange to his own ears. 'Merlin, what - Merlin, what are you doing here?'
There's a little shifting sound in the dusk, as though Merlin is twisting his hands together or something. 'You said - sorry.'
'I could have killed you,' Arthur says, and squints into the darkness, grasping his own head with rough hands and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His heart is thudding unevenly in his chest and his mind feels fuzzed, sluggish, although his body is tensed and aware. ‘Merlin, I could have killed you.’
Merlin makes a little indescribable sound, like an animal might make on the precipice of flight, and Arthur needs to see his face. He stumbles to the embers of the fire, lighting a taper with unsteady hands and touching it to the candelabra. Warm clear candlelight grows smoothly from the wicks and washes over them.
And there’s Merlin.
Merlin, not meeting his eyes, shielding his face with his hand, his lips parted, unsteady. And oh, dear God, help him, Merlin’s nightshirt, open-necked and half-slipping off one shoulder; and Merlin’s collarbones are sharp and lovely, and the little hollow between them is the softest, most enticing thing Arthur’s ever seen.
And Arthur’s miserable, and tired, and confused; and he’s hardly seen Merlin for three days, and he’s missed him, missed him like a physical ache in his chest. Merlin’s so close, so very, very, dangerously close.
It happens so fast, like the moment after the release of a bowstring - Arthur’s lunging forward, and pulling Merlin towards him in a confused tangle of arms and breath and pounding heartbeats; and then his mouth is crashing down on Merlin’s.
It’s achingly soft, warm as summer, terrible as lightning. Merlin’s lips are moving unsteadily beneath his, and Merlin’s making little gasps into Arthur’s mouth; and Arthur kisses him and kisses him and kisses him as though life itself is captured between them
.
He’s desperate and fraught and longing, and everything is Merlin, the wonderful revelation of him - Merlin’s soft skin and slight shoulders and the warmth of the dip of his back. Arthur’s hand is clasping his waist and holding Merlin’s slender body against his chest, because Merlin’s knees seem to have collapsed. Merlin’s hands are slipping and clutching at Arthur’s shoulders, holding on almost painfully tight, and Arthur has one hand in his dark curls, holding his head.
And Merlin’s crying - crying hot fast tears that spread all over his face and Arthur’s and seep into their mingled mouths, salty-sweet. He cries harder, and harder, until his sobs shake the kiss apart and they melt and collapse together on buckled knees to the ground.
Arthur is shuddering, panting, wonderful bright nonsense colours exploding in his head. But there’s a single clear thought in his head, more instinct than reason: Merlin is crying. Merlin is crying, and distressed, and must be comforted.
‘Shh,’ Arthur breathes, and holds Merlin tightly, and rocks him, babbling nonsense. ‘Merlin - Merlin. Don’t cry, please don’t cry, I can’t bear it. Merlin.’ He breathes his name like a prayer.
‘Just going to - don’t know - what will I - Arthur,’ Merlin chokes out, and Arthur swoops and kisses him madly, on his face, his nose, his neck; little kisses and soft bites and nuzzles against his temple, lunatic, insane. Merlin gasps and sniffle-sobs and makes little moaning noises, and arches into the touch of Arthur’s lips above him; and then Arthur’s crying too, billows of feeling rising up and dissolving into the relief of tears as he holds Merlin in his arms.
And perhaps it is the tears - perhaps it is the intoxicating feel of Merlin nestled against him - but Arthur says desperately, stupidly, ‘Merlin - Merlin! - I love you - I love you.’
The world does not crash into ruin, or kindle into flame; but the air leaves Arthur’s lungs, for he recognises in a shattering instant both his own words and the irrefutable truth of them.
‘Dear God,’ he says heavily. ‘Dear God. I love you.’
~
Next: Part 5
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