Fic: In Dreams, My Reality
Title: In Dreams, My Reality
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: PG
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin
Length: 3221
Summary: Merlin's a painter who's been painting his dreams. One day, he meets the man who stars in them.
On AO3
A blur of silver.
A shock of blond.
A sparkle of blue.
Merlin bolts upright in his bed. He throws the blankets back and sprints for his easel. Mind hazy, vision still blurring, Merlin's brush flies across the canvas. Dashes of color begin to emerge.
When he finally steps back, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, it’s to study the mess of color that is his painting. It all makes no sense. Patches of color blur together. It looks like it could be a scene of some kind. If the original had been washed and smudged until the paints all bled together.
Merlin sighs in frustration and throws down his brush, not paying attention to where it falls. His gaze sweeps across his studio, glaring at the paintings set up to dry, all the same mess of color as his most recent piece. Merlin runs his paint spattered hands through his hair and trudges back to his bedroom. The uncontrollable need to paint after these dreams is becoming a regular occurrence. It’s driving Merlin crazy as well as making him half delirious with sleep deprivation. Night after night the dreams would come and night after night he would fling himself out of bed, inexplicably compelled to paint what he's seen.
Merlin collapses back on to his bed, curling up, squeezing his eyes shut and tries to will himself back to sleep.
--
The next night it's the same.
Flashes of silver; blurs of brilliant color in reds, greens, blues, and browns. A glint of gold in the far off distance.
More painting. Less sleep.
Merlin sighs with exhaustion.
--
Still no change the night after.
Silver. Red. Green. The gold is closer.
Wake. Paint.
Merlin rubs his eyes tiredly.
--
The pattern continues.
The colors are always there. Always bright and compelling. The silver is always in motion. The gold constantly gets closer until it sits right before Merlin's eyes. Always part of the dream, always in sight.
The scenes begin to get clearer.
The colors separate, the edges sharpen, and discernible shapes begin to form.
This time, when Merlin leaps from bed, it's with a determined gleam in his eye. As his brush flies across the canvas, an only slightly blurred picture forms. The shape of a sword is clear, as is the outline of the man holding it. The sword points at something, or someone. The man's stance is sure and firm. His head is tilted to the side, his blond hair glinting in the sun. He's standing on a field of grass. For some reason, Merlin mourns the fact that he can't make out the man's face.
These slightly clearer visions (as Merlin's started calling them) keep coming. A different scene each time. The blond man always the focus. Merlin finds himself with a burning desire to find out who he is. The scenes fascinate him. He's never seen anything like them, yet they're in his head, as if they belong there.
--
Merlin goes to get coffee for the first time since the visions started. To his dismay, his favorite coffee shop has been replaced with a new one called "Avalon." Merlin shrugs and buys a coffee anyway. Caffeine is caffeine. And god does he need caffeine.
That night, for the first time, the blond man isn't the only one in the visions. This time, there's another man. He’s dark-haired, tall, and slim. There's nothing remarkable about him. Except for the fact that he never leaves the blond one's side. That fascinates Merlin to no end.
Merlin goes to the coffee shop again and strikes up a friendship with a woman named Gwen. She's got warm, kind eyes. That night, the dreams sharpen with a sudden clarity that makes Merlin dizzy. The blond man's face is clear for the first time. As is the scene surrounding him. Now, Merlin's paintings take up the entire canvas, as if the picture stretches on for miles. This limitation frustrates Merlin. The visions increase in intensity and frequency. What Merlin sees isn't static anymore. His dreams aren't just swirls of color or a sudden flash of an image. Now there's movement. A story. Swords clashing, hooves clopping, quills scratching, voices whispering. Merlin doesn't understand any of it. All he understands is that he's meant to paint it. Merlin despairs that the dark-haired man has disappeared.
--
Merlin meets Gwen's roommate and best friend named Morgana. She and Merlin quickly warm to each other and Merlin leaves their apartment happier than he's been in years. The sudden happiness should frighten him, but it doesn't. It's almost exhilarating. He falls asleep with a smile on his face. When he jolts awake, it’s with the image of the blond and dark-haired man embracing burned into his eyelids. His brush flies across the canvas as usual. He’s relieved that the dark-haired man is at the blond’s side again.
Merlin’s flat is now filled with paintings. Unfortunately, none of them are anything he intended to paint. He’s finally run out of proper art to sell, so Merlin attempts to banish the visions from his mind and paint something that will earn him money. He’s not satisfied with a single painting he completes and ends up throwing the lot in the dumpster. As his money dwindles and his desperation climbs, Merlin finally considers selling the paintings of his visions. For some inexplicable reason, Merlin is reluctant to part with them. They feel too close to his heart. Too personal to put on the open market. But regardless, he has to eat, and these paintings are the only ones he’s even mildly satisfied with.
He sells the blurred ones first and is astonished to find them all sold the very next day. Merlin finds that he’s not short on money for the next few months. But still no inspiration strikes, and Merlin is forced to sell the next batch of the paintings with much reluctance. Once again, they disappear the next day, providing him with another few months of money. When those months pass, and Merlin still finds himself unable to paint to his own satisfaction, he sells the clear paintings. Like the rest, they are all sold the next day, but this time for double the amount he asked. Merlin is stunned at the popularity of his work and calls the seller to inquire after the buyer’s information. He tells the seller that he’d love to call and thank them in person. To his surprise, the seller quickly hands over a name, number, and address, informing Merlin that the buyer had left the information for that very reason.
Warily, Merlin picks up the phone, staring down at the buyer’s name: Arthur Pendragon. He holds back a snort of laughter. What were the odds? Arthur and Merlin.
“Hello?”
Merlin hesitates. Unsure how to begin the conversation.
“Hello?” The voice sounds impatient now.
Merlin clears his throat. “Er… yes. Hi. Mr. Pendragon?”
“Yes?” The voice replies, sounding colder. For some reason, this makes Merlin’s heart ache.
“I-I just wanted to… thank you,” Merlin stammers.
“Yes, what for?” The voice sounds slightly exasperated now. Dimly, Merlin is struck with the image of a pair of blue eyes, rolling at Merlin’s incompetence.
“For purchasing my paintings,” Merlin blurts out. “The ‘Avalon’ collection?”
Silence.
Merlin fidgets nervously.
Merlin hears heavy breathing on the other end of the line. He feels panic rising within him, suddenly worried that he’s stepped out of line.
“M-Mr. Pendragon - ?” Merlin begins.
“Merlin?” The voice is rough, and Merlin’s name sounds as if it’s being torn from the other man’s throat.
“Er… yes?” Merlin says tentatively.
“Merlin Emrys?” The voice demands.
“Yes…”
“The artist who painted Ar - the ‘Avalon’ collection?”
“Yes… as I said, that’s me,” Merlin replies, beginning to wonder if the man is a bit simple. “I just wanted to thank you for buying them all. And at such a high price. I’m flattered you think so highly of my work.”
“Yes, of course.” The voice sounds distracted and slightly breathless.
“So… er… thank you again,” Merlin says, vowing never to have one of these conversations again. Who knew calling a buyer could be so awkward?
“Wait!” the voice calls as Merlin is preparing to say goodbye. “Forgive my forwardness, and you are certain at liberty to decline, but… would you consider joining me for dinner?” A pause. “It is I who should thank you really. For creating the lovely paintings and bringing them into my life.”
Merlin stands there, shocked, clutching the phone for dear-life. “I… Well…” Merlin begins to stammer.
“Merlin. Please,” the voice says quietly.
Merlin feels his excuses crumble, all but sees them break away. Before he registers what he’s saying, he replies, “Yes, that would be lovely.”
He hears the other man let out a breath in a whoosh. Merlin frowns in puzzlement. “Meet me at Avalon tomorrow at six? It’s a small café, but there’s a lovely restaurant not far from it.”
“Yes,” Merlin hears himself saying helplessly. “I’ll be there, Mr. Pendragon.”
“Good,” the man says, sounding strangely relieved. “That’s… that’s brilliant.”
Merlin finds himself smiling despite his doubts. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Pendragon.”
“Yes. Tomorrow,” the man says, and Merlin can hear the smile in his voice. “And Merlin?” the man says tentatively.
“Hmm?”
“Please. Call me Arthur.”
“Arthur then,” Merlin replies, rolling the name on his tongue. He feels warmth spread through him at the name. “Until tomorrow, Arthur,” Merlin promises.
“Until tomorrow, Merlin,” Arthur replies, voice soft and quietly delighted.
Merlin finds himself wandering around his flat with a giddy smile plastered to his face for the rest of the day.
--
The next day, Merlin finds himself leaving his flat and sprinting for Avalon at six o’clock. When he gets there, completely disheveled and panting, it’s to find a blond man - a blond man who looks exactly like the one in his paintings - leaning against the brick wall with his arms folded across his chest, foot tapping impatiently. He quirks an eyebrow as his gaze lands on Merlin.
“Merlin,” the man says, sounding a little breathless.
Merlin gapes, mouth flapping soundlessly.
“Merlin?” the man says, sounding slightly uncertain. He waves a hand in front of Merlin’s eyes a couple times when Merlin still doesn’t respond. He looks relieved when Merlin blinks at him.
“You - You’re - What?” Merlin stammers, staring at the man in front of him in astonishment and just a little fear.
“I’m Arthur,” the man - Arthur - says, shooting Merlin a slightly concerned look. “Are you all right?”
Merlin splutters. “I don’t understand - How - You’re - This can’t be!”
Arthur’s expression turns exasperated. Merlin wonders to himself how it was that he could read this man like an open book. “Do start making sense soon, won’t you, Merlin?”
Merlin scratches the back of his head absently, tugging a little at his hair. The way Arthur said his name… why did he feel like he’d forgotten something important? Merlin taps at his head a little, hoping it would knock the memory back into him. When Merlin peers at Arthur again, Arthur’s gaze is trained on Merlin’s hand. Arthur licks his lips as Merlin tugs again. Merlin feels a strange swooping sensation at the pit of his stomach.
He swallows nervously before opening his mouth again. “The man in my paintings,” Merlin begins, starting when Arthur’s gaze snaps back to meet his. Merlin swallows again, licking his suddenly dry lips. He fights back a shudder as he feels Arthur’s gaze fix on his throat, then drift up to settle on his mouth.
“The man…” Merlin starts again, voice jumping up an octave. Merlin clears his throat awkwardly. “The man in my paintings. You know the one, since you bought them and all…” Merlin finds himself babbling a little. Was it just him or was it getting hotter? He desperately wants to tug at the collar of his shirt, undo a few buttons maybe, but didn’t dare try with Arthur’s eyes flickering between his face and neck.
“Yes…” Arthur replies, voice going a little husky. “Go on.”
Merlin nods jerkily, the back of his head striking the brick behind him. Wait - wasn’t Arthur the one against the wall before? Merlin glances behind himself briefly. Yes, that was definitely a wall behind him. When did he and Arthur change places? Merlin mentally shook himself.
“The man in the paintings…”
“Yes, you’ve said that,” Arthur replies, taking a step closer to Merlin.
Merlin suddenly finds it hard to breathe, much less think. “Er… yes, I have, haven’t I?” Merlin closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the rough brick. The uncomfortable bumps do wonders to clear his head. When he opens his eyes again, he yelps, finding Arthur’s blue eyes suddenly only inches from his own.
“Ar-Arthur!”
“Are you going to continue?” Arthur demands, voice sounding a bit rough.
“Of-Of course,” Merlin replies. “The man I painted looks exactly like you,” Merlin says in a whoosh.
“Caught on to that, have you?” Arthur asks, giving no indication of wanting to move away. Merlin feels his heart thump in his ribcage. Disconcertingly, Merlin finds that he doesn’t want Arthur to move. He wants him closer.
“But - how - that’s not possible!” Merlin protests. “I painted the visions I saw in dreams!”
At that, a look of surprise flits through Arthur’s eyes. “Dreams?” he asks curiously.
“Er… yes,” Merlin says, blushing furiously, well aware that he now sounds like a crazy loon.
“Tell me about them,” Arthur says, sending him a disarming smile that makes Merlin weak in the knees. Merlin scrabbles at the wall, suddenly relieved that it’s there to support him. Merlin’s eyes flutter for a moment, catching the tail end of a smirk as it fades from Arthur’s face. Merlin narrows his eyes, fighting down the urge to glare at Arthur.
“Fine,” Merlin huffs. Arthur rolls his eyes good-naturedly at Merlin before offering him another smile. “They started close to two years ago now. At first it was just colors, completely blurred. They would come to me in dreams, and they would wake me every time. Every single time I jumped out of bed to paint what I saw. It wasn’t voluntary. I just… did. I had to. And as the months passed, the dreams became clearer. I saw shapes, people, landscapes. Finally I could see faces. Mostly…” Merlin hesitates, darting a nervous glance at Arthur. Arthur’s expression is completely serious, a slight softening around the corners of his eyes. “Mostly your face,” Merlin admits quietly.
Merlin starts when he feels Arthur’s hand brush his hair off his forehead. But Arthur doesn’t move away. Neither does Merlin. Their gazes lock and Merlin feels his heart skip a beat. He moves closer to Arthur unconsciously.
“You’re certain it was me?” Arthur whispers, hand sliding down to caress Merlin’s cheek.
“Positive,” Merlin breathes. “I know it. I can’t explain how… but I know it was you.”
Merlin watches, mystified, as a sparkle of hope enters Arthur’s eyes. “Good,” Arthur murmurs, searching Merlin’s face.
“Good? Good?” Merlin exclaims. “What do you mean ‘good’? How is this even possible, Arthur? We’ve never met before! I have never seen you before in my life. Pardon me for not thinking this is in any way ‘good.’”
Arthur’s face falls. Merlin thinks he hears him murmur something that like, ‘Not in this life maybe.’ But that can’t possibly be right. Merlin’s head is spinning with Arthur so close, he can’t possibly have heard correctly.
Merlin sighs and leans his head back again. This has to be strangest meeting he’s ever had. Merlin feels warm breath puff against his neck and the briefest brush of silken hair against his cheek. Merlin’s eyes snap open just as Arthur’s forehead lands against his collarbone.
Instead of pushing Arthur away, Merlin aches to wrap his arms around him and pull him closer. Merlin wants to turn his face into Arthur’s hair and breathe in, breathe in that comforting scent that is entirely Arthur.
Arthur huffs a tiny, choked laugh against Merlin skin. Merlin shivers at the sensation. “There’s still something about you. Still. Always.” Another puff of air. “There’s something about you, Merlin. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Never could.”
Merlin feels his entire body stiffen. With a cry, he doubles over, collapsing against Arthur’s chest, shaking and clutching his head. He feels like he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but ride out the waves of pain. He screws his eyes shut, but images are slamming through his mind, memories slapping him in the face before they slot into their proper places. Merlin feels a wave of power like he’s never felt before rise within him, rushing through his blood, leaving him gasping for air.
“-lin! Merlin! Merlin!” Merlin hears Arthur’s voice shouting in his ear when he finally registers that the rest of the world still exists. When he finally opens his eyes again, it seems like a gold haze has descended over the Earth. He can still feel residual tremors wracking his body, wetness on his cheeks, the fading of his pounding headache, and the hard pavement against his knees.
Merlin looks up to meet Arthur’s gaze. Arthur sucks in a sharp breath. Merlin is shocked to find Arthur’s own cheeks wet and a desperate glint in his eye. “Arthur,” he croaks.
Arthur’s shoulders suddenly slump forward, and he is tugging Merlin tighter into the circle of his arms, squeezing him until Merlin feels like he can’t breathe. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except Arthur. Merlin knows that now. Remembers now.
“Merlin,” Arthur gasps in a broken voice. Merlin wraps his arms around Arthur’s neck and pulls his face down to the crook of his neck. Merlin feels tears splash against his skin, feels the tiny gasping breaths Arthur tries to control, and just holds Arthur tighter, rocking him back and forth in his embrace.
When Arthur’s tears subside, Arthur pulls back reluctantly, peering at Merlin worriedly. “You…” Arthur hesitates, looking terrified for a moment. “You do remember, don’t you? Remember… me? Us?” Arthur gives Merlin such an openly hopeful look that Merlin’s heart aches.
“God yes,” Merlin groans, gaze tracing Arthur’s features lovingly, hands still fisted in Arthur’s shirt from his collapse. Merlin feels his fingers cramping, but he doesn’t let go. He never wants to let go. Never again.
“Truly?” Arthur asks in a breathless voice, eyes lighting up at Merlin’s response.
Merlin gives a slightly hysterical laugh, then lets himself fall forward, knowing Arthur will catch him. And catch him he does, arms tightening just before Merlin’s head crashes into Arthur’s shoulder. Merlin nuzzles the side of Arthur’s neck, letting his eyes flutter closed for a moment, feeling utterly drained, but more content than he ever has before. One final image assaults his mind, but Merlin doesn’t tense, doesn’t startle or move away. He just sighs contentedly and accepts it. Because he finally sees the dark-haired man’s face. In his memories and in this vision of King Arthur and his Court Sorcerer standing side-by-side, hand-in-hand, gazing out at the people of Camelot - their people.
“Truly, my king,” Merlin says, grinning up at Arthur.
With a choked off sound that is half laugh and half sob, right there in the middle of the sidewalk, Arthur pulls Merlin in for a kiss.
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: PG
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin
Length: 3221
Summary: Merlin's a painter who's been painting his dreams. One day, he meets the man who stars in them.
On AO3
A blur of silver.
A shock of blond.
A sparkle of blue.
Merlin bolts upright in his bed. He throws the blankets back and sprints for his easel. Mind hazy, vision still blurring, Merlin's brush flies across the canvas. Dashes of color begin to emerge.
When he finally steps back, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, it’s to study the mess of color that is his painting. It all makes no sense. Patches of color blur together. It looks like it could be a scene of some kind. If the original had been washed and smudged until the paints all bled together.
Merlin sighs in frustration and throws down his brush, not paying attention to where it falls. His gaze sweeps across his studio, glaring at the paintings set up to dry, all the same mess of color as his most recent piece. Merlin runs his paint spattered hands through his hair and trudges back to his bedroom. The uncontrollable need to paint after these dreams is becoming a regular occurrence. It’s driving Merlin crazy as well as making him half delirious with sleep deprivation. Night after night the dreams would come and night after night he would fling himself out of bed, inexplicably compelled to paint what he's seen.
Merlin collapses back on to his bed, curling up, squeezing his eyes shut and tries to will himself back to sleep.
--
The next night it's the same.
Flashes of silver; blurs of brilliant color in reds, greens, blues, and browns. A glint of gold in the far off distance.
More painting. Less sleep.
Merlin sighs with exhaustion.
--
Still no change the night after.
Silver. Red. Green. The gold is closer.
Wake. Paint.
Merlin rubs his eyes tiredly.
--
The pattern continues.
The colors are always there. Always bright and compelling. The silver is always in motion. The gold constantly gets closer until it sits right before Merlin's eyes. Always part of the dream, always in sight.
The scenes begin to get clearer.
The colors separate, the edges sharpen, and discernible shapes begin to form.
This time, when Merlin leaps from bed, it's with a determined gleam in his eye. As his brush flies across the canvas, an only slightly blurred picture forms. The shape of a sword is clear, as is the outline of the man holding it. The sword points at something, or someone. The man's stance is sure and firm. His head is tilted to the side, his blond hair glinting in the sun. He's standing on a field of grass. For some reason, Merlin mourns the fact that he can't make out the man's face.
These slightly clearer visions (as Merlin's started calling them) keep coming. A different scene each time. The blond man always the focus. Merlin finds himself with a burning desire to find out who he is. The scenes fascinate him. He's never seen anything like them, yet they're in his head, as if they belong there.
--
Merlin goes to get coffee for the first time since the visions started. To his dismay, his favorite coffee shop has been replaced with a new one called "Avalon." Merlin shrugs and buys a coffee anyway. Caffeine is caffeine. And god does he need caffeine.
That night, for the first time, the blond man isn't the only one in the visions. This time, there's another man. He’s dark-haired, tall, and slim. There's nothing remarkable about him. Except for the fact that he never leaves the blond one's side. That fascinates Merlin to no end.
Merlin goes to the coffee shop again and strikes up a friendship with a woman named Gwen. She's got warm, kind eyes. That night, the dreams sharpen with a sudden clarity that makes Merlin dizzy. The blond man's face is clear for the first time. As is the scene surrounding him. Now, Merlin's paintings take up the entire canvas, as if the picture stretches on for miles. This limitation frustrates Merlin. The visions increase in intensity and frequency. What Merlin sees isn't static anymore. His dreams aren't just swirls of color or a sudden flash of an image. Now there's movement. A story. Swords clashing, hooves clopping, quills scratching, voices whispering. Merlin doesn't understand any of it. All he understands is that he's meant to paint it. Merlin despairs that the dark-haired man has disappeared.
--
Merlin meets Gwen's roommate and best friend named Morgana. She and Merlin quickly warm to each other and Merlin leaves their apartment happier than he's been in years. The sudden happiness should frighten him, but it doesn't. It's almost exhilarating. He falls asleep with a smile on his face. When he jolts awake, it’s with the image of the blond and dark-haired man embracing burned into his eyelids. His brush flies across the canvas as usual. He’s relieved that the dark-haired man is at the blond’s side again.
Merlin’s flat is now filled with paintings. Unfortunately, none of them are anything he intended to paint. He’s finally run out of proper art to sell, so Merlin attempts to banish the visions from his mind and paint something that will earn him money. He’s not satisfied with a single painting he completes and ends up throwing the lot in the dumpster. As his money dwindles and his desperation climbs, Merlin finally considers selling the paintings of his visions. For some inexplicable reason, Merlin is reluctant to part with them. They feel too close to his heart. Too personal to put on the open market. But regardless, he has to eat, and these paintings are the only ones he’s even mildly satisfied with.
He sells the blurred ones first and is astonished to find them all sold the very next day. Merlin finds that he’s not short on money for the next few months. But still no inspiration strikes, and Merlin is forced to sell the next batch of the paintings with much reluctance. Once again, they disappear the next day, providing him with another few months of money. When those months pass, and Merlin still finds himself unable to paint to his own satisfaction, he sells the clear paintings. Like the rest, they are all sold the next day, but this time for double the amount he asked. Merlin is stunned at the popularity of his work and calls the seller to inquire after the buyer’s information. He tells the seller that he’d love to call and thank them in person. To his surprise, the seller quickly hands over a name, number, and address, informing Merlin that the buyer had left the information for that very reason.
Warily, Merlin picks up the phone, staring down at the buyer’s name: Arthur Pendragon. He holds back a snort of laughter. What were the odds? Arthur and Merlin.
“Hello?”
Merlin hesitates. Unsure how to begin the conversation.
“Hello?” The voice sounds impatient now.
Merlin clears his throat. “Er… yes. Hi. Mr. Pendragon?”
“Yes?” The voice replies, sounding colder. For some reason, this makes Merlin’s heart ache.
“I-I just wanted to… thank you,” Merlin stammers.
“Yes, what for?” The voice sounds slightly exasperated now. Dimly, Merlin is struck with the image of a pair of blue eyes, rolling at Merlin’s incompetence.
“For purchasing my paintings,” Merlin blurts out. “The ‘Avalon’ collection?”
Silence.
Merlin fidgets nervously.
Merlin hears heavy breathing on the other end of the line. He feels panic rising within him, suddenly worried that he’s stepped out of line.
“M-Mr. Pendragon - ?” Merlin begins.
“Merlin?” The voice is rough, and Merlin’s name sounds as if it’s being torn from the other man’s throat.
“Er… yes?” Merlin says tentatively.
“Merlin Emrys?” The voice demands.
“Yes…”
“The artist who painted Ar - the ‘Avalon’ collection?”
“Yes… as I said, that’s me,” Merlin replies, beginning to wonder if the man is a bit simple. “I just wanted to thank you for buying them all. And at such a high price. I’m flattered you think so highly of my work.”
“Yes, of course.” The voice sounds distracted and slightly breathless.
“So… er… thank you again,” Merlin says, vowing never to have one of these conversations again. Who knew calling a buyer could be so awkward?
“Wait!” the voice calls as Merlin is preparing to say goodbye. “Forgive my forwardness, and you are certain at liberty to decline, but… would you consider joining me for dinner?” A pause. “It is I who should thank you really. For creating the lovely paintings and bringing them into my life.”
Merlin stands there, shocked, clutching the phone for dear-life. “I… Well…” Merlin begins to stammer.
“Merlin. Please,” the voice says quietly.
Merlin feels his excuses crumble, all but sees them break away. Before he registers what he’s saying, he replies, “Yes, that would be lovely.”
He hears the other man let out a breath in a whoosh. Merlin frowns in puzzlement. “Meet me at Avalon tomorrow at six? It’s a small café, but there’s a lovely restaurant not far from it.”
“Yes,” Merlin hears himself saying helplessly. “I’ll be there, Mr. Pendragon.”
“Good,” the man says, sounding strangely relieved. “That’s… that’s brilliant.”
Merlin finds himself smiling despite his doubts. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Pendragon.”
“Yes. Tomorrow,” the man says, and Merlin can hear the smile in his voice. “And Merlin?” the man says tentatively.
“Hmm?”
“Please. Call me Arthur.”
“Arthur then,” Merlin replies, rolling the name on his tongue. He feels warmth spread through him at the name. “Until tomorrow, Arthur,” Merlin promises.
“Until tomorrow, Merlin,” Arthur replies, voice soft and quietly delighted.
Merlin finds himself wandering around his flat with a giddy smile plastered to his face for the rest of the day.
--
The next day, Merlin finds himself leaving his flat and sprinting for Avalon at six o’clock. When he gets there, completely disheveled and panting, it’s to find a blond man - a blond man who looks exactly like the one in his paintings - leaning against the brick wall with his arms folded across his chest, foot tapping impatiently. He quirks an eyebrow as his gaze lands on Merlin.
“Merlin,” the man says, sounding a little breathless.
Merlin gapes, mouth flapping soundlessly.
“Merlin?” the man says, sounding slightly uncertain. He waves a hand in front of Merlin’s eyes a couple times when Merlin still doesn’t respond. He looks relieved when Merlin blinks at him.
“You - You’re - What?” Merlin stammers, staring at the man in front of him in astonishment and just a little fear.
“I’m Arthur,” the man - Arthur - says, shooting Merlin a slightly concerned look. “Are you all right?”
Merlin splutters. “I don’t understand - How - You’re - This can’t be!”
Arthur’s expression turns exasperated. Merlin wonders to himself how it was that he could read this man like an open book. “Do start making sense soon, won’t you, Merlin?”
Merlin scratches the back of his head absently, tugging a little at his hair. The way Arthur said his name… why did he feel like he’d forgotten something important? Merlin taps at his head a little, hoping it would knock the memory back into him. When Merlin peers at Arthur again, Arthur’s gaze is trained on Merlin’s hand. Arthur licks his lips as Merlin tugs again. Merlin feels a strange swooping sensation at the pit of his stomach.
He swallows nervously before opening his mouth again. “The man in my paintings,” Merlin begins, starting when Arthur’s gaze snaps back to meet his. Merlin swallows again, licking his suddenly dry lips. He fights back a shudder as he feels Arthur’s gaze fix on his throat, then drift up to settle on his mouth.
“The man…” Merlin starts again, voice jumping up an octave. Merlin clears his throat awkwardly. “The man in my paintings. You know the one, since you bought them and all…” Merlin finds himself babbling a little. Was it just him or was it getting hotter? He desperately wants to tug at the collar of his shirt, undo a few buttons maybe, but didn’t dare try with Arthur’s eyes flickering between his face and neck.
“Yes…” Arthur replies, voice going a little husky. “Go on.”
Merlin nods jerkily, the back of his head striking the brick behind him. Wait - wasn’t Arthur the one against the wall before? Merlin glances behind himself briefly. Yes, that was definitely a wall behind him. When did he and Arthur change places? Merlin mentally shook himself.
“The man in the paintings…”
“Yes, you’ve said that,” Arthur replies, taking a step closer to Merlin.
Merlin suddenly finds it hard to breathe, much less think. “Er… yes, I have, haven’t I?” Merlin closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the rough brick. The uncomfortable bumps do wonders to clear his head. When he opens his eyes again, he yelps, finding Arthur’s blue eyes suddenly only inches from his own.
“Ar-Arthur!”
“Are you going to continue?” Arthur demands, voice sounding a bit rough.
“Of-Of course,” Merlin replies. “The man I painted looks exactly like you,” Merlin says in a whoosh.
“Caught on to that, have you?” Arthur asks, giving no indication of wanting to move away. Merlin feels his heart thump in his ribcage. Disconcertingly, Merlin finds that he doesn’t want Arthur to move. He wants him closer.
“But - how - that’s not possible!” Merlin protests. “I painted the visions I saw in dreams!”
At that, a look of surprise flits through Arthur’s eyes. “Dreams?” he asks curiously.
“Er… yes,” Merlin says, blushing furiously, well aware that he now sounds like a crazy loon.
“Tell me about them,” Arthur says, sending him a disarming smile that makes Merlin weak in the knees. Merlin scrabbles at the wall, suddenly relieved that it’s there to support him. Merlin’s eyes flutter for a moment, catching the tail end of a smirk as it fades from Arthur’s face. Merlin narrows his eyes, fighting down the urge to glare at Arthur.
“Fine,” Merlin huffs. Arthur rolls his eyes good-naturedly at Merlin before offering him another smile. “They started close to two years ago now. At first it was just colors, completely blurred. They would come to me in dreams, and they would wake me every time. Every single time I jumped out of bed to paint what I saw. It wasn’t voluntary. I just… did. I had to. And as the months passed, the dreams became clearer. I saw shapes, people, landscapes. Finally I could see faces. Mostly…” Merlin hesitates, darting a nervous glance at Arthur. Arthur’s expression is completely serious, a slight softening around the corners of his eyes. “Mostly your face,” Merlin admits quietly.
Merlin starts when he feels Arthur’s hand brush his hair off his forehead. But Arthur doesn’t move away. Neither does Merlin. Their gazes lock and Merlin feels his heart skip a beat. He moves closer to Arthur unconsciously.
“You’re certain it was me?” Arthur whispers, hand sliding down to caress Merlin’s cheek.
“Positive,” Merlin breathes. “I know it. I can’t explain how… but I know it was you.”
Merlin watches, mystified, as a sparkle of hope enters Arthur’s eyes. “Good,” Arthur murmurs, searching Merlin’s face.
“Good? Good?” Merlin exclaims. “What do you mean ‘good’? How is this even possible, Arthur? We’ve never met before! I have never seen you before in my life. Pardon me for not thinking this is in any way ‘good.’”
Arthur’s face falls. Merlin thinks he hears him murmur something that like, ‘Not in this life maybe.’ But that can’t possibly be right. Merlin’s head is spinning with Arthur so close, he can’t possibly have heard correctly.
Merlin sighs and leans his head back again. This has to be strangest meeting he’s ever had. Merlin feels warm breath puff against his neck and the briefest brush of silken hair against his cheek. Merlin’s eyes snap open just as Arthur’s forehead lands against his collarbone.
Instead of pushing Arthur away, Merlin aches to wrap his arms around him and pull him closer. Merlin wants to turn his face into Arthur’s hair and breathe in, breathe in that comforting scent that is entirely Arthur.
Arthur huffs a tiny, choked laugh against Merlin skin. Merlin shivers at the sensation. “There’s still something about you. Still. Always.” Another puff of air. “There’s something about you, Merlin. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Never could.”
Merlin feels his entire body stiffen. With a cry, he doubles over, collapsing against Arthur’s chest, shaking and clutching his head. He feels like he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but ride out the waves of pain. He screws his eyes shut, but images are slamming through his mind, memories slapping him in the face before they slot into their proper places. Merlin feels a wave of power like he’s never felt before rise within him, rushing through his blood, leaving him gasping for air.
“-lin! Merlin! Merlin!” Merlin hears Arthur’s voice shouting in his ear when he finally registers that the rest of the world still exists. When he finally opens his eyes again, it seems like a gold haze has descended over the Earth. He can still feel residual tremors wracking his body, wetness on his cheeks, the fading of his pounding headache, and the hard pavement against his knees.
Merlin looks up to meet Arthur’s gaze. Arthur sucks in a sharp breath. Merlin is shocked to find Arthur’s own cheeks wet and a desperate glint in his eye. “Arthur,” he croaks.
Arthur’s shoulders suddenly slump forward, and he is tugging Merlin tighter into the circle of his arms, squeezing him until Merlin feels like he can’t breathe. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except Arthur. Merlin knows that now. Remembers now.
“Merlin,” Arthur gasps in a broken voice. Merlin wraps his arms around Arthur’s neck and pulls his face down to the crook of his neck. Merlin feels tears splash against his skin, feels the tiny gasping breaths Arthur tries to control, and just holds Arthur tighter, rocking him back and forth in his embrace.
When Arthur’s tears subside, Arthur pulls back reluctantly, peering at Merlin worriedly. “You…” Arthur hesitates, looking terrified for a moment. “You do remember, don’t you? Remember… me? Us?” Arthur gives Merlin such an openly hopeful look that Merlin’s heart aches.
“God yes,” Merlin groans, gaze tracing Arthur’s features lovingly, hands still fisted in Arthur’s shirt from his collapse. Merlin feels his fingers cramping, but he doesn’t let go. He never wants to let go. Never again.
“Truly?” Arthur asks in a breathless voice, eyes lighting up at Merlin’s response.
Merlin gives a slightly hysterical laugh, then lets himself fall forward, knowing Arthur will catch him. And catch him he does, arms tightening just before Merlin’s head crashes into Arthur’s shoulder. Merlin nuzzles the side of Arthur’s neck, letting his eyes flutter closed for a moment, feeling utterly drained, but more content than he ever has before. One final image assaults his mind, but Merlin doesn’t tense, doesn’t startle or move away. He just sighs contentedly and accepts it. Because he finally sees the dark-haired man’s face. In his memories and in this vision of King Arthur and his Court Sorcerer standing side-by-side, hand-in-hand, gazing out at the people of Camelot - their people.
“Truly, my king,” Merlin says, grinning up at Arthur.
With a choked off sound that is half laugh and half sob, right there in the middle of the sidewalk, Arthur pulls Merlin in for a kiss.