backwards
In another life, one where things are backwards - Arthur finds himself kneeling at Merlin’s feet in a decorated throne room.
First, Merlin looks at him like he’s just another person here to tell inform him of the state of his army - but then something changes. His face fills with confusion, as if there’s something about Arthur that he just can’t put his finger on. Arthur realizes that this is their first time actually meeting face to face - since he is at least seven years Merlin’s younger this time, and there have been very rare moments when they have been in the same room due to Arthur’s status. But they’ve never spoken directly, not when Merlin is usually so busy.
The floor is hard under his knees, and he looks up through his lashes as Merlin - his lord. He regards him with a calm, cool stare. It’s strange, though - to remember who he is, who Merlin is, or used to be. He feels his palms grow clammy from where they press into the fabric of his pants, and Arthur realizes that looking at Merlin has become harder to do with each lifetime that passes by.
He looks down at the ground, lips parted slightly as he remembers himself, who he is in this lifetime and says, “I bring news from the south, my lord.”
For in this lifetime, he is not King Arthur Pendragon. He is Sir Arthur Salveron, another soldier in His Majesty’s army. And when he looks at Merlin, clothed in regal gold and passionate red he realizes that as good as Merlin looks, blues have always suited him better.
It takes him a good surge of willpower not to comment on it, because their power balances are in reverse - and Arthur wonders if this is how it felt when Merlin was his manservant, if not worse. Merlin’s gaze is inscrutable but not cruel, and the blue of his eyes is so familiar that it hurts. Arthur finds it hard to look at Merlin then, his eyes flickering to the floor in a way that Arthur Salveron is used to, whereas Arthur Pendragon was not.
Sometimes, Merlin never remembers Arthur. Sometimes he does. Sometimes Arthur never remembers Merlin. Sometimes he does. Sometimes they go through their entire lives without meeting each other, never remembering the rich history between them, and Arthur is thankful that he never completely remembers those times. But when they do meet, it is inevitable that they will drift together, because their paths are essentially one.
Which is why it is a month later, after a feast to celebrate an ending campaign that Arthur crawls on top of him in Merlin’s bed, moaning as Merlin licks into his mouth. He explores it all over again, sucking Merlin’s lip into his mouth and their teeth accidentally click once or twice, but Arthur is too turned on to care. As he grinds his hips down against Merlin’s, he starts to press reverent kisses down the other’s chest. At first, Merlin grabs at him like he’s lost as to why Arthur has stopped kissing him, but looks pleased when he realizes Arthur’s path. He lingers at the nipple, lips brushing over it before grazing it with his teeth.
Merlin is bossier in this lifetime, because there’s a sharp tug to his hair and an impatient glare. The kind that says 'we can do that later'. Arthur grins and moves back up to kiss him. He looks at Merlin, who is trapped between Arthur’s legs and lying back on the bed with his lips parted and pupils dilated. Arthur’s throat goes dry at the image. Even if he knows Merlin, there are always changes from who they were to who they are now - and Arthur, who has never been good with words, does not know how to voice the words he wants to ask.
“Can I...” He starts, unsure how to politely ask a royal if he can fuck them - because it isn’t like he ever really had to think about this sort of thing before. He’s only been in the other position, and it’s disconcerning to be on the other side of it.
“Can you?” Merlin smirks at him - smirks, and Arthur is both turned on and surprised by the words. This Merlin is just as cheeky, quick and witty as he has always been - but there’s a confidence there, just as there is a strength and a fire in the way he walks and holds himself. Like a warrior, like Arthur is, and was.
So Arthur takes the quip as a confirmation, because Merlin is doing less smirking and more of that guileless smile that Arthur feels doesn’t happen in public as often as it did when Merlin was his manservant. It makes sense though, when Arthur recalls the intricacies and sensitive dealings of the court and kingdom - and how emotions were meant to be controlled to the best of one’s abilities for fear of consequences. He fiddles to grab a container from the small table on the side of Merlin’s bed. He slides down Merlin’s body, sitting upright and shifting their bodies so that he’s sitting between Merlin’s legs. Arthur runs his hands down Merlin’s thighs, kneading the flesh and simply revelling in being reunited with him. Merlin misreads this as an obliging pleasantry.
“There’s no need to be gentle.” Merlin snorts, “I’m not a delicate flower. You’re not going to break me.”
And there’s a hint of nor are you my first, and a possessive wave crashes over Arthur, because Merlin is his. Jealousy burns bright in Arthur as he grips a bit tighter, pouring a generous amount of oil onto his fingers as he rubs Merlin’s entrance. Merlin lightly cants his hips back, and his eyes have darkened as he watches Arthur. It’s rare that they will both remember - and Arthur holds little hope that this is one of those lifetimes where they do. But that’s alright. He can live with that, so long as he has Merlin. Arthur presses two fingers inside of Merlin, slick with oil and savors the hitch in Merlin’s breath as he tightens around him. He frets for a moment, that two fingers was too fast, even if Merlin had said it was alright to be rougher.
But then Merlin groans, hisses a “fuck”, that does not sound like a complaint, and Arthur relaxes. He sucks the spot behind Merlin’s ear, a place he remembers has always provided a satisfying response - it does not disappoint. Merlin’s nails dig into his back, and he grinds his hips down against Arthur’s unmoving fingers, cock hard and rubbing against Arthur’s own between their bodies. Arthur waits a little for Merlin to adjust, to relax - making slow, shallow thrusts with his fingers. Merlin tosses his head back against the pillow and makes a noise of disgruntled frustration that is so fucking familiar, it nearly makes Arthur pull his fingers out.
“Get on with it, Arthur.”
Arthur doesn’t pull out, he freezes, stills - but after a moment, he brushes his nose against the shell of Merlin’s ear and into the skin of his neck whispers, “Of course, sire.”
And later, when Merlin comes around him, shaking with it - it only takes one affectionately rueful, stunned, wrecked sounding, “You will be the end of me.” to make Arthur come hard enough to see stars.