Arthur/Merlin - Oneshot - Underneath The Sycamore
Title: Underneath The Sycamore
Author: tsumetaikaze
Fandom/Pairing: Merlin [Merlin/Arthur]
Genre: angst, romance, waffle, attempts at being deep, rambling sentences, wtf
Rating: 15+ (it's a rating in my country!)
Warnings: It’s dark by my standards, it’s disjointed, it’s somewhat experimental (again, by my standards). Also Morgana is in hospital but no character death.
Disclaimer: Well, no, not really. I don’t recall ever being told I own Merlin, so I’ll say I don’t.
Summary: Merlin and Arthur meet under a tree. Arthur wants curl up next to Morgana and shake her awake and pretend they’re both six years old and holding a temporary truce. All he really wants is a smile. Merlin gives him so much more.
Notes: VERY ‘WOT IDEK’. I always wondered how structure affected the reading experience as much as words. Blame DCfC (for the title as well). Also this is just so not me, I have no idea where it came from, but there’s probably a reason it took me A LIFETIME to finish because hell, I am just not a very emotional person :P
(Goodness I hope this works, formatting wise...)
- It’s a tree.
For all intents and purposes, it’s just a tree.
It has a trunk covered in bark, leaves that change with the seasons, roots, gnarled branches - it’s not even especially pretty. It’s just a tree, alone atop a hill, and occasionally a young man sits beneath it and clears his head. He breathes in deep; closes his eyes. Listens to the leaves rustling against each other, and lets the sun get caught in his eyelids.
He tugs a jacket about himself, nose lost to the folds of his scarf, and clenches his eyes shut tight as he forces his breath to come out in frustrated shards of frost. He picks a flower and breathes it in - gives it back to the earth. He stands with the tree, arms out as branches, hair rustling as the leaves, toes digging into the hard clay. He plants his feet, the trunk solid at his back, and feels the past crunching underfoot as he walks away. When he breathes out, life seems just that little bit more bearable again
- but it’s just a tree.
For all intents and purposes, it’s just a tree.
*~*
Sometimes he can’t breathe. Sometimes the bark scratches his fingertips and the sandpaper leaves rustle too loud to allow thought, the clay relentless and hard at his feet
- so he needs this. Needs this.
Needs the scratch of nails down his back to yank him away from reality (rejection), needs the catch of someone else’s teeth on his ear, the warm puff of promises against the back of his neck (he’ll never forget this one - never), and the whitewashed relief over stuttered moans of false names.
The next day it’s a blank.
*~*
And then the tree will put him back together. He’ll feel like a child as the network of branches opens up to him, and he’ll climb up and up until the world is far enough away. He’ll cradle himself in a V and settle down, cool breeze grasping at the stark cotton of his shirt and rearranging his perfect hair.
He loses himself in dogs barking, owners calling, young men whining about their fathers to their girlfriends, ants marching a steady line away from him
- life outside gets smaller. It doesn’t matter what he has or hasn’t lost himself in, what he’s yet to lose and what has already been lost.
(The face that won’t smile)
He has green leaves and brown branches and a life that will not be undone.
*~*
And then one day it starts. One day the world gets bigger, starts existing outside the four walls of his house, the five-minute walk to the hospital, the wine shop, Percival, Gwaine and the sycamore.
Life starts.
The coffee he spilled all over his father haunts him all day, the disapproving gaze a broken record, the cigarette butt some arrogant young hipster dropped in the park, the third tile to the left of the bathroom light switch being the wrong shade of grey, whispers in the street, car horns blaring - everything blurs together in whitewashed walls and lifeless faces - and he can’t lose again. Won’t, won’t.
‘You’ve got to stop this, Arthur.’
So he pushes his head against the rough bark, disbelieving, bitter laughter bubbling from his lips, and loves the soft scratch against his cheek. He hears the silence within as the leaves whisper above and - breathes.
The breaths fill him to bursting and he exhales in a puff of off-grey tiles and burnt coffee and his eyes clench shut and the world’s okay if he can just - stop -
“Hey, er - you all right?”
Arthur’s eyes snap open and the labyrinth of creases and notches swim before him, impossible to focus.
“Mate?”
He closes them again, tighter - if I can’t see you, you can’t see me - and wills the offending voice away, away.
“Is there anyone I can call, or…?”
Arthur can’t help but give a derisive snort. “Or… maybe you could leave. Gosh, now that’s a thought.”
There’s a short silence, then - “Nothing I can do?”
“I’m sure there’s plenty of things you can do,” he mutters without intent, just wants to be alone.
The voice takes on a pondering quality. “Well, yes, I can do a great many things, but I mean it more in terms of what can I do for you?”
Arthur whips his head to face the intruder and glares his best at the ridiculous brunette he’s faced with. “Go. Away.”
All he gets for that is a raised eyebrow, and a ringing mobile phone in his pocket. He lets it go, turning back to the tree as the eyebrow says “Aren’t you going to -“
“Throw it in a lake? Yes, probably.”
And then he gets a laugh, and Arthur can’t help the twitch his lips give in response.
(And feels the world grow)
*~*
It’s in his eyes and ears and teeth and crawling under his skin and he needs to get it out because
- disinfectant burns.
The trips to and from the hospital are starting to become routine. Everything is routine. Right down to that little lift in the pavement he trips over every damn time.
It’s been three months and she hasn’t moved, the doctors say she probably never will, so Arthur sits and hopes today isn’t the day his world folds in on itself and ceases to exist.
(Again)
Right now he’s shrinking, shrinking inside a vision of dark hair stuck to a white, crisp pillow and a lifeless pale face and the off touch of a hand that won’t grip his in return and he can’t get out. It’s starting and he’s not sure how to stop it, because all anyone can offer him is a consoling pat on the shoulder or a bottle of wine to drown himself in and he doesn’t want that, but he doesn’t want the disappointed look on his father’s face either because it’s the only thing his father is able to do anymore and it makes him feel like the world’s problems are all his fault.
He doesn’t want to believe they are.
So he gets out (runs away) and closes the door on his sister (slams his troubles inside) and breathes deep (panicked).
But when he leaves he sees a tall, lanky figure and he hides in a corner for a moment, because his heart is twisting and he wants the tree and there’s something, something, that he just can’t place and it makes his chest hurt and he wants to run back inside, curl up next to Morgana and shake her awake and pretend they’re both six years old and holding a temporary truce.
He follows that smile, those shining eyes and the laugh that sounds bewildered every time it breaks free, and steps into the sunlight and inhales exhales and scrambles for a rhythm he can hold on to.
“Hey,” says the voice, and Arthur grinds his heel into the dirt. “Are you - Sorry if this sounds weird, but did I meet you yesterday? Up by the old sycamore over the road?”
Arthur’s teeth are sinking into his lip and he can’t help but look look look at this dark-haired stranger who has completely disregarded the notion of personal space twice in a row now but who is just so compelling that all Arthur can do is focus on inhale exhale inhale exhale and wonder when is an appropriate time to take up smoking.
He nods.
He smiles.
(And his heart stutters and his breath hitches and he feels something crack)
*~*
He soon learns it’s his heart -
“Do you want to go for a walk?”
- cracked open wide and hurting.
He says yes before he registers his mouth has moved and wears a mask of perfect calm the entire walk up the hill, back and forth along the winding path in a silence that should suffocate him but he actually just wants to stopper in an empty wine bottle and keep on his bookshelf next to the one photograph he has of Morgana smiling.
(Stare at it for hours and try to regain the hope he once felt)
It takes two hours of silence beneath the sycamore before the man offers his hand and says “Merlin,” and Arthur takes it and never wants to let go, because Merlin smiles and breathes “Arthur” like he means it.
And the light refracts through the leaves and dances across their joined hands.
*~*
The music tattoos a beat against his skin and the light burns patterns into his eyelids and his body is numb, so numb it’s on fire. He thinks he can feel Gwaine’s eyes on him from across the room, thinks he’ll probably get a sad sigh from Percival in the morning, but now that he’s started he can’t stop - can’t stop.
All he knows for certain is that his hair is messy and dark and his fingers are long and clever and that smile is quick, so quick he thinks he’s missed it every time, and only ever feels like he’s caught the end.
The voice in his ear is low and dangerous and he hears a name but all he really hears is Merlin. There are lips on his neck and hands on his skin but all he really feels is Merlin.
His hand is still burning.
*~*
“My sister is sick.”
“I know.”
Arthur frowns, holds his fingers up to the light and blocks out the sun.
“I’m a doctor,” Merlin says.
“Oh.” Then - “Make her better.”
(All he needs is a smile)
*~*
He’s living inside the office and the hospital and the wine shop, and the tree isn’t his own anymore and he doesn’t know what to do. He’s had the same conversation with thirty different people but he can’t tell Morgana what it was about. He feels like the world’s been breathing down his neck all day, waiting for him around every corner until he reaches the hospital and every fibre of his being wants to scream because nothing’s fair.
(Why won’t she smile?)
He pushes his hands into the dirt and wants to crawl inside so he punches it instead, closes his eyes and leans back until he sees nothing but vast green lawns and old people holding hands, and when the voice above him says, “Bad day?” Arthur wants to kick and swear and press their lips together and breathe against his skin and fold himself into another’s bones -
But he keeps his eyes closed, inclines his head and says yes and wonders at this man who he doesn’t really know but doesn’t know what he’d do without.
*~*
It’s the smile.
“I’m not crazy, you know.”
Only for your smile and your laugh and the way you say Arthur and the way you make the world seem like a better place and stop the sounds of life beating through my skull.
“I know.”
But he doesn’t. Doesn’t know that when he interrupts him on the hill and sits with him that Arthur wants to put him down and call him childish names because he’s regressed twenty years in a fit of selfishness, but if he’s not there then Arthur thinks he’ll shatter into a million shards and never be able to find the pieces because he’s too stuck in a routine of waiting for smiles -
“I know.”
(Maybe he does)
*~*
Arthur’s walking laps around and around while his hand traces his path along the rough trunk. He’s restless. He wishes Percival were here for an impromptu, therapeutic wrestling match because he needs to move, he needs to be short of breath, he needs to make up for the living Morgana isn’t quite managing to do anymore.
Merlin is standing off to the side, sun in his hair and breeze ruffling his scrubs and Arthur stares, stares so hard it’s a wonder Merlin is still whole and there’s no chance of Arthur looking away. Merlin has become part of the picture at some point, his picture, and when Arthur’s not concentrating it almost becomes their tree instead of his tree - and while the six year old in him that wants to hold Morgana’s hand in one and hit her with the other doesn’t like the concept of sharing, this is Merlin, and somehow that’s a reason in itself now.
Suddenly Merlin stops him, a hand pressed to his chest like it belongs there and Arthur wants to make it belong, push it into his chest and wrap those long fingers around his heart so they’ll keep it forever, then Merlin says “Do you eat?” and there’s a shine to his eyes and Arthur smiles and puts his hand over Merlin’s and retorts “Do you?” with a pointed glance at his slight frame.
The laugh sounds like summer and early mornings, the fingers twine with his and Arthur’s just a little bit okay when Merlin smiles, “I do, on occasion. Would you like to join me?”
*~*
They eat, but Arthur spends too much time staring at Merlin’s lips.
They drink, but Arthur spends too much time staring at Merlin’s lips.
They stop outside Arthur’s front door and can hear Percival watching television inside, and suddenly Arthur spends more time pushing his lips onto Merlin’s own than staring at them, and he feels like he’s found his place in the world, right here on his front doorstep kissing Merlin, this doctor who understands him more than anyone and who has the most beautiful smile and eyes and warm, gentle hands.
Merlin asks if he can come inside, and Arthur pushes the door open behind him, takes Merlin’s hand and leads him past Percival and the telly without a word until the darkness of Arthur’s bedroom folds around them and holds them tight.
“You’re so beautiful, Arthur, so beautiful.” “Jesus, Merlin -“
It’s hot and heady and like nothing Arthur ever remembers. His heart grows with every breath, every whisper. The blunt nails scratching down his back ground him to the here and now and Merlin. The teeth at his ear and the soft-spoken promises of I’ll take care of you, Arthur make him close his eyes tight and grip harder and devour the body before him because it’s everything he could ever want
- it’s Merlin.
“Is it - can -?” “In the drawer, top - yes.”
And then the air is full of soft, bitten-off breaths and half-formed words that don’t make any sense but Arthur feels like he understands everything, like it’s all suddenly clear to him because looking up into Merlin’s eyes he sees so much, so much more than he could ever have hoped for and Christ he’s stunning. A pale expanse of skin glowing in the hazy light through the open window, twinkling eyes and a narrow waist and long, long limbs that fit in and around him perfectly, wrap him up and keep him close and push. His fingers grip that dark hair and bite that sharp collarbone and taste the wiry tendons of his inner forearm until their necks are thrown back, wild and bare and hissing while Arthur cracks and breaks and shatters and falls back down and lands inside Merlin’s kisses and smiles and,
“Look at - you’re perfect, you -“ “Merlin.”
(His pieces are starting to fit)
*~*
Arthur doesn’t even have time to force out the lewd wink he received from Percival, the raised eyebrow Gwaine sent him upon his arrival at work or the disapproval etched into his father’s features with a pointed glance at his watch, when Merlin’s breathing behind him and saying, “I have something to show you,” and taking his hand.
The hospital walls loom into view and Arthur grips tight, but Merlin keeps tugging, keeps leading him along gravel pathways and glass doors and down twisting corridors.
And the dark hair, the angel’s halo, is the same as it has always been.
(So still)
“Go in, Arthur, talk to her.”
“Merlin -“
“Talk to her.”
Arthur purses his lips and draws himself up to his full height, looks into Merlin’s eyes and steps into the cage anyway. He comes to her bedside (smile smile smile) and takes her hand like he always does, sweeps the other through her hair like he always does, and just wants to run and bury himself in branches when he says, “Morgana,” and thinks he imagines it.
But there it is. The twitch of recognition. The flicker of a frown. The beginnings.
(The beginnings of a smile)
*~*
Arthur’s not sure what they’ve been talking about but quite frankly he doesn’t care. As long as there’s a smile and a voice in the grass next to him, he thinks he’ll be okay. Because he has an answering twitch and a stuttered breath and a tiny, tiny crease between soft eyebrows.
And he has this.
(He’s ready to face the world)
When Merlin reaches out a hand and just holds Arthur’s own, strokes a thumb across his knuckles and keeps his eyes trained on the clouds, he keeps talking and Arthur sinks down further into the grass and bites his lip through a smile. He blinks at the sunlight coming through the leaves, the leaves that have held him up and the branches that have held him close, scattering across their bodies, setting their skin alight and warming them right through so that it burns at every point they touch
- for all intents and purposes, it’s just a tree.
And later Merlin tugs them up, wraps arms around Arthur’s waist and presses lips to his hair and whispers “Smile for me,” and Arthur will do anything and everything Merlin asks, because Merlin is looking at him with those shining eyes and that smile, that wide smile that wrenches Arthur apart and holds him back together in a matter of seconds, is all he needs now. His world hasn’t fallen apart, the tree has been solid and comforting and more than that, but Merlin has come along and stitched up Arthur’s wounds and been more real than anything Arthur could hope for.
His life isn’t just his own anymore.
He holds Merlin’s hand and won’t let go.
He wonders how he ever survived without him.
And he curls up on Morgana’s hospital bed the next day and
pretends they’re six years old and holding a temporary truce.
(And Merlin sits with them afterwards and smiles)
------
Lyrics: Underneath the Sycamore
by Death Can for Cutie
Lying in a field of glass
Underneath the overpass
Mangled in the shards of a metal frame
Woken from the dream by my own name
Oh I was such a wretched man
Searching everywhere for a homeland
And now we are under the same sun
Feel it through the leaves
Let it heal us
We are the same
We are both saved
Underneath the sycamore
We were both broken in our own ways
Sifting through the rubble for the wrong things
I know you've got a vengeful heart
And that I cannot be stopped as soon as I start
But you have seen your darkest rooms
And I have slept in makeshift tombs
And this is where we find our peace
Oh this is where we are released
We are the same
We are both saved
Underneath the sycamore
------
(It’s all right, I’ll get back to nonsense and snark in a sec)
Er, yeah, so I’m not fully sure what that was. Any questions just ask me, but I don’t know how well I’ll be able to answer because stuff like this happens very, very rarely to me and I tend to just go with whatever happens when it does. This one happened when I was on the bus to uni right before exams (HANDY, NO?) and listening to Death Cab’s newest album which made me all emotional. Apparently. Rest assured that won’t happen again anytime soon :P
For something way off from my norm, I do actually like it. Hope you guys did too! Feedback is double chocolate ice-cream and sunshine <3
(More fics on the way, nice long stories that are currently being idiot-proofed, because Merlin’s taking over all my brain functions :D)
Author: tsumetaikaze
Fandom/Pairing: Merlin [Merlin/Arthur]
Genre: angst, romance, waffle, attempts at being deep, rambling sentences, wtf
Rating: 15+ (it's a rating in my country!)
Warnings: It’s dark by my standards, it’s disjointed, it’s somewhat experimental (again, by my standards). Also Morgana is in hospital but no character death.
Disclaimer: Well, no, not really. I don’t recall ever being told I own Merlin, so I’ll say I don’t.
Summary: Merlin and Arthur meet under a tree. Arthur wants curl up next to Morgana and shake her awake and pretend they’re both six years old and holding a temporary truce. All he really wants is a smile. Merlin gives him so much more.
Notes: VERY ‘WOT IDEK’. I always wondered how structure affected the reading experience as much as words. Blame DCfC (for the title as well). Also this is just so not me, I have no idea where it came from, but there’s probably a reason it took me A LIFETIME to finish because hell, I am just not a very emotional person :P
(Goodness I hope this works, formatting wise...)
- It’s a tree.
For all intents and purposes, it’s just a tree.
It has a trunk covered in bark, leaves that change with the seasons, roots, gnarled branches - it’s not even especially pretty. It’s just a tree, alone atop a hill, and occasionally a young man sits beneath it and clears his head. He breathes in deep; closes his eyes. Listens to the leaves rustling against each other, and lets the sun get caught in his eyelids.
He tugs a jacket about himself, nose lost to the folds of his scarf, and clenches his eyes shut tight as he forces his breath to come out in frustrated shards of frost. He picks a flower and breathes it in - gives it back to the earth. He stands with the tree, arms out as branches, hair rustling as the leaves, toes digging into the hard clay. He plants his feet, the trunk solid at his back, and feels the past crunching underfoot as he walks away. When he breathes out, life seems just that little bit more bearable again
- but it’s just a tree.
For all intents and purposes, it’s just a tree.
*~*
Sometimes he can’t breathe. Sometimes the bark scratches his fingertips and the sandpaper leaves rustle too loud to allow thought, the clay relentless and hard at his feet
- so he needs this. Needs this.
Needs the scratch of nails down his back to yank him away from reality (rejection), needs the catch of someone else’s teeth on his ear, the warm puff of promises against the back of his neck (he’ll never forget this one - never), and the whitewashed relief over stuttered moans of false names.
The next day it’s a blank.
*~*
And then the tree will put him back together. He’ll feel like a child as the network of branches opens up to him, and he’ll climb up and up until the world is far enough away. He’ll cradle himself in a V and settle down, cool breeze grasping at the stark cotton of his shirt and rearranging his perfect hair.
He loses himself in dogs barking, owners calling, young men whining about their fathers to their girlfriends, ants marching a steady line away from him
- life outside gets smaller. It doesn’t matter what he has or hasn’t lost himself in, what he’s yet to lose and what has already been lost.
(The face that won’t smile)
He has green leaves and brown branches and a life that will not be undone.
*~*
And then one day it starts. One day the world gets bigger, starts existing outside the four walls of his house, the five-minute walk to the hospital, the wine shop, Percival, Gwaine and the sycamore.
Life starts.
The coffee he spilled all over his father haunts him all day, the disapproving gaze a broken record, the cigarette butt some arrogant young hipster dropped in the park, the third tile to the left of the bathroom light switch being the wrong shade of grey, whispers in the street, car horns blaring - everything blurs together in whitewashed walls and lifeless faces - and he can’t lose again. Won’t, won’t.
‘You’ve got to stop this, Arthur.’
So he pushes his head against the rough bark, disbelieving, bitter laughter bubbling from his lips, and loves the soft scratch against his cheek. He hears the silence within as the leaves whisper above and - breathes.
The breaths fill him to bursting and he exhales in a puff of off-grey tiles and burnt coffee and his eyes clench shut and the world’s okay if he can just - stop -
“Hey, er - you all right?”
Arthur’s eyes snap open and the labyrinth of creases and notches swim before him, impossible to focus.
“Mate?”
He closes them again, tighter - if I can’t see you, you can’t see me - and wills the offending voice away, away.
“Is there anyone I can call, or…?”
Arthur can’t help but give a derisive snort. “Or… maybe you could leave. Gosh, now that’s a thought.”
There’s a short silence, then - “Nothing I can do?”
“I’m sure there’s plenty of things you can do,” he mutters without intent, just wants to be alone.
The voice takes on a pondering quality. “Well, yes, I can do a great many things, but I mean it more in terms of what can I do for you?”
Arthur whips his head to face the intruder and glares his best at the ridiculous brunette he’s faced with. “Go. Away.”
All he gets for that is a raised eyebrow, and a ringing mobile phone in his pocket. He lets it go, turning back to the tree as the eyebrow says “Aren’t you going to -“
“Throw it in a lake? Yes, probably.”
And then he gets a laugh, and Arthur can’t help the twitch his lips give in response.
(And feels the world grow)
*~*
It’s in his eyes and ears and teeth and crawling under his skin and he needs to get it out because
- disinfectant burns.
The trips to and from the hospital are starting to become routine. Everything is routine. Right down to that little lift in the pavement he trips over every damn time.
It’s been three months and she hasn’t moved, the doctors say she probably never will, so Arthur sits and hopes today isn’t the day his world folds in on itself and ceases to exist.
(Again)
Right now he’s shrinking, shrinking inside a vision of dark hair stuck to a white, crisp pillow and a lifeless pale face and the off touch of a hand that won’t grip his in return and he can’t get out. It’s starting and he’s not sure how to stop it, because all anyone can offer him is a consoling pat on the shoulder or a bottle of wine to drown himself in and he doesn’t want that, but he doesn’t want the disappointed look on his father’s face either because it’s the only thing his father is able to do anymore and it makes him feel like the world’s problems are all his fault.
He doesn’t want to believe they are.
So he gets out (runs away) and closes the door on his sister (slams his troubles inside) and breathes deep (panicked).
But when he leaves he sees a tall, lanky figure and he hides in a corner for a moment, because his heart is twisting and he wants the tree and there’s something, something, that he just can’t place and it makes his chest hurt and he wants to run back inside, curl up next to Morgana and shake her awake and pretend they’re both six years old and holding a temporary truce.
He follows that smile, those shining eyes and the laugh that sounds bewildered every time it breaks free, and steps into the sunlight and inhales exhales and scrambles for a rhythm he can hold on to.
“Hey,” says the voice, and Arthur grinds his heel into the dirt. “Are you - Sorry if this sounds weird, but did I meet you yesterday? Up by the old sycamore over the road?”
Arthur’s teeth are sinking into his lip and he can’t help but look look look at this dark-haired stranger who has completely disregarded the notion of personal space twice in a row now but who is just so compelling that all Arthur can do is focus on inhale exhale inhale exhale and wonder when is an appropriate time to take up smoking.
He nods.
He smiles.
(And his heart stutters and his breath hitches and he feels something crack)
*~*
He soon learns it’s his heart -
“Do you want to go for a walk?”
- cracked open wide and hurting.
He says yes before he registers his mouth has moved and wears a mask of perfect calm the entire walk up the hill, back and forth along the winding path in a silence that should suffocate him but he actually just wants to stopper in an empty wine bottle and keep on his bookshelf next to the one photograph he has of Morgana smiling.
(Stare at it for hours and try to regain the hope he once felt)
It takes two hours of silence beneath the sycamore before the man offers his hand and says “Merlin,” and Arthur takes it and never wants to let go, because Merlin smiles and breathes “Arthur” like he means it.
And the light refracts through the leaves and dances across their joined hands.
*~*
The music tattoos a beat against his skin and the light burns patterns into his eyelids and his body is numb, so numb it’s on fire. He thinks he can feel Gwaine’s eyes on him from across the room, thinks he’ll probably get a sad sigh from Percival in the morning, but now that he’s started he can’t stop - can’t stop.
All he knows for certain is that his hair is messy and dark and his fingers are long and clever and that smile is quick, so quick he thinks he’s missed it every time, and only ever feels like he’s caught the end.
The voice in his ear is low and dangerous and he hears a name but all he really hears is Merlin. There are lips on his neck and hands on his skin but all he really feels is Merlin.
His hand is still burning.
*~*
“My sister is sick.”
“I know.”
Arthur frowns, holds his fingers up to the light and blocks out the sun.
“I’m a doctor,” Merlin says.
“Oh.” Then - “Make her better.”
(All he needs is a smile)
*~*
He’s living inside the office and the hospital and the wine shop, and the tree isn’t his own anymore and he doesn’t know what to do. He’s had the same conversation with thirty different people but he can’t tell Morgana what it was about. He feels like the world’s been breathing down his neck all day, waiting for him around every corner until he reaches the hospital and every fibre of his being wants to scream because nothing’s fair.
(Why won’t she smile?)
He pushes his hands into the dirt and wants to crawl inside so he punches it instead, closes his eyes and leans back until he sees nothing but vast green lawns and old people holding hands, and when the voice above him says, “Bad day?” Arthur wants to kick and swear and press their lips together and breathe against his skin and fold himself into another’s bones -
But he keeps his eyes closed, inclines his head and says yes and wonders at this man who he doesn’t really know but doesn’t know what he’d do without.
*~*
It’s the smile.
“I’m not crazy, you know.”
Only for your smile and your laugh and the way you say Arthur and the way you make the world seem like a better place and stop the sounds of life beating through my skull.
“I know.”
But he doesn’t. Doesn’t know that when he interrupts him on the hill and sits with him that Arthur wants to put him down and call him childish names because he’s regressed twenty years in a fit of selfishness, but if he’s not there then Arthur thinks he’ll shatter into a million shards and never be able to find the pieces because he’s too stuck in a routine of waiting for smiles -
“I know.”
(Maybe he does)
*~*
Arthur’s walking laps around and around while his hand traces his path along the rough trunk. He’s restless. He wishes Percival were here for an impromptu, therapeutic wrestling match because he needs to move, he needs to be short of breath, he needs to make up for the living Morgana isn’t quite managing to do anymore.
Merlin is standing off to the side, sun in his hair and breeze ruffling his scrubs and Arthur stares, stares so hard it’s a wonder Merlin is still whole and there’s no chance of Arthur looking away. Merlin has become part of the picture at some point, his picture, and when Arthur’s not concentrating it almost becomes their tree instead of his tree - and while the six year old in him that wants to hold Morgana’s hand in one and hit her with the other doesn’t like the concept of sharing, this is Merlin, and somehow that’s a reason in itself now.
Suddenly Merlin stops him, a hand pressed to his chest like it belongs there and Arthur wants to make it belong, push it into his chest and wrap those long fingers around his heart so they’ll keep it forever, then Merlin says “Do you eat?” and there’s a shine to his eyes and Arthur smiles and puts his hand over Merlin’s and retorts “Do you?” with a pointed glance at his slight frame.
The laugh sounds like summer and early mornings, the fingers twine with his and Arthur’s just a little bit okay when Merlin smiles, “I do, on occasion. Would you like to join me?”
*~*
They eat, but Arthur spends too much time staring at Merlin’s lips.
They drink, but Arthur spends too much time staring at Merlin’s lips.
They stop outside Arthur’s front door and can hear Percival watching television inside, and suddenly Arthur spends more time pushing his lips onto Merlin’s own than staring at them, and he feels like he’s found his place in the world, right here on his front doorstep kissing Merlin, this doctor who understands him more than anyone and who has the most beautiful smile and eyes and warm, gentle hands.
Merlin asks if he can come inside, and Arthur pushes the door open behind him, takes Merlin’s hand and leads him past Percival and the telly without a word until the darkness of Arthur’s bedroom folds around them and holds them tight.
“You’re so beautiful, Arthur, so beautiful.” “Jesus, Merlin -“
It’s hot and heady and like nothing Arthur ever remembers. His heart grows with every breath, every whisper. The blunt nails scratching down his back ground him to the here and now and Merlin. The teeth at his ear and the soft-spoken promises of I’ll take care of you, Arthur make him close his eyes tight and grip harder and devour the body before him because it’s everything he could ever want
- it’s Merlin.
“Is it - can -?” “In the drawer, top - yes.”
And then the air is full of soft, bitten-off breaths and half-formed words that don’t make any sense but Arthur feels like he understands everything, like it’s all suddenly clear to him because looking up into Merlin’s eyes he sees so much, so much more than he could ever have hoped for and Christ he’s stunning. A pale expanse of skin glowing in the hazy light through the open window, twinkling eyes and a narrow waist and long, long limbs that fit in and around him perfectly, wrap him up and keep him close and push. His fingers grip that dark hair and bite that sharp collarbone and taste the wiry tendons of his inner forearm until their necks are thrown back, wild and bare and hissing while Arthur cracks and breaks and shatters and falls back down and lands inside Merlin’s kisses and smiles and,
“Look at - you’re perfect, you -“ “Merlin.”
(His pieces are starting to fit)
*~*
Arthur doesn’t even have time to force out the lewd wink he received from Percival, the raised eyebrow Gwaine sent him upon his arrival at work or the disapproval etched into his father’s features with a pointed glance at his watch, when Merlin’s breathing behind him and saying, “I have something to show you,” and taking his hand.
The hospital walls loom into view and Arthur grips tight, but Merlin keeps tugging, keeps leading him along gravel pathways and glass doors and down twisting corridors.
And the dark hair, the angel’s halo, is the same as it has always been.
(So still)
“Go in, Arthur, talk to her.”
“Merlin -“
“Talk to her.”
Arthur purses his lips and draws himself up to his full height, looks into Merlin’s eyes and steps into the cage anyway. He comes to her bedside (smile smile smile) and takes her hand like he always does, sweeps the other through her hair like he always does, and just wants to run and bury himself in branches when he says, “Morgana,” and thinks he imagines it.
But there it is. The twitch of recognition. The flicker of a frown. The beginnings.
(The beginnings of a smile)
*~*
Arthur’s not sure what they’ve been talking about but quite frankly he doesn’t care. As long as there’s a smile and a voice in the grass next to him, he thinks he’ll be okay. Because he has an answering twitch and a stuttered breath and a tiny, tiny crease between soft eyebrows.
And he has this.
(He’s ready to face the world)
When Merlin reaches out a hand and just holds Arthur’s own, strokes a thumb across his knuckles and keeps his eyes trained on the clouds, he keeps talking and Arthur sinks down further into the grass and bites his lip through a smile. He blinks at the sunlight coming through the leaves, the leaves that have held him up and the branches that have held him close, scattering across their bodies, setting their skin alight and warming them right through so that it burns at every point they touch
- for all intents and purposes, it’s just a tree.
And later Merlin tugs them up, wraps arms around Arthur’s waist and presses lips to his hair and whispers “Smile for me,” and Arthur will do anything and everything Merlin asks, because Merlin is looking at him with those shining eyes and that smile, that wide smile that wrenches Arthur apart and holds him back together in a matter of seconds, is all he needs now. His world hasn’t fallen apart, the tree has been solid and comforting and more than that, but Merlin has come along and stitched up Arthur’s wounds and been more real than anything Arthur could hope for.
His life isn’t just his own anymore.
He holds Merlin’s hand and won’t let go.
He wonders how he ever survived without him.
And he curls up on Morgana’s hospital bed the next day and
pretends they’re six years old and holding a temporary truce.
(And Merlin sits with them afterwards and smiles)
------
Lyrics: Underneath the Sycamore
by Death Can for Cutie
Lying in a field of glass
Underneath the overpass
Mangled in the shards of a metal frame
Woken from the dream by my own name
Oh I was such a wretched man
Searching everywhere for a homeland
And now we are under the same sun
Feel it through the leaves
Let it heal us
We are the same
We are both saved
Underneath the sycamore
We were both broken in our own ways
Sifting through the rubble for the wrong things
I know you've got a vengeful heart
And that I cannot be stopped as soon as I start
But you have seen your darkest rooms
And I have slept in makeshift tombs
And this is where we find our peace
Oh this is where we are released
We are the same
We are both saved
Underneath the sycamore
------
(It’s all right, I’ll get back to nonsense and snark in a sec)
Er, yeah, so I’m not fully sure what that was. Any questions just ask me, but I don’t know how well I’ll be able to answer because stuff like this happens very, very rarely to me and I tend to just go with whatever happens when it does. This one happened when I was on the bus to uni right before exams (HANDY, NO?) and listening to Death Cab’s newest album which made me all emotional. Apparently. Rest assured that won’t happen again anytime soon :P
For something way off from my norm, I do actually like it. Hope you guys did too! Feedback is double chocolate ice-cream and sunshine <3
(More fics on the way, nice long stories that are currently being idiot-proofed, because Merlin’s taking over all my brain functions :D)