Flashfic: Which No Vessel Can Hold (Merlin/Arthur)
Summary: Merlin wakes after two days of unconsciousness with no visible injury.
AN: suaine suggested the prompt "amnesia" for Merlin/Arthur. Written for Porn Paragraph-a-thon -- though it's not a paragraph and falls just shy of porn.
Which No Vessel Can Hold
Merlin wanders, hand brushing abstractly along the smooth table, over the sword Arthur left there. He stops and stares for a long time at the chest of drawers that holds Arthur's shirts. Arthur leans against the stone wall by the window, watching Merlin, the way he recognizes nothing as he circles the room, politely not opening things, even when he is transparently curious.
"Look at whatever." Arthur gestures, a sweep of his hand, meaning anything.
Merlin glances over at him, puzzled--he keeps on forgetting Arthur is even there. Merlin stares at the dressing-screen, discarded clothing tossed carelessly over the top, and says, "I've been here before." But it's a question.
"Yes." Arthur looks out at the sunlit courtyard and admits, quietly, "You live here." They've never talked about it, but the small room behind the physician's chambers is now mostly for the sake of appearances, a place Merlin can go when they fight, when they begin to irritate each other past all reason.
Merlin's hand against his shoulder makes him start, surprised--it's been almost a week since Merlin touched him, since Merlin again saved his life.
Merlin immediately flinches back. "So it's not like that." He sounds only confused and not sad.
Speaking of this is too difficult, involves admitting too much, even now. Arthur reaches out, seeing if Merlin will tolerate it, and brushes his thumb over Merlin's mouth, a familiar gesture that probably means nothing isolated from candleless nights and pale fragile mornings. But Merlin traps his hand, steps in closer, studying his face, intent, searching for something. The kiss catches Arthur off-guard, quick and passionate, the way Merlin always kisses him, full of things he doesn't say either. And even when nothing else between them is working, when they can barely stand to look at each other, this is still always so good, the press of Merlin's body, hot and eager, his surprising wiry strength.
Merlin draws him towards the bed, shoves him down, following to straddle Arthur's hips. Arthur tugs at the waist of Merlin's trousers. "Your usual excellent planning."
Merlin stops, that horrible look of blank confusion returning. It's like carelessly picking up the wrong end of a throwing knife, a deep sudden cut. He nearly shoves Merlin off. Instead he opens his mouth to Merlin's tongue, deep messy contact, Merlin curled forward, pressing their bodies together, warmth and friction through layers of clothing. Merlin's hands are sure, possessive, like he wants no one else to ever see Arthur like this, on his back, flushed and breathless.
"Where is the--?" Merlin asks between kisses, not willing to pull away long enough to form a proper question. It takes Arthur a minute to understand what he means. He sits up, awkwardly pushing himself to one elbow while Merlin scatters impatient stinging bites against his neck, and reaches for the small bottle of oil they keep in that convenient nook Merlin found, where the frame of the bed meets the headboard. The things you learn when dusting, Merlin had whispered, fingers slick. Merlin takes the vial when Arthur offers, but pauses at once, looking lost, clearly without any idea of what happens in bed between them, who yields and how and when. Merlin stares down at the bottle of pale oil, his thumb brushing unconsciously against Arthur's hip--an action so familiar that half the time Arthur doesn't even notice. But he does now, vividly aware.
Arthur closes his eyes and feels something bruised and tired in his chest unclench a little.
Merlin is still here, somewhere: this is a problem they can fix.
AN: suaine suggested the prompt "amnesia" for Merlin/Arthur. Written for Porn Paragraph-a-thon -- though it's not a paragraph and falls just shy of porn.
Which No Vessel Can Hold
Merlin wanders, hand brushing abstractly along the smooth table, over the sword Arthur left there. He stops and stares for a long time at the chest of drawers that holds Arthur's shirts. Arthur leans against the stone wall by the window, watching Merlin, the way he recognizes nothing as he circles the room, politely not opening things, even when he is transparently curious.
"Look at whatever." Arthur gestures, a sweep of his hand, meaning anything.
Merlin glances over at him, puzzled--he keeps on forgetting Arthur is even there. Merlin stares at the dressing-screen, discarded clothing tossed carelessly over the top, and says, "I've been here before." But it's a question.
"Yes." Arthur looks out at the sunlit courtyard and admits, quietly, "You live here." They've never talked about it, but the small room behind the physician's chambers is now mostly for the sake of appearances, a place Merlin can go when they fight, when they begin to irritate each other past all reason.
Merlin's hand against his shoulder makes him start, surprised--it's been almost a week since Merlin touched him, since Merlin again saved his life.
Merlin immediately flinches back. "So it's not like that." He sounds only confused and not sad.
Speaking of this is too difficult, involves admitting too much, even now. Arthur reaches out, seeing if Merlin will tolerate it, and brushes his thumb over Merlin's mouth, a familiar gesture that probably means nothing isolated from candleless nights and pale fragile mornings. But Merlin traps his hand, steps in closer, studying his face, intent, searching for something. The kiss catches Arthur off-guard, quick and passionate, the way Merlin always kisses him, full of things he doesn't say either. And even when nothing else between them is working, when they can barely stand to look at each other, this is still always so good, the press of Merlin's body, hot and eager, his surprising wiry strength.
Merlin draws him towards the bed, shoves him down, following to straddle Arthur's hips. Arthur tugs at the waist of Merlin's trousers. "Your usual excellent planning."
Merlin stops, that horrible look of blank confusion returning. It's like carelessly picking up the wrong end of a throwing knife, a deep sudden cut. He nearly shoves Merlin off. Instead he opens his mouth to Merlin's tongue, deep messy contact, Merlin curled forward, pressing their bodies together, warmth and friction through layers of clothing. Merlin's hands are sure, possessive, like he wants no one else to ever see Arthur like this, on his back, flushed and breathless.
"Where is the--?" Merlin asks between kisses, not willing to pull away long enough to form a proper question. It takes Arthur a minute to understand what he means. He sits up, awkwardly pushing himself to one elbow while Merlin scatters impatient stinging bites against his neck, and reaches for the small bottle of oil they keep in that convenient nook Merlin found, where the frame of the bed meets the headboard. The things you learn when dusting, Merlin had whispered, fingers slick. Merlin takes the vial when Arthur offers, but pauses at once, looking lost, clearly without any idea of what happens in bed between them, who yields and how and when. Merlin stares down at the bottle of pale oil, his thumb brushing unconsciously against Arthur's hip--an action so familiar that half the time Arthur doesn't even notice. But he does now, vividly aware.
Arthur closes his eyes and feels something bruised and tired in his chest unclench a little.
Merlin is still here, somewhere: this is a problem they can fix.