Little Slices of Death - Merlin - Arthur/Merlin
Title: Little Slices of Death
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 5265
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Future fic written with a prompt from 10_per_genre. Title taken from an anonymous quotation.
Summary: Arthur discovers that he can't sleep when Merlin isn't around. Having recently demanded that Merlin leaves the castle, this is rather inconvenient.
It is dark in the new king's bedroom, although light from the full moon shines through the window. Arthur should be asleep. He wants to be asleep - yet his mind is turning over the frantic events of the past few weeks far too quickly for him to process it. He can't understand how any of the past kings in his lineage could have managed to cope with the responsibility thrust into their hands in the wake of their grief.
He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling above him. His eyes are wide open and it seems impossible to close them. His body yearns to move. He wonders how long it will be until day-break.
In the past, on the occasions when he had allowed himself to consider this moment, he had imagined that Merlin would be at his side. Merlin had been there, a faithful if extraordinarily inept servant, for years. It had seemed natural that he would be there, too, when Arthur ascended to the throne - but it hasn't worked out that way. It can't.
He rolls onto his side with a heavy thump that he feels all throughout his body, and he tries not to allow his mind to stray to where he knows that Merlin is sleeping within the town, having moved out of the castle shortly after his confession. Arthur wishes he'd never told him. There are certain things that are best kept secret, especially from newly coronated kings. Merlin never did have any sense of timing.
Air huffs out of his chest. The long hours offer no sleep to him, and he can't help but miss Gaius all over again. He would have been there with a sleep draught and a kind word, whether Arthur had been willing to accept his help or not. He doesn't trust the new physician. It will probably be several years at least before he can.
Slumping over once more to lie on his front, he stares at his hand where it rests on the pillow near his head. He can see the way that it is silhouetted by the moonshine and it glows in an almost supernatural way - although, considering that there is an extremely powerful sorcerer in Camelot, he supposes that thinking in such terms is no longer advisable. For all that he knows, he really is glowing supernaturally, and this is all Merlin's revenge for not taking his revelation as well as he had hoped.
He doesn't know what Merlin had been expecting, anyway; he scowls in the darkness and tells himself that it doesn't matter. He'd had the sanest and calmest reaction that was possible when a close friend reveals that he's actually the kind of monster that lives in the back of dark closets and eats small children for dinner.
Arthur is willing to admit that his late father perhaps instilled a few overwrought ideas about sorcerers into his mind. He's willing to be re-educated. It's just going to take time.
He glares at his pale hand for a few moments longer, before he is forced to admit defeat. "This is not working," he mutters. As a technique for fighting insomnia, it turns out that glowering at hands is rather useless. He throws back the covers. The cold air is almost enough to make him retreat once more, but the idea of lying around waiting several more hours for sunrise chases him to his feet. He grabs hold of the shirt that he had been wearing during the day, flung over the back of a chair because he hasn't yet summoned the energy to look for a new servant. He will, some time soon. Perhaps.
After pulling it over his head he leaves him room. There are torches burning in the corridors to light the way and the stone floors are freezing cold beneath his feet. He doesn't know where he's going. He doesn't think that it matters, really.
He finds himself in the great hall, looking around at the darkened surroundings. He can remember all of the colourful balls and parties that were held in here, and all of the tense confrontations that had taken place on this floor. Merlin had worn that ridiculous red hat for him here, and they had both risked their lives for each other in this room.
He rubs a tired hand over his face and wonders if he is ever going to rid his mind of these thoughts. He'd give the kingdom's riches for a mere hour of thoughts free from Merlin and of emotions free from regret. It isn't productive. It doesn't help.
Behind him, the doors open. He peers over his shoulder and smiles, unwillingly, when he sees Morgana entering the hall and walking beside him. Even fresh from bed she looks effortlessly elegant, more than enough to remind him of his petty childhood crushes.
"Can't sleep?" she asks as she moves to stand beside him. He thinks that she must know the answer to that question already; she probably knows better than he does himself what is keeping him awake.
They don't talk about it, but he knows that Merlin wasn't the only sorcerer who had been hiding from his father in plain sight.
"My room's too cold," he complains.
"You're king now," she says. "Surely you can do something to fix that."
"You over-estimate the advantages of royal power. Even I don't command the temperature of the castle." It feels good to have something solid to turn his bad temper to. It feels great, in fact, as long as he doesn't glance at Morgana for long enough to see her all-knowing amusement. "And yourself? Why aren't you in bed?"
"I was dreaming," she says, "and then I wasn't. I thought I would come to meet you here."
The way she says it makes him want to go and hide in his room again. It is as impossible to imagine Morgana with supernatural powers as it is to try to envision Merlin with any kind of skill.
"Sweet dreams?"
"Dark ones," Morgana replies. That can't mean anything good. "It is important that Merlin returns to the castle, Arthur."
"Morgana..." he sighs, but he has nothing to finish it with.
She steps closer to him. "You won't sleep until he is back," she says with all the wisdom of someone who truly knows.
"And how well would I sleep knowing there is a traitor in my castle?"
'His' castle. It still makes his skin crawl to think of it that way. Camelot ought to be under his father's jurisdiction, still. He was taken too soon.
"Merlin is a traitor no more than I am myself. You sound like Uther."
He can't listen to this today and he doesn't stop himself from turning away from her. He won't argue on the relative merits of his father's rule with Morgana; if he does so, he knows that his mind will start to wander to places he won't be able to stop. He'll wonder if the reason she is so pleased that he is gone is because she was part of the plot against him.
He can't think like that. He can't allow himself to do so.
"I don't trust him," he says. "It isn't because of the magic. It's because of the lies."
Her sigh from behind his back implies that she isn't entirely on-board with his logic. He tells himself that he doesn't care.
"You know where to find him when you come to your senses," she tells him. He hears the sound of her footsteps retreating. He crosses his arms over his chest and refuses to look over his shoulder until he hears the door closing behind her. Life would be a lot easier, he thinks, if he didn't have to listen to Morgana's advice.
She always makes far more sense than he is at all comfortable with.
*
After yet another sleepless night, he finds himself with dark marks under his eyes to indicate his restless state. It isn't befitting a king. He's sure his father never looked like this.
He rubs at his eyes with one hand and tries to focus once more on the matters of the day. Treaties and trade routes. It all seems extremely unimportant when his bed upstairs is calling to him. He tries to think of a reason to escape. There isn't one. He's the leader now; he has more responsibilities than ever before.
He thinks he hates it.
More than that, he thinks his father was right. He isn't ready for this. He isn't fit for it.
He leaves the meeting earlier than he should and his heart stutters when he runs across Gwen in the corridors. She is leaning against one of the corridor walls clutching a pile of blankets, and his footsteps falter for a moment. There's no escape; she's been waiting for him.
Her head bows in deference, even though he wants to tell her that there is no need. In his eyes, they are equal.
"My lord," she says.
"Guinevere," he returns. The pause between them is stagnant and swampy.
"Morgana wished me to come to talk to you," she says when it becomes apparent that he will not be the first one to speak.
"About Merlin," he says. It's no question.
She smiles - it isn't a happy expression. "We want him back in the castle."
"You can still visit him in the town," Arthur says. He doesn't even know where Merlin is living these days, but he knows that he hasn't left Camelot. Morgana and Gwen get to see him whenever they like, and yet he is cut off. He feels as if he is the one that is being punished, not Merlin. It isn't fair at all.
"It's not the same and you know it," Gwen says. The years have made her bolder; he can't imagine her taking such a tone with him before. "He belongs here with us."
"He lied to me. He can't be trusted," Arthur says wearily. He's said these words to himself and to so many others that they have started to feel rehearsed.
"He lied to me too," Gwen points out. "You know he had his reasons. Good reasons."
It's true, perhaps, but it still hurts. Merlin hadn't trusted any of them; Arthur doesn't see why they should trust him, now.
"If he comes back to the castle, I don't want to see him," he says. The words come out as if they aren't his own. He doesn't want to own them, he doesn't want to be saying this, but the power of Gwen's pleading gaze is something that is impossible to resist - and, if he is reluctantly honest with himself, he misses Merlin. He misses that daft friendship and he misses having someone to rely on. "Find him a room to stay and tell him to stay out of my way."
His castle is large, but it is not so huge that they would be able to avoid each other forever. Eventually their paths will cross; it is easier to put his fate in the hands of 'eventually' than to tackle it himself.
Gwen's head bobs in a nod and she turns to walk down the corridor, her job completed. He watches her go, sure that he has done the wrong thing. He shouldn't bow to pressure. His father would never done such a thing and he feels as if he is already faltering in his footsteps. He isn't strong enough to be the king.
Privately, he doesn't think that he is good enough.
*
Knowing that Merlin is in the castle makes it utterly impossible to sleep. Lying on his back, Arthur is completely rigid and motionless. His breathing sounds too loud and his eyes feel too wide and alert.
He wonders where Merlin is staying. He knows that he's here again; Morgana had taken dinner with Gwen in her chambers that evening, and there is little doubt in Arthur's mind that Merlin had been there too. He's in the castle. He's probably lying in a bed of his own, under five minutes away from Arthur.
It doesn't help him to relax, not at all. His body itches with heavy exhaustion. He needs rest; he needs normality.
It won't come.
It's Merlin's fault - has to be. He can't see another explanation. Bewitchments or enchantments or something equally dark. It is a curse from a fairytale and he doesn't know how to escape.
There is one single thing that he does know: hiding from him really isn't working, not a single bit.
When hiding doesn't work, there is always one other option. Confrontation. As a knight - as a king - it ought to be what comes naturally to him. When it comes to Merlin, it isn't. A lack of rest chases him from his bed, telling him that there is no room for cowardice in Camelot, not for those who wish to gain a good night's sleep.
Grabbing a servant in the corridors he manages to find out which room Merlin has been given. He has to walk quickly so as not to give himself the opportunity to think this through. It's like a battle, he tells himself. He needs to act, not think. He can't allow his nerves to invade.
Approaching the door after climbing several more sets of staircases than he had even been aware belonged in his castle, he stares sceptically at it. There is nothing there that appears to be particularly magical. It doesn't glow or sparkle. There is no joint army of toads and black cats scattered in the hallway outside as sentries. It looks like a regular door.
Looks can certainly be deceiving.
It would have been polite to knock before he entered, but Arthur decides that the element of surprise is far more crucial. It's his castle anyway. He can go wherever he wants whenever he wants with no care for ordinary rules of propriety. He gathers his courage and pushes the door open without allowing himself to have any time to change his mind. If he had knocked, he has no doubt that he would have ran away by the time Merlin came to answer.
It's dark outside, deep into the night, and Arthur would have expected most people in the castle to be asleep by now. When he enters Merlin's room, however, he finds the bed empty and the sheets untouched. A candle burns and flickers on the wooden table, dripping wax as it offers light. Merlin is sat with a book, but his eyes aren't on the pages. He's watching Arthur in the doorway.
Merlin looks as tired as Arthur feels right now, his skin paler than usual. His mouth twitches as he watches Arthur, as if he wants to smile but doesn't dare to. Considering the way that Arthur had steadfastly ignored him since his revelation, the reaction is understandable.
"Gwen said I have to stay out of your way if I'm going to stay here," Merlin says, leaning his arms against the edge of the table. "It's going to be hard to do that if you're going to burst into my room at night, y'know."
"It's my castle," Arthur says, but that sounds like a much weaker justification out loud than it had in his head.
Merlin seems to have inherited a sharp eyebrow raise from Gaius.
Arthur steps fully into the room and closes the door behind himself. "I couldn't sleep," he says.
"Me neither," Merlin admits. His head tilts to the side as he watches Arthur, his gaze never wavering. Arthur, in the meantime, looks around the room purely so that he doesn't have to focus on Merlin. There's nothing extraordinary here. From the look of the bag at the base of his bed, Merlin hasn't even unpacked yet. "Morgana mentioned you've been having trouble for a while."
He hates the idea of them talking about him behind his back; he hates the idea of Morgana and Gwen getting to see Merlin while he doesn't. Petty jealousy. He had met Merlin first, after all.
"It's hard to sleep knowing that there is a sorcerer on the loose," Arthur says.
Merlin answers with a shrug. "Yeah. It's hard to sleep knowing there's a king about as well."
"Kings aren't dangerous, Merlin."
"They are when they want you dead."
And that, Arthur will admit, is a good if obvious point.
"I don't want you dead," he sighs at Merlin. "You'd be arrested already if that was the case."
"How reassuring," Merlin murmurs.
"And you are not arrested," Arthur points out. He's sure that Merlin isn't supposed to be angry with him. It ought to be the other way around. That's the way this should work. "So you can stop pouting."
"I'm not pouting. I'm scowling." It doesn't look like much of a difference to Arthur's eyes, but he supposes that he has little choice but to take Merlin at his word. If Merlin says it is a scowl, Arthur will struggle to believe him. "And you threw me out of the castle, Arthur. For ages. I have a right to scowl."
"You've lied to me the entire time you've been here. I have more right to scowl that you do."
"I had a good reason."
"I have a good reason too. For all I know, you're trying to kill me. Sorcerers have a habit of doing that."
"You'd be dead already if I was trying to kill you," Merlin echoes, and Arthur is certain that that wording is skirting dangerously close to treason.
"Merlin," Arthur says, sternly. "I think we are both perfectly aware of the fact that you are not nearly proficient enough to kill me."
The typical insult of Merlin's skills - and lack thereof - is enough to make both of them almost smile.
"The castle has seemed quiet without you," Arthur says. It isn't really true. He has been so busy and has been pulled in all directions by his court. It's difficult to think at all. "Peaceful."
Merlin shifts his position on his chair and he looks down at the table instead of up at Arthur. There's nothing defiant in his position, like there once was. Something about him has deflated, and Arthur thinks it is his fault. That would explain why he feels so guilty.
"It's different when you're here. It feels different." He isn't supposed to be the kind of person who reasons with his emotions, but he has no other word for it: the difference is something felt. It's something in the air.
"Is that bad?"
Arthur wishes that he didn't have to answer. He doesn't know what would be the right thing to say. "I'm glad you're back," he says, avoiding the answer. "Maybe I'll get some sleep now."
It's as close as he is ever going to get to saying that the reason he couldn't sleep in the first place was because of Merlin's absence. He can't say it aloud; he won't. He'll have to rely on Merlin interpreting that much for himself.
Merlin's fingers tap restlessly against the table-top. "You could sleep here," he suggests. "If you wanted to, I mean. It'd save you from going all the way back to your own room."
Arthur looks towards the bed. He has no doubt that his own bed in his own room would be far more comfortable than this one. It would probably be warmer as well. And safer. And more familiar.
And yet he hasn't been able to sleep there, has he?
It takes a few more awkward, stumbling blocks of conversation, awkward and painful, before they manage to negotiate their way into bed. Arthur takes a position on the left side of the mattress and Merlin on the right, as far away from each other as they can get. An ocean of space pools between them. Arthur's back faces Merlin.
"Good night," Merlin calls over his shoulder. Arthur grunts in return and tells himself that there is no way that he will be able to sleep while he is so tense and while Merlin is so nearby. It's ridiculous to even try.
Three minutes later, his eyes close and his breathing evens out.
*
By the time he wakes up, the sun is high in the sky and Merlin has gone already. Arthur opens his eyes in bleary comfort and allows a long sigh to pass from his body. He should be up by now. He should be handling all sorts of royal duties, but he feels rested for the first time in weeks. Moving would be impossible.
He gets up in his own time and helps himself to what little food is left over on the table from Merlin's breakfast. When he heads down to the main corridors, he's vaguely amused to find flourishing red capes searching for him, rushing back and forth in their haste. "I'm right here, Leon," Arthur says, with a cheerful expression on his face. "You can call off the search."
The expression on Leon's face, both relieved and surprised, is enough to keep Arthur in a good mood for the rest of the day, though Merlin doesn't make an appearance. He seems to be following Gwen's instructions a little too well. Arthur starts to get antsy when, by mid-afternoon, there is still no sign of him. His hand taps restlessly on top of the table.
Requests about his well-being are met with increasingly cranky answers, and by evening people have stopped asking at all.
While he is having dinner, Morgana joins him with a smirk. With her dress flowing behind her, she enters the room as if she is floating. "I heard you've been sulking all day, Arthur," she says. "Your reunion didn't go well, I take it?"
"It went fine," Arthur grouches, while wondering how exactly she manages to remain on top of every single happening within Camelot. Even he can't do that himself. "And I have not been 'sulking'."
"Your knights don't seem to think so." She takes a seat at the opposite end of the long table.
He doesn't manage to stop himself from rolling his eyes at her. "Where's Merlin, Morgana?" he asks, because that is clearly what she came here to taunt him with. Morgana isn't as opaque as she likes to believe.
"Staying out of your way as you instructed," she says with a smile. "I heard you visited him last night."
He glares at the chicken on his plate. It seems wiser than glaring at Morgana herself.
He hears the rush of her sigh and the shift of the material of her dress as she moves forward on her seat. "He wants me to invite you come back and see him tonight."
"He said that, did he?" Arthur says in disbelief. Morgana may believe whatever she wishes, but he isn't stupid. He knows Merlin and his stubbornness far too well. "If he's so keen to see me then he wouldn't have avoided me all day."
"You know what boys are like..."
"This is Merlin. He doesn't beat around the bush." He isn't a 'boy' any more than Morgana is a 'girl'. They're all so far past that now. "You can tell him that I'll be in my own chambers tonight. His bed is terribly uncomfortable."
If Merlin wishes to see him, he has an open invitation: Arthur doesn't see why he should be the one to do the searching. He's the king, after all. Aren't his subjects supposed to come to him?
Morgana's eyes are more pitying than usual as she surveys him. Her skin is impossibly pale in the candlelight. "I'll push him your way," she tells him, before she stands up. She hasn't had a thing to eat, and Arthur knows what that means. It means that she is eating elsewhere, with other people. That means that, once again, the other three are bonding while he is left by himself.
He tells himself that it doesn't matter - but he glares so hard at his dinner after Morgana has gone that, if he had Merlin's abilities, he is certain it would be set alight.
*
The door creaks open well past midnight, when Arthur has already been tossing and turning for hours. "Arthur?" Merlin hisses into the darkness. "Are you awake?"
Arthur is tempted not to answer, purely to see what Merlin's reaction would be. It could be something of a test, in a way, yet he can't stop himself from giving a wearied moan of acknowledgement. "I'm awake," he confirms, while wishing that he could take a sword to all sleepless nights and kill them in armed combat.
"Me too," Merlin says, as if his chattering presence in Arthur's bedroom wouldn't have been enough to make Arthur realise that. As far as he is aware, Merlin has not yet developed a tendency for sleepwalking.
Merlin stands half-visible near the doorway for a moment. Arthur is faintly aware that he ought to say something now, and that Merlin is waiting for him to do so, but he isn't sure what. He props himself up on one elbow and squints in the darkness to try to make out Merlin's features. It's a battle he quickly gives up.
Instead, he reaches to grab the edge of the blanket on the other side of the bed, pulling it back enough to offer an invitation. "Are you going to get in or not, Merlin? I don't want to wait all night."
Actions speak louder than words, and within half a minute Merlin is slipping under the blanket. When he lies back, a long breath of contented air leaves his chest. He stays firmly on his side of the bed, however, and Arthur knows that one of them will need to be the braver one here. As king, it is probably his duty.
He thinks that this is one case in which he would happily resist his status and its responsibilities, but avoidance hasn't helped either of them recently. As Merlin shuffles and wriggles, relaxing into his side of the bed, Arthur heaves a breath of air and rolls over onto his side, closer to Merlin. In the process, Merlin's moving elbow nearly clobbers him on the nose and when Arthur avoids it he narrowly avoids taking a mouthful from Merlin's bicep instead. It isn't exactly ideal.
It is, however, enough to get away with. They lie with Arthur curled against Merlin's side, his nose nuzzled near his shoulder while Merlin rests on his back. After a moment of no complaint, Arthur decides that - for comfort's sake, of course - he ought to drape his arm over Merlin's stomach.
"Arthur?" Merlin asks, just when he thinks he's got away with it. "Not that I'm complaining, but - Are you hugging me?"
Arthur breathes deeply and closes his eyes. "I'm the king. I can do what I like," he protests. Surely it is the king's prerogative to cuddle with his subjects if he so chooses.
"You are getting far too used to that excuse," Merlin complains, and Arthur can quite easily imagine the grin that must be on his face right now - but he doesn't care to raise his head enough to see it. Merlin hasn't shoved him away yet. That's enough to tell him that this is alright.
They both settle and shift like an old house adjusting to its weight. Their breathing evens out, slowly.
"If you're not here when I wake up, I'll have you put in the stocks," Arthur murmurs, sleep-slurred. Merlin's warmth is hypnotising.
Merlin's response is a long time coming, delayed by sloth. "If you put me in the stocks, I'll turn you into a horse," he mumbles.
At least, Arthur thinks that's what he says. It's hard to hear when he's talking that quietly.
Arthur breathes in and out several times, peacefully, while his mind processes that and begins to formulate a response. After a long, long pause, he manages to dredge up, "If you turn me into a horse, I'll stomp on your foot."
It doesn't sound quite as threatening as he had hoped that it would.
Considering that he is answered with a gentle snore, he supposes that it doesn't matter at all.
*
When Arthur wakes in the morning, there is a ruthless arm flung on top of his face. It is crushing his nose so he bats it away with the irritation of a disturbed cat. It doesn't surprise him at all that Merlin is an amoral scoundrel when he sleeps.
With a sleepy groan, he opens one eye and peers over at where Merlin is asleep. He is still on his back and his mouth is slightly parted as he breathes rhythmically in and out. His hair is at the messiest that Arthur has ever seen it and there are some red lines on Merlin's cheek where he had previously been lying on the pillow. His limbs are askew. He looks dishevelled in an appropriately glorious way, and while Merlin is asleep Arthur can feel free to watch him without having to cover up his interest with sharp words. It is difficult to look at Merlin and see a sorcerer: a threat lying passively in his bed. Merlin is no more threatening than a perpetually confused puppy.
And, god, Arthur hopes that magical powers don't come with telepathy. If Merlin hears him thinking like that he thinks he might have to throw himself out of the nearest window.
He remains propped up on one elbow until Merlin eventually begins to stir. He groans like a beast as he does so, stretching his lanky body out to take up even more space.
"I haven't felt this rested in weeks," Merlin says when he eventually decides to speak.
Arthur is inclined to agree with him, even if he doesn't want to say it aloud. Saying it would involve confessing that there is something about having Merlin there that helps him to sleep; he doesn't want to openly own up to that fact.
"You'll sleep here tonight?" he asks. He doesn't mean it to be a question but he can't make it a firm statement.
Merlin moans and rolls over onto his front, allowing his arm to drape across Arthur's chest as he does so. It's a casual, lazy movement. Merlin doesn't appear to put any thought into it at all.
"I don't think I'll be moving from here all day," Merlin says. "So, yes, I'll be here tonight."
Arthur could scold him if he wanted and remind him that lounging around in the king's bed is not the sort of behaviour that is expected of a servant, but he holds his tongue. They are far beyond the roles of king and servant, now, and he doubts that Merlin had ever paid any attention to decorum anyway. "Good," Arthur is all that says, sinking more comfortably beneath the sheets. Merlin's fingers trace aimlessly back and forth on his skin as if he is stroking a high-maintenance pet. It shouldn't be half as soothing as it is.
They lounge in bed together for the remainder of the day, well-rested and with a smile finally settled on Arthur's face. At some point in the afternoon one of them sees fit to place a kiss lazily against the other's mouth. Arthur never can remember which one of them acted first, though he will forever swear that it was him. Merlin's mouth remains curled in a smile when they kiss, slow and leisurely. It is a new exploration but it feels old: it feels as if they have been doing this since they met. They should have been..
Time drowsily tumbles by while they hide from the outside world - and Arthur is certain, now, that they will no longer have trouble sleeping.
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 5265
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Future fic written with a prompt from 10_per_genre. Title taken from an anonymous quotation.
Summary: Arthur discovers that he can't sleep when Merlin isn't around. Having recently demanded that Merlin leaves the castle, this is rather inconvenient.
It is dark in the new king's bedroom, although light from the full moon shines through the window. Arthur should be asleep. He wants to be asleep - yet his mind is turning over the frantic events of the past few weeks far too quickly for him to process it. He can't understand how any of the past kings in his lineage could have managed to cope with the responsibility thrust into their hands in the wake of their grief.
He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling above him. His eyes are wide open and it seems impossible to close them. His body yearns to move. He wonders how long it will be until day-break.
In the past, on the occasions when he had allowed himself to consider this moment, he had imagined that Merlin would be at his side. Merlin had been there, a faithful if extraordinarily inept servant, for years. It had seemed natural that he would be there, too, when Arthur ascended to the throne - but it hasn't worked out that way. It can't.
He rolls onto his side with a heavy thump that he feels all throughout his body, and he tries not to allow his mind to stray to where he knows that Merlin is sleeping within the town, having moved out of the castle shortly after his confession. Arthur wishes he'd never told him. There are certain things that are best kept secret, especially from newly coronated kings. Merlin never did have any sense of timing.
Air huffs out of his chest. The long hours offer no sleep to him, and he can't help but miss Gaius all over again. He would have been there with a sleep draught and a kind word, whether Arthur had been willing to accept his help or not. He doesn't trust the new physician. It will probably be several years at least before he can.
Slumping over once more to lie on his front, he stares at his hand where it rests on the pillow near his head. He can see the way that it is silhouetted by the moonshine and it glows in an almost supernatural way - although, considering that there is an extremely powerful sorcerer in Camelot, he supposes that thinking in such terms is no longer advisable. For all that he knows, he really is glowing supernaturally, and this is all Merlin's revenge for not taking his revelation as well as he had hoped.
He doesn't know what Merlin had been expecting, anyway; he scowls in the darkness and tells himself that it doesn't matter. He'd had the sanest and calmest reaction that was possible when a close friend reveals that he's actually the kind of monster that lives in the back of dark closets and eats small children for dinner.
Arthur is willing to admit that his late father perhaps instilled a few overwrought ideas about sorcerers into his mind. He's willing to be re-educated. It's just going to take time.
He glares at his pale hand for a few moments longer, before he is forced to admit defeat. "This is not working," he mutters. As a technique for fighting insomnia, it turns out that glowering at hands is rather useless. He throws back the covers. The cold air is almost enough to make him retreat once more, but the idea of lying around waiting several more hours for sunrise chases him to his feet. He grabs hold of the shirt that he had been wearing during the day, flung over the back of a chair because he hasn't yet summoned the energy to look for a new servant. He will, some time soon. Perhaps.
After pulling it over his head he leaves him room. There are torches burning in the corridors to light the way and the stone floors are freezing cold beneath his feet. He doesn't know where he's going. He doesn't think that it matters, really.
He finds himself in the great hall, looking around at the darkened surroundings. He can remember all of the colourful balls and parties that were held in here, and all of the tense confrontations that had taken place on this floor. Merlin had worn that ridiculous red hat for him here, and they had both risked their lives for each other in this room.
He rubs a tired hand over his face and wonders if he is ever going to rid his mind of these thoughts. He'd give the kingdom's riches for a mere hour of thoughts free from Merlin and of emotions free from regret. It isn't productive. It doesn't help.
Behind him, the doors open. He peers over his shoulder and smiles, unwillingly, when he sees Morgana entering the hall and walking beside him. Even fresh from bed she looks effortlessly elegant, more than enough to remind him of his petty childhood crushes.
"Can't sleep?" she asks as she moves to stand beside him. He thinks that she must know the answer to that question already; she probably knows better than he does himself what is keeping him awake.
They don't talk about it, but he knows that Merlin wasn't the only sorcerer who had been hiding from his father in plain sight.
"My room's too cold," he complains.
"You're king now," she says. "Surely you can do something to fix that."
"You over-estimate the advantages of royal power. Even I don't command the temperature of the castle." It feels good to have something solid to turn his bad temper to. It feels great, in fact, as long as he doesn't glance at Morgana for long enough to see her all-knowing amusement. "And yourself? Why aren't you in bed?"
"I was dreaming," she says, "and then I wasn't. I thought I would come to meet you here."
The way she says it makes him want to go and hide in his room again. It is as impossible to imagine Morgana with supernatural powers as it is to try to envision Merlin with any kind of skill.
"Sweet dreams?"
"Dark ones," Morgana replies. That can't mean anything good. "It is important that Merlin returns to the castle, Arthur."
"Morgana..." he sighs, but he has nothing to finish it with.
She steps closer to him. "You won't sleep until he is back," she says with all the wisdom of someone who truly knows.
"And how well would I sleep knowing there is a traitor in my castle?"
'His' castle. It still makes his skin crawl to think of it that way. Camelot ought to be under his father's jurisdiction, still. He was taken too soon.
"Merlin is a traitor no more than I am myself. You sound like Uther."
He can't listen to this today and he doesn't stop himself from turning away from her. He won't argue on the relative merits of his father's rule with Morgana; if he does so, he knows that his mind will start to wander to places he won't be able to stop. He'll wonder if the reason she is so pleased that he is gone is because she was part of the plot against him.
He can't think like that. He can't allow himself to do so.
"I don't trust him," he says. "It isn't because of the magic. It's because of the lies."
Her sigh from behind his back implies that she isn't entirely on-board with his logic. He tells himself that he doesn't care.
"You know where to find him when you come to your senses," she tells him. He hears the sound of her footsteps retreating. He crosses his arms over his chest and refuses to look over his shoulder until he hears the door closing behind her. Life would be a lot easier, he thinks, if he didn't have to listen to Morgana's advice.
She always makes far more sense than he is at all comfortable with.
*
After yet another sleepless night, he finds himself with dark marks under his eyes to indicate his restless state. It isn't befitting a king. He's sure his father never looked like this.
He rubs at his eyes with one hand and tries to focus once more on the matters of the day. Treaties and trade routes. It all seems extremely unimportant when his bed upstairs is calling to him. He tries to think of a reason to escape. There isn't one. He's the leader now; he has more responsibilities than ever before.
He thinks he hates it.
More than that, he thinks his father was right. He isn't ready for this. He isn't fit for it.
He leaves the meeting earlier than he should and his heart stutters when he runs across Gwen in the corridors. She is leaning against one of the corridor walls clutching a pile of blankets, and his footsteps falter for a moment. There's no escape; she's been waiting for him.
Her head bows in deference, even though he wants to tell her that there is no need. In his eyes, they are equal.
"My lord," she says.
"Guinevere," he returns. The pause between them is stagnant and swampy.
"Morgana wished me to come to talk to you," she says when it becomes apparent that he will not be the first one to speak.
"About Merlin," he says. It's no question.
She smiles - it isn't a happy expression. "We want him back in the castle."
"You can still visit him in the town," Arthur says. He doesn't even know where Merlin is living these days, but he knows that he hasn't left Camelot. Morgana and Gwen get to see him whenever they like, and yet he is cut off. He feels as if he is the one that is being punished, not Merlin. It isn't fair at all.
"It's not the same and you know it," Gwen says. The years have made her bolder; he can't imagine her taking such a tone with him before. "He belongs here with us."
"He lied to me. He can't be trusted," Arthur says wearily. He's said these words to himself and to so many others that they have started to feel rehearsed.
"He lied to me too," Gwen points out. "You know he had his reasons. Good reasons."
It's true, perhaps, but it still hurts. Merlin hadn't trusted any of them; Arthur doesn't see why they should trust him, now.
"If he comes back to the castle, I don't want to see him," he says. The words come out as if they aren't his own. He doesn't want to own them, he doesn't want to be saying this, but the power of Gwen's pleading gaze is something that is impossible to resist - and, if he is reluctantly honest with himself, he misses Merlin. He misses that daft friendship and he misses having someone to rely on. "Find him a room to stay and tell him to stay out of my way."
His castle is large, but it is not so huge that they would be able to avoid each other forever. Eventually their paths will cross; it is easier to put his fate in the hands of 'eventually' than to tackle it himself.
Gwen's head bobs in a nod and she turns to walk down the corridor, her job completed. He watches her go, sure that he has done the wrong thing. He shouldn't bow to pressure. His father would never done such a thing and he feels as if he is already faltering in his footsteps. He isn't strong enough to be the king.
Privately, he doesn't think that he is good enough.
*
Knowing that Merlin is in the castle makes it utterly impossible to sleep. Lying on his back, Arthur is completely rigid and motionless. His breathing sounds too loud and his eyes feel too wide and alert.
He wonders where Merlin is staying. He knows that he's here again; Morgana had taken dinner with Gwen in her chambers that evening, and there is little doubt in Arthur's mind that Merlin had been there too. He's in the castle. He's probably lying in a bed of his own, under five minutes away from Arthur.
It doesn't help him to relax, not at all. His body itches with heavy exhaustion. He needs rest; he needs normality.
It won't come.
It's Merlin's fault - has to be. He can't see another explanation. Bewitchments or enchantments or something equally dark. It is a curse from a fairytale and he doesn't know how to escape.
There is one single thing that he does know: hiding from him really isn't working, not a single bit.
When hiding doesn't work, there is always one other option. Confrontation. As a knight - as a king - it ought to be what comes naturally to him. When it comes to Merlin, it isn't. A lack of rest chases him from his bed, telling him that there is no room for cowardice in Camelot, not for those who wish to gain a good night's sleep.
Grabbing a servant in the corridors he manages to find out which room Merlin has been given. He has to walk quickly so as not to give himself the opportunity to think this through. It's like a battle, he tells himself. He needs to act, not think. He can't allow his nerves to invade.
Approaching the door after climbing several more sets of staircases than he had even been aware belonged in his castle, he stares sceptically at it. There is nothing there that appears to be particularly magical. It doesn't glow or sparkle. There is no joint army of toads and black cats scattered in the hallway outside as sentries. It looks like a regular door.
Looks can certainly be deceiving.
It would have been polite to knock before he entered, but Arthur decides that the element of surprise is far more crucial. It's his castle anyway. He can go wherever he wants whenever he wants with no care for ordinary rules of propriety. He gathers his courage and pushes the door open without allowing himself to have any time to change his mind. If he had knocked, he has no doubt that he would have ran away by the time Merlin came to answer.
It's dark outside, deep into the night, and Arthur would have expected most people in the castle to be asleep by now. When he enters Merlin's room, however, he finds the bed empty and the sheets untouched. A candle burns and flickers on the wooden table, dripping wax as it offers light. Merlin is sat with a book, but his eyes aren't on the pages. He's watching Arthur in the doorway.
Merlin looks as tired as Arthur feels right now, his skin paler than usual. His mouth twitches as he watches Arthur, as if he wants to smile but doesn't dare to. Considering the way that Arthur had steadfastly ignored him since his revelation, the reaction is understandable.
"Gwen said I have to stay out of your way if I'm going to stay here," Merlin says, leaning his arms against the edge of the table. "It's going to be hard to do that if you're going to burst into my room at night, y'know."
"It's my castle," Arthur says, but that sounds like a much weaker justification out loud than it had in his head.
Merlin seems to have inherited a sharp eyebrow raise from Gaius.
Arthur steps fully into the room and closes the door behind himself. "I couldn't sleep," he says.
"Me neither," Merlin admits. His head tilts to the side as he watches Arthur, his gaze never wavering. Arthur, in the meantime, looks around the room purely so that he doesn't have to focus on Merlin. There's nothing extraordinary here. From the look of the bag at the base of his bed, Merlin hasn't even unpacked yet. "Morgana mentioned you've been having trouble for a while."
He hates the idea of them talking about him behind his back; he hates the idea of Morgana and Gwen getting to see Merlin while he doesn't. Petty jealousy. He had met Merlin first, after all.
"It's hard to sleep knowing that there is a sorcerer on the loose," Arthur says.
Merlin answers with a shrug. "Yeah. It's hard to sleep knowing there's a king about as well."
"Kings aren't dangerous, Merlin."
"They are when they want you dead."
And that, Arthur will admit, is a good if obvious point.
"I don't want you dead," he sighs at Merlin. "You'd be arrested already if that was the case."
"How reassuring," Merlin murmurs.
"And you are not arrested," Arthur points out. He's sure that Merlin isn't supposed to be angry with him. It ought to be the other way around. That's the way this should work. "So you can stop pouting."
"I'm not pouting. I'm scowling." It doesn't look like much of a difference to Arthur's eyes, but he supposes that he has little choice but to take Merlin at his word. If Merlin says it is a scowl, Arthur will struggle to believe him. "And you threw me out of the castle, Arthur. For ages. I have a right to scowl."
"You've lied to me the entire time you've been here. I have more right to scowl that you do."
"I had a good reason."
"I have a good reason too. For all I know, you're trying to kill me. Sorcerers have a habit of doing that."
"You'd be dead already if I was trying to kill you," Merlin echoes, and Arthur is certain that that wording is skirting dangerously close to treason.
"Merlin," Arthur says, sternly. "I think we are both perfectly aware of the fact that you are not nearly proficient enough to kill me."
The typical insult of Merlin's skills - and lack thereof - is enough to make both of them almost smile.
"The castle has seemed quiet without you," Arthur says. It isn't really true. He has been so busy and has been pulled in all directions by his court. It's difficult to think at all. "Peaceful."
Merlin shifts his position on his chair and he looks down at the table instead of up at Arthur. There's nothing defiant in his position, like there once was. Something about him has deflated, and Arthur thinks it is his fault. That would explain why he feels so guilty.
"It's different when you're here. It feels different." He isn't supposed to be the kind of person who reasons with his emotions, but he has no other word for it: the difference is something felt. It's something in the air.
"Is that bad?"
Arthur wishes that he didn't have to answer. He doesn't know what would be the right thing to say. "I'm glad you're back," he says, avoiding the answer. "Maybe I'll get some sleep now."
It's as close as he is ever going to get to saying that the reason he couldn't sleep in the first place was because of Merlin's absence. He can't say it aloud; he won't. He'll have to rely on Merlin interpreting that much for himself.
Merlin's fingers tap restlessly against the table-top. "You could sleep here," he suggests. "If you wanted to, I mean. It'd save you from going all the way back to your own room."
Arthur looks towards the bed. He has no doubt that his own bed in his own room would be far more comfortable than this one. It would probably be warmer as well. And safer. And more familiar.
And yet he hasn't been able to sleep there, has he?
It takes a few more awkward, stumbling blocks of conversation, awkward and painful, before they manage to negotiate their way into bed. Arthur takes a position on the left side of the mattress and Merlin on the right, as far away from each other as they can get. An ocean of space pools between them. Arthur's back faces Merlin.
"Good night," Merlin calls over his shoulder. Arthur grunts in return and tells himself that there is no way that he will be able to sleep while he is so tense and while Merlin is so nearby. It's ridiculous to even try.
Three minutes later, his eyes close and his breathing evens out.
*
By the time he wakes up, the sun is high in the sky and Merlin has gone already. Arthur opens his eyes in bleary comfort and allows a long sigh to pass from his body. He should be up by now. He should be handling all sorts of royal duties, but he feels rested for the first time in weeks. Moving would be impossible.
He gets up in his own time and helps himself to what little food is left over on the table from Merlin's breakfast. When he heads down to the main corridors, he's vaguely amused to find flourishing red capes searching for him, rushing back and forth in their haste. "I'm right here, Leon," Arthur says, with a cheerful expression on his face. "You can call off the search."
The expression on Leon's face, both relieved and surprised, is enough to keep Arthur in a good mood for the rest of the day, though Merlin doesn't make an appearance. He seems to be following Gwen's instructions a little too well. Arthur starts to get antsy when, by mid-afternoon, there is still no sign of him. His hand taps restlessly on top of the table.
Requests about his well-being are met with increasingly cranky answers, and by evening people have stopped asking at all.
While he is having dinner, Morgana joins him with a smirk. With her dress flowing behind her, she enters the room as if she is floating. "I heard you've been sulking all day, Arthur," she says. "Your reunion didn't go well, I take it?"
"It went fine," Arthur grouches, while wondering how exactly she manages to remain on top of every single happening within Camelot. Even he can't do that himself. "And I have not been 'sulking'."
"Your knights don't seem to think so." She takes a seat at the opposite end of the long table.
He doesn't manage to stop himself from rolling his eyes at her. "Where's Merlin, Morgana?" he asks, because that is clearly what she came here to taunt him with. Morgana isn't as opaque as she likes to believe.
"Staying out of your way as you instructed," she says with a smile. "I heard you visited him last night."
He glares at the chicken on his plate. It seems wiser than glaring at Morgana herself.
He hears the rush of her sigh and the shift of the material of her dress as she moves forward on her seat. "He wants me to invite you come back and see him tonight."
"He said that, did he?" Arthur says in disbelief. Morgana may believe whatever she wishes, but he isn't stupid. He knows Merlin and his stubbornness far too well. "If he's so keen to see me then he wouldn't have avoided me all day."
"You know what boys are like..."
"This is Merlin. He doesn't beat around the bush." He isn't a 'boy' any more than Morgana is a 'girl'. They're all so far past that now. "You can tell him that I'll be in my own chambers tonight. His bed is terribly uncomfortable."
If Merlin wishes to see him, he has an open invitation: Arthur doesn't see why he should be the one to do the searching. He's the king, after all. Aren't his subjects supposed to come to him?
Morgana's eyes are more pitying than usual as she surveys him. Her skin is impossibly pale in the candlelight. "I'll push him your way," she tells him, before she stands up. She hasn't had a thing to eat, and Arthur knows what that means. It means that she is eating elsewhere, with other people. That means that, once again, the other three are bonding while he is left by himself.
He tells himself that it doesn't matter - but he glares so hard at his dinner after Morgana has gone that, if he had Merlin's abilities, he is certain it would be set alight.
*
The door creaks open well past midnight, when Arthur has already been tossing and turning for hours. "Arthur?" Merlin hisses into the darkness. "Are you awake?"
Arthur is tempted not to answer, purely to see what Merlin's reaction would be. It could be something of a test, in a way, yet he can't stop himself from giving a wearied moan of acknowledgement. "I'm awake," he confirms, while wishing that he could take a sword to all sleepless nights and kill them in armed combat.
"Me too," Merlin says, as if his chattering presence in Arthur's bedroom wouldn't have been enough to make Arthur realise that. As far as he is aware, Merlin has not yet developed a tendency for sleepwalking.
Merlin stands half-visible near the doorway for a moment. Arthur is faintly aware that he ought to say something now, and that Merlin is waiting for him to do so, but he isn't sure what. He props himself up on one elbow and squints in the darkness to try to make out Merlin's features. It's a battle he quickly gives up.
Instead, he reaches to grab the edge of the blanket on the other side of the bed, pulling it back enough to offer an invitation. "Are you going to get in or not, Merlin? I don't want to wait all night."
Actions speak louder than words, and within half a minute Merlin is slipping under the blanket. When he lies back, a long breath of contented air leaves his chest. He stays firmly on his side of the bed, however, and Arthur knows that one of them will need to be the braver one here. As king, it is probably his duty.
He thinks that this is one case in which he would happily resist his status and its responsibilities, but avoidance hasn't helped either of them recently. As Merlin shuffles and wriggles, relaxing into his side of the bed, Arthur heaves a breath of air and rolls over onto his side, closer to Merlin. In the process, Merlin's moving elbow nearly clobbers him on the nose and when Arthur avoids it he narrowly avoids taking a mouthful from Merlin's bicep instead. It isn't exactly ideal.
It is, however, enough to get away with. They lie with Arthur curled against Merlin's side, his nose nuzzled near his shoulder while Merlin rests on his back. After a moment of no complaint, Arthur decides that - for comfort's sake, of course - he ought to drape his arm over Merlin's stomach.
"Arthur?" Merlin asks, just when he thinks he's got away with it. "Not that I'm complaining, but - Are you hugging me?"
Arthur breathes deeply and closes his eyes. "I'm the king. I can do what I like," he protests. Surely it is the king's prerogative to cuddle with his subjects if he so chooses.
"You are getting far too used to that excuse," Merlin complains, and Arthur can quite easily imagine the grin that must be on his face right now - but he doesn't care to raise his head enough to see it. Merlin hasn't shoved him away yet. That's enough to tell him that this is alright.
They both settle and shift like an old house adjusting to its weight. Their breathing evens out, slowly.
"If you're not here when I wake up, I'll have you put in the stocks," Arthur murmurs, sleep-slurred. Merlin's warmth is hypnotising.
Merlin's response is a long time coming, delayed by sloth. "If you put me in the stocks, I'll turn you into a horse," he mumbles.
At least, Arthur thinks that's what he says. It's hard to hear when he's talking that quietly.
Arthur breathes in and out several times, peacefully, while his mind processes that and begins to formulate a response. After a long, long pause, he manages to dredge up, "If you turn me into a horse, I'll stomp on your foot."
It doesn't sound quite as threatening as he had hoped that it would.
Considering that he is answered with a gentle snore, he supposes that it doesn't matter at all.
*
When Arthur wakes in the morning, there is a ruthless arm flung on top of his face. It is crushing his nose so he bats it away with the irritation of a disturbed cat. It doesn't surprise him at all that Merlin is an amoral scoundrel when he sleeps.
With a sleepy groan, he opens one eye and peers over at where Merlin is asleep. He is still on his back and his mouth is slightly parted as he breathes rhythmically in and out. His hair is at the messiest that Arthur has ever seen it and there are some red lines on Merlin's cheek where he had previously been lying on the pillow. His limbs are askew. He looks dishevelled in an appropriately glorious way, and while Merlin is asleep Arthur can feel free to watch him without having to cover up his interest with sharp words. It is difficult to look at Merlin and see a sorcerer: a threat lying passively in his bed. Merlin is no more threatening than a perpetually confused puppy.
And, god, Arthur hopes that magical powers don't come with telepathy. If Merlin hears him thinking like that he thinks he might have to throw himself out of the nearest window.
He remains propped up on one elbow until Merlin eventually begins to stir. He groans like a beast as he does so, stretching his lanky body out to take up even more space.
"I haven't felt this rested in weeks," Merlin says when he eventually decides to speak.
Arthur is inclined to agree with him, even if he doesn't want to say it aloud. Saying it would involve confessing that there is something about having Merlin there that helps him to sleep; he doesn't want to openly own up to that fact.
"You'll sleep here tonight?" he asks. He doesn't mean it to be a question but he can't make it a firm statement.
Merlin moans and rolls over onto his front, allowing his arm to drape across Arthur's chest as he does so. It's a casual, lazy movement. Merlin doesn't appear to put any thought into it at all.
"I don't think I'll be moving from here all day," Merlin says. "So, yes, I'll be here tonight."
Arthur could scold him if he wanted and remind him that lounging around in the king's bed is not the sort of behaviour that is expected of a servant, but he holds his tongue. They are far beyond the roles of king and servant, now, and he doubts that Merlin had ever paid any attention to decorum anyway. "Good," Arthur is all that says, sinking more comfortably beneath the sheets. Merlin's fingers trace aimlessly back and forth on his skin as if he is stroking a high-maintenance pet. It shouldn't be half as soothing as it is.
They lounge in bed together for the remainder of the day, well-rested and with a smile finally settled on Arthur's face. At some point in the afternoon one of them sees fit to place a kiss lazily against the other's mouth. Arthur never can remember which one of them acted first, though he will forever swear that it was him. Merlin's mouth remains curled in a smile when they kiss, slow and leisurely. It is a new exploration but it feels old: it feels as if they have been doing this since they met. They should have been..
Time drowsily tumbles by while they hide from the outside world - and Arthur is certain, now, that they will no longer have trouble sleeping.