fic: Case Study in the Emotional Development of the Maladjusted Male (Future) Monarch
Title: Case Study in the Emotional Development of the Maladjusted Male (Future) Monarch
Rating: PG. Although really it should be E for eeeeeeeemo.
Length: ~1350 words
Summary: Arthur has all these ridiculous feelings and doesn't know what to do with them.
Note: I swear this is the schmoopiest, sappiest thing I have ever written, and if Arthur actually existed he would never ever forgive me for letting anyone see it. Mostly it's Arthur Emotionally-Retarded Pendragon's stream of consciousness.
Arthur didn’t understand it, the first few times it happened. Merlin would smile at him, or get indignant and flustered over some perceived injustice being perpetrated against Arthur, or just look at him with this soft proud expression that took over his entire face. And suddenly Arthur would find his heart beating a little faster, sitting a little warmer in his chest, like someone came along and lit a candle in a dim room buried beneath his ribs, and it didn’t make any sense. It felt like the rare moments of praise from his father, like that time when he was eight and terribly upset about something and Morgana had let him cry on her shoulder and hadn’t laughed at him or told anyone, like the first sunny day after a long stretch of rain.
But it was just Merlin, just the useless idiot he had been saddled with because - ok, because the useless idiot had saved his life. And kept saving his life, and making him laugh, and making him think, and - but it was still just Merlin, there was no way that funny feeling could be connected to Merlin. Even if Arthur did find himself missing the idiot when they were apart, even if he did run off on insane quests to save the idiot’s life, even if he did get just a little irrationally angry if anyone else thought they could insult the idiot, even if he did - oh.
Arthur did figure it out eventually. He figured out that the reason for the warm funny feeling, and the reason he kept catching himself looking at Merlin’s lips, and the reason he made Merlin come with him hunting even though Merlin was rubbish at it - those were all the same reason.
That didn’t make it any better, though. Merlin kept saving his life, but Merlin didn’t look at Arthur’s lips, Merlin didn’t touch Arthur without reason, Merlin didn’t let Arthur loaf about in his chamber when neither of them had anything else to take their minds off trouble. Merlin didn’t assign Arthur excessive stupid tasks because the flutter in his heart frightened him and Arthur’s irritation was easier to handle than his happiness. Merlin didn’t let Arthur wind up in the stocks on his behalf for the third time in a week because Merlin was hurt that Arthur didn’t seem even a little jealous of the pretty new girl Merlin had been infatuated with.
No, Merlin was just faithful and loyal and honest and insulting and infuriating and surprisingly clever and - painfully out of reach. Because Merlin didn’t look at Arthur’s lips, and Arthur could ask him to do any number of absurd things, but Arthur couldn’t ask him to do that. Wouldn’t ask him to do that.
Even if he desperately wanted to sometimes, to say Merlin, I need you to clean my armour and sharpen my sword and change my sheets, and all of those can wait until later because what I really need, right now, is for you to kiss me. But he couldn’t, because it wouldn’t be fair to mix up Merlin’s job with Arthur’s personal weakness like that. Because even the prince - especially the prince - couldn’t order anyone to touch him that way. Because Merlin could and very well might say no.
It just wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair that Arthur had all these ridiculous feelings and no idea what to do with them. Somehow, without Arthur’s ever noticing it, Merlin had cracked him into pieces and glued him back together with too much emotion stuffed into the seams, his cool detached resolve crumbled to dust and carelessly swept from the worktable.
The most shameful part was that, much as Arthur looked at Merlin’s lips and wanted Merlin to touch him, it really wasn’t about lust at all. That would have been, if not quite respectable, at least understandable - an ordinary reaction for a red blooded man to a pretty face he saw too often. He could control that; being fifteen with a breathtakingly beautiful chamber maid had taught him all about controlling that. One wanted, and if one could not have, then one got intimately acquainted with one’s own hand and that was that.
But that wasn’t it, at all. What Arthur really wanted was for Merlin to always look at Arthur with pride or with joy, to always smile because he was happy and unburdened, to tell Arthur everything and ask everything and always say prat like an endearment and take idiot as the same. He wanted Merlin to turn up in the morning because Merlin wanted to be there, to stay with Arthur out of desire rather than duty, to have the same stupid unreasonable feelings for Arthur as Arthur had for Merlin. He wanted Merlin to light every candle in every darkened chamber in Arthur’s soul and stand back to bask in the glow of it.
Arthur would never say any of this. Even thinking it, giving unspoken words to the ache and want and soft puddles of affection that had settled into the parts of himself tied to Merlin, even that was too much for Arthur’s dignity to take. He ignored it as best he could, buried it down deep and indulged the more normal inclinations that guided his actions: duty and honor and a steadily diminishing degree of selfishness.
Still, sometimes he found Merlin sleeping on the job and was bowled over by the unexpected image of that face all slack and peaceful, and could barely collect himself enough to thump the idiot awake. Sometimes he did something for Merlin and was left speechless in the wake of Merlin’s earnest gratitude. Sometimes, when Merlin was particularly pleased with him, he felt as though his heart were swelling so much it couldn’t help but burst.
And then, one otherwise unremarkable day, Arthur looked up from his lunch and caught Merlin staring at Arthur’s mouth. Arthur assumed he had some scrap of food left on his lip, and went to wipe it, but then Merlin glanced away and back and when Arthur’s hand was at his mouth, Merlin blushed just a bit and turned his gaze to the floor with an embarrassed little smile.
And that was - that was -
“Merlin,” Arthur started to say, and he had no idea how he intended to finish that sentence, but that was alright because Merlin broke in quickly, tripping over his words in his haste.
“Can I ask you a question? Hypothetically, just hypothetically, suppose I was to come over there and kiss you, what would you do?”
“I would,” Arthur began, and he could barely hear himself think over the desperate hammering of his heart, so strong he couldn’t believe his voice wasn’t shaking with it, “I don’t know what I would do, Merlin, why don’t you try it and find out?”
So Merlin stood up and Arthur stood up and they met halfway around the table, Arthur dazed with shock and hope and Merlin wearing a small shy grin. Merlin stopped right in front of Arthur, raising his hand to cup Arthur’s cheek. The minor disparity in their heights had never made the slightest bit of difference before, but in this moment Merlin’s extra inch or so might as well have been a mile; Arthur felt tiny and terrified, his heart climbing up through his throat while Merlin watched him.
Then Merlin leaned in and touched their lips together, just the briefest press of soft warm skin. He broke the contact before Arthur could respond, but didn’t take his hand away, just waited.
“Is that all?” Arthur asked over the thunder in his ears. His voice broke halfway through, he heard it, as if he were a young teenager again, but he didn’t have time to be ashamed of it because Merlin said, low and laughing and sweet,
“Nah, just making sure the answer wasn’t going to be ‘shove you off and laugh at you, you idiot,’” and then he was back, kissing Arthur properly, and it was like every candle, every fireplace, every source of light and heat in every room in the house of Arthur’s body roared to life, all at once.
Rating: PG. Although really it should be E for eeeeeeeemo.
Length: ~1350 words
Summary: Arthur has all these ridiculous feelings and doesn't know what to do with them.
Note: I swear this is the schmoopiest, sappiest thing I have ever written, and if Arthur actually existed he would never ever forgive me for letting anyone see it. Mostly it's Arthur Emotionally-Retarded Pendragon's stream of consciousness.
Arthur didn’t understand it, the first few times it happened. Merlin would smile at him, or get indignant and flustered over some perceived injustice being perpetrated against Arthur, or just look at him with this soft proud expression that took over his entire face. And suddenly Arthur would find his heart beating a little faster, sitting a little warmer in his chest, like someone came along and lit a candle in a dim room buried beneath his ribs, and it didn’t make any sense. It felt like the rare moments of praise from his father, like that time when he was eight and terribly upset about something and Morgana had let him cry on her shoulder and hadn’t laughed at him or told anyone, like the first sunny day after a long stretch of rain.
But it was just Merlin, just the useless idiot he had been saddled with because - ok, because the useless idiot had saved his life. And kept saving his life, and making him laugh, and making him think, and - but it was still just Merlin, there was no way that funny feeling could be connected to Merlin. Even if Arthur did find himself missing the idiot when they were apart, even if he did run off on insane quests to save the idiot’s life, even if he did get just a little irrationally angry if anyone else thought they could insult the idiot, even if he did - oh.
Arthur did figure it out eventually. He figured out that the reason for the warm funny feeling, and the reason he kept catching himself looking at Merlin’s lips, and the reason he made Merlin come with him hunting even though Merlin was rubbish at it - those were all the same reason.
That didn’t make it any better, though. Merlin kept saving his life, but Merlin didn’t look at Arthur’s lips, Merlin didn’t touch Arthur without reason, Merlin didn’t let Arthur loaf about in his chamber when neither of them had anything else to take their minds off trouble. Merlin didn’t assign Arthur excessive stupid tasks because the flutter in his heart frightened him and Arthur’s irritation was easier to handle than his happiness. Merlin didn’t let Arthur wind up in the stocks on his behalf for the third time in a week because Merlin was hurt that Arthur didn’t seem even a little jealous of the pretty new girl Merlin had been infatuated with.
No, Merlin was just faithful and loyal and honest and insulting and infuriating and surprisingly clever and - painfully out of reach. Because Merlin didn’t look at Arthur’s lips, and Arthur could ask him to do any number of absurd things, but Arthur couldn’t ask him to do that. Wouldn’t ask him to do that.
Even if he desperately wanted to sometimes, to say Merlin, I need you to clean my armour and sharpen my sword and change my sheets, and all of those can wait until later because what I really need, right now, is for you to kiss me. But he couldn’t, because it wouldn’t be fair to mix up Merlin’s job with Arthur’s personal weakness like that. Because even the prince - especially the prince - couldn’t order anyone to touch him that way. Because Merlin could and very well might say no.
It just wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair that Arthur had all these ridiculous feelings and no idea what to do with them. Somehow, without Arthur’s ever noticing it, Merlin had cracked him into pieces and glued him back together with too much emotion stuffed into the seams, his cool detached resolve crumbled to dust and carelessly swept from the worktable.
The most shameful part was that, much as Arthur looked at Merlin’s lips and wanted Merlin to touch him, it really wasn’t about lust at all. That would have been, if not quite respectable, at least understandable - an ordinary reaction for a red blooded man to a pretty face he saw too often. He could control that; being fifteen with a breathtakingly beautiful chamber maid had taught him all about controlling that. One wanted, and if one could not have, then one got intimately acquainted with one’s own hand and that was that.
But that wasn’t it, at all. What Arthur really wanted was for Merlin to always look at Arthur with pride or with joy, to always smile because he was happy and unburdened, to tell Arthur everything and ask everything and always say prat like an endearment and take idiot as the same. He wanted Merlin to turn up in the morning because Merlin wanted to be there, to stay with Arthur out of desire rather than duty, to have the same stupid unreasonable feelings for Arthur as Arthur had for Merlin. He wanted Merlin to light every candle in every darkened chamber in Arthur’s soul and stand back to bask in the glow of it.
Arthur would never say any of this. Even thinking it, giving unspoken words to the ache and want and soft puddles of affection that had settled into the parts of himself tied to Merlin, even that was too much for Arthur’s dignity to take. He ignored it as best he could, buried it down deep and indulged the more normal inclinations that guided his actions: duty and honor and a steadily diminishing degree of selfishness.
Still, sometimes he found Merlin sleeping on the job and was bowled over by the unexpected image of that face all slack and peaceful, and could barely collect himself enough to thump the idiot awake. Sometimes he did something for Merlin and was left speechless in the wake of Merlin’s earnest gratitude. Sometimes, when Merlin was particularly pleased with him, he felt as though his heart were swelling so much it couldn’t help but burst.
And then, one otherwise unremarkable day, Arthur looked up from his lunch and caught Merlin staring at Arthur’s mouth. Arthur assumed he had some scrap of food left on his lip, and went to wipe it, but then Merlin glanced away and back and when Arthur’s hand was at his mouth, Merlin blushed just a bit and turned his gaze to the floor with an embarrassed little smile.
And that was - that was -
“Merlin,” Arthur started to say, and he had no idea how he intended to finish that sentence, but that was alright because Merlin broke in quickly, tripping over his words in his haste.
“Can I ask you a question? Hypothetically, just hypothetically, suppose I was to come over there and kiss you, what would you do?”
“I would,” Arthur began, and he could barely hear himself think over the desperate hammering of his heart, so strong he couldn’t believe his voice wasn’t shaking with it, “I don’t know what I would do, Merlin, why don’t you try it and find out?”
So Merlin stood up and Arthur stood up and they met halfway around the table, Arthur dazed with shock and hope and Merlin wearing a small shy grin. Merlin stopped right in front of Arthur, raising his hand to cup Arthur’s cheek. The minor disparity in their heights had never made the slightest bit of difference before, but in this moment Merlin’s extra inch or so might as well have been a mile; Arthur felt tiny and terrified, his heart climbing up through his throat while Merlin watched him.
Then Merlin leaned in and touched their lips together, just the briefest press of soft warm skin. He broke the contact before Arthur could respond, but didn’t take his hand away, just waited.
“Is that all?” Arthur asked over the thunder in his ears. His voice broke halfway through, he heard it, as if he were a young teenager again, but he didn’t have time to be ashamed of it because Merlin said, low and laughing and sweet,
“Nah, just making sure the answer wasn’t going to be ‘shove you off and laugh at you, you idiot,’” and then he was back, kissing Arthur properly, and it was like every candle, every fireplace, every source of light and heat in every room in the house of Arthur’s body roared to life, all at once.