Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Merlin’s day doesn’t actually start out terrible.

For one, he doesn’t have the opening shift, that means he gets to have a lie-in - which, for Merlin, means that he gets to sleep until eight instead of five-thirty. It also means he can actually take his time, have some breakfast, and put on clothes he didn’t have to pick out the night before.

He stuffs a reluctant and still sleepy Kilgharrah into the breast pocket of his unbuttoned shirt and takes the time to throw a stale croissant from yesterday into the micro-oven.

He’s still gnawing on it as he exits his dingy flat. The hallway is dark; no windows and the light still broken, same as it’s been for the past month or so. Merlin contemplates the merits of conjuring a magelight, quickly running through a rough mental list of spells he’s already used and how many more he’s allowed this week.

In the end, he decides it’s hardly worth it and makes his way blindly. Really, the only tricky part are the stairs and he’s only fallen down twice so far. The third time doesn’t count, because someone had spilled something slippery, the origins of which Merlin resolutely refused to investigate.

In contrast, the early morning sun is bright and cheerful, stabbing mercilessly at Merlin’s eyes. It still makes him smile. Weather like this isn’t always easy to come by in Camelot, especially not in early to mid-spring where the chance of random hail is as high as picking a too-warm jumper and ending up sweltering for the rest of the day.

Seeing as it’s not pissing down, Merlin opts out of taking the El train for one stop and instead chooses to walk, picking up his pace to make it on time. Not that Gwaine would care.

The streets are already bustling, and not with the usual pre-work rush hour. 

Brightly coloured garlands adorn every streetlamp, ribbons fluttering in a gentle breeze, waving as if in greeting. He remembers now that he’d seen droids putting them up last night in preparation for today’s Beltane celebration.

The Prince’s birthday. Of course.

Merlin rolls his eyes. He likes Beltane as much as the next person, because, really, what’s not to like about stuffing yourself with good food and dancing around a maypole? And, when night falls, you simply stuff yourself with more food, this time accentuated with some floral spirits, and the dancing moves from the maypole to the bonfire.

Back in Ealdor, it had been one of Merlin’s favourite holidays. It’s only since moving to Camelot City that it’s lost its appeal. The capitol is a shrine to the Royal Family, their crest plastered on anything from monuments to milk bottles. The El train has dragon-shaped door lights, every holographic street sign is hugged by a dragon, and then, of course, there’s the Palace itself. Flapping tirelessly above it is one of the world’s biggest, most life-like holograms in the form of a huge golden dragon - the gaudy thing a present for King Uther’s 40th birthday. It’s particularly popular with tourists; on a good day, you can see that thing for miles.

No, here at the ‘Heart of Albion’, Beltane is mostly an afterthought. Here, it’s ‘Prince Arthur’s Day’.

And it seems no one is ready to miss out on the chance to benefit from capitalism, which is why come May, you cannot spit without hitting something with the Prince’s arrogant gob on it. For a whole week.

Clearly, Gwaine is no exception.

“What,” Merlin says slowly, torn between horror and disgust. “Is that?”

Gwen follows his gaze, a grin already tugging at her lips. Despite having opened the shop at six this morning, she looks fresh-faced and bright-eyed - honestly, Merlin has no clue how she does it.

“These,” she chirps. “Are our Prince Arthur themed cupcakes! Buy two, get one free!”

Merlin stares at her in horror, then directs his outrage at Gwaine, who seems to have dragged himself away from last night’s hookup earlier than usual.

“You can’t be serious,” Merlin says, feeling utterly betrayed.

Gwaine shrugs. “I got a good deal. Plus, he’s turning 25 so everyone’s going mental. It’s business, baby.”

Merlin returns his gaze to the display case, Prince Arthur’s smug smile staring back at him from the neat rows of cupcakes. The icing job is smooth and shiny and covered in a layer of fine glitter. It looks like a thin sheet of glass - definitely the work of a droid rather than a human. Around the rim, a loopy script proclaims Happy Birthday, Prince Arthur!! and every tiny bit of empty space has been filled with miniature sparkly hearts and dragons.

Merlin wants to gag.

And, because underneath all her sweetness Gwen is actually a demon who feeds off other people’s pain, she chooses that moment to pipe up once more.

“And for every non-themed purchase we have these!” She whips out a handful of tiny flags with an identical design, which are covered in even more glitter. “Aren’t they adorable?”

Merlin wordlessly turns on his heel and storms off towards the staff room, leaving a cackling Gwen and Gwaine in his wake.

Merlin emerges still grumpy, now dressed in his long-sleeved work shirt, apron tied slightly sloppily behind his back and his name tag crooked and off-centre. Kilgharrah, now more awake and sick of Merlin’s pocket, has taken residence on the drinks machine, tail idly twitching where he’s curled up between stacks of black cups.

From beside him, he hears Gwen say, “Welcome to The Drip and Grind, what can I get for you?”

And even after all this time, Merlin can’t help inwardly rolling his eyes. Bloody Gwaine.

Of course the customers ohh and ahh over the cupcake atrocities and one of them even has the audacity to beg for a flag despite buying an alarming amount of cupcakes. Damn Gwaine for his stupidly accurate business sense.

Gwen turns to him once the customers have scampered off, taking a seat beneath a garish garland in eye-watering neon colours.

“You don’t suppose he’ll come in today?”

Merlin snorts. “You act as if he’s a regular.”

Gwen gives him a look. “He’s been here at least a dozen times in the last two months, I’d say that qualifies for someone who can’t so much as sneeze without their personal guard.”

Merlin carefully re-arranges the little holo-sign proclaiming their specials in erratically flashing letters.

“Clearly they can’t make proper coffee at the Citadel.”

Which is complete bollocks, of course. Merlin is sure that the royal palace’s coffee is flown in from some private plantation where a bunch of farmers sing lullabies to the plants and cradle the beans in silk sheets. In all honesty, Merlin hasn’t the foggiest why the Crown Prince would repeatedly visit a shop called The Drip and Grind for fuck’s sake.

All he knows is that Prince Arthur is an infuriating, stuck-up prat who looks just as unfairly attractive in real life as he does on all the stupid merch he’s featured on. No one should be allowed to be that golden without the help of glitter.

Gwen is clearly not buying his shit either, humming a knowing hm-hmm at him with a devilish sparkle in her eye. Merlin refuses to acknowledge her implications because they are, frankly, ridiculous.

“Piss off,” he mutters, finally abandoning the sign and choosing to unnecessarily polish the spout of the steamer instead.

Because while Gwaine certainly doesn’t spare expense to make his customers happy, his poor staff has to content itself with working with machinery from the previous century.

Atop the drinks machine, Kilgharrah shuffles his wings and gives a derisive snort, a small spark shooting from his nostrils before turning into an artful curl of smoke.

“You, too,” Merlin tells him. “Traitor.”

His Royal Highness breezes in just before eleven with his usual hangers-on, some of which Merlin has even managed to remember the names of. Especially the one that Gwen always exchanges cow-eyed, lovey-dovey gazes with. She’s clearly the last person who should be implying nonsense about Prince Arthur’s non-existent motivations.

“Welcome to The Drip and Grind,” Merlin rattles off straight-faced. “What can I get for you?”

“The same thing I always have,” Prince Arthur says, sounding vaguely disdainful and unbearably posh. “One would think you’d remember my order by now.”

Merlin scowls. He remembers His Haughtiness’ order perfectly well, but sees no reason to inflate an already unbearably large ego.

“You’re not my only customer,” Merlin keeps his voice coolly polite; barely.

“You realise that’s not the proper way to address me?”

And is that a smirk at the corner of the stupid prat’s, stupidly gorgeous mouth?

“Apologies, your High-and-Mightiness. Now do you think you can tell me your order or must I divine it from my crystal ball?”

Prince Arthur looks just the faintest bit puzzled. “Can you do that?”

Merlin only barely refrains from knocking his forehead against the drinks machine. Somewhere behind him, Gwaine is unsubtly snickering and Kilgharrah is wearing his most irritating reptilian smirk. Trust the son of Uther Pendragon to be utterly ignorant of how a quarter of his subjects go through life.

Then again, the King probably spent Arthur’s entire childhood reading him ghastly cautionary tales about ‘the evils of sorcery’. Merlin should be grateful the Prince lets him anywhere near his beverages to begin with.

“Your order?” Merlin grits out, rapidly losing patience.

“Caramel Latte, four shots and two and a half pumps of syrup. To go.”

Merlin’s nerve-endings vibrate just from the thought of that much caffeine, but he obediently gets to work, typing in the order on the small touchscreen and manually putting a cup beneath the correct spout. 

And then, because Merlin just can’t help himself, he asks, “Would you like a cupcake with that?”

Which gets him the satisfaction of watching Arthur’s nose wrinkle in distaste.

“I’ll pass, thanks,” he says drily.

Seems not even His Superciliousness adores himself enough to eat his own face. Something Merlin feels he needs to rectify by grabbing one of the sparkly flags.

“In that case,” he says, sticking it into the lid he’s just snapped onto the cup. “Here you go.” He smiles brightly as he hands the coffee to a scowling Prince Arthur, and all but sings, “Happy Beltane!”

Prince Arthur snatches the cup from the counter and visibly takes great pleasure in pointedly peeling off the lid and dumping it into the bin on the side. Merlin’s glee isn’t hindered in the least.

He picks up his discarded rag and suppresses a snicker as he wipes down the spouts.

Distantly, he’s aware of Prince Arthur answering his communicator, full cup abandoned on the far end of the counter. Gwen and Lance are busy being coy and quietly finding dumb reasons not to ask each other out, and Gwaine is flirting with Percy, the hunkiest of the Prince’s so-called Knights.

Valiant, the smarmy one who never seems to be paying proper attention to anything, is standing off to Prince Arthur’s side, not-so-subtly playing something shooty on his own comm. Merlin rolls his eyes at them all and is just about to go into the back and do some inventory checks when Kilgharrah suddenly raises his head.

“Merlin,” Kilgharrah says, voice heavy with warning.

Alarmed, Merlin jerks his own head up, only just catching the reflection of someone coming out of the loos. For a moment, he wonders at Kilgharrah’s urgency, but then he feels it, the unmistakable prick of magic against his skin. In the reflection of the drinks machine’s polished, old-fashioned chrome finish, Merlin finds a person with no face and yet every face at once.

He whirls around, intending to stop the faceless stranger, but then he sees the Prince’s hand reaching for his cup. The cup that not a moment ago had been left unguarded with a suspicious figure lurking about. Prince Arthur brings the coffee to his lips and Merlin is out of time.

He makes his choice.

Magic surging like a tidal wave, Merlin lunges forward, arm outstretched-

“Don’t-”

Pain sears across his wrist as his magic bursts forward - too strong, too untamed. The bracelet tightens its hold, burning into his skin as it seeks to leash him.

Merlin ignores it, the cup falls.

Coffee spills everywhere.

“Fuck,” Prince Arthur curses, posh accent sharpening the word into a knife, cutting through the sudden flurry of motion as all of the Prince’s Knights jump to his side, weapons drawn.

Merlin eyes them warily, but obediently raises both hands, palm-out, to show that no, this hadn’t been an attempt to assassinate the Prince with coffee, although Merlin expects it smarted quite a bit. Even now, he can see steam rising from Prince Arthur’s clothes, the dark liquid seeping rapidly into the fabric. 

Still, he doubts it hurts as bad as his own wrist.

Arthur yanks off his pretentious jacket and pinches his fingers into his shirt to hold it away from his chest and stomach.

“Merlin!” Arthur snaps, making Merlin jump. Name tag or no, he hadn’t expected the Prince to know his name, let alone remember it. “What is wrong with you?!”

Despite his outrage, Arthur motions for his men to stand down, which is honestly a bit of a relief. Merlin doesn’t feel like fending off a barrage of phaser fire and burning his whole hand off in the process.

“It’s fine,” Prince Arthur tells his Knights from between gritted teeth. “He’s just an idiot.”

Merlin makes a small, outraged sound at the insult. He is, however, courteous enough not to give Prince Prat a piece of his mind at full volume. Despite the Knights doubling as a human barrier blocking the spectacle, gawping patrons already have their comms out, some trying harder than others to hide the fact that they’re recording the scene.

“Listen.” Merlin steps closer to the counter, careful to keep his voice low. “I saw someone. They were using magic to conceal their face. I think they might’ve spiked your coffee.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows, then pointedly looks around. “And where is this mysterious someone?”

Merlin bites back something uncharitable at the blatant mockery.

“I didn’t have time to stop them because I was too busy saving your royal arse.”

Prince Arthur’s eyes narrow, his voice pitched equally low. “Are you making up some ridiculous story just to get my attention? Five minutes of fame? A reward maybe?”

He gestures at the still enthralled crowd around them. Merlin’s vision swims a little he’s so angry.

“You arrogant prat! I just told you someone sp-”

“What did you just call me?” 

It’s low and dangerous, but Merlin’s never quite grasped the particulars of self-preservation, so he remains unfazed.

“You heard me. And no, I don’t want a reward, a simple ‘thank you’ would’ve sufficed. But seeing as I’m not likely to get one from you, how about you take your goons and move along so things can calm down. You can talk to Gwaine about the security recording, though I doubt it’ll do you any good.”

Prince Arthur looks downright aghast and Merlin supposes he doesn’t get backtalk very often. If ever.

“That’s it?” he says, incredulous. “You attack me, the Crown Prince, with magic-”

“I didn’t attack you-”

“-burn a layer of my skin off-”

“Oh, come on-”

“-and now you think you can give me orders?”

Merlin glares. “I already told you everything I know and you’ve made it abundantly clear you don’t believe me. What else do you want?”

Arthur, who seems to have lost some of his petulant air, fixes him with a long, intent look.

“There really was someone there?”

Merlin throws his hands up.

“Yes!” Out of the corner of his eye he sees the Knights twitching nervously and quickly lowers them again. He frowns as a sudden thought hits him. “You didn’t drink any of that, did you?”

Arthur shakes his head, his eyes never leaving Merlin’s face as though he’s looking for something. “Didn’t get the chance.”

Merlin lets out a relieved breath. “Good.”

For a moment, it looks as though Prince Arthur is about to say something more, but then one of his Knights appears at his side.

“Sire, George has organised a fresh set of clothing.”

Arthur’s expression is a little pinched, and with his stained clothes and general disarray he’s a far cry from his usual polished self.

“I’ll be right there. Thank you, Leon. And tell Percy to stay behind and sort out the security footage with this...Gwaine. I want to know what the hell happened.” He turns back to Merlin, pointing an imperious finger at him. “We’ll have words later. I’m not done with you.”

Merlin scowls at him, though wisely remains silent this time, simply watches Arthur give a tight smile at the still gossip-hungry crowd, and lead the charge out onto the street. Merlin lets out a breath, absently rubbing at his sore wrist.

In all the hubbub, no one seems to remember Prince Arthur’s toppled cup, rolled out of sight beneath the counter. And so, no one pays attention when Merlin calls one of the cleaning droids and bends down to retrieve it. 

Looks like it’s time to pay Uncle Gaius a visit.

Sage & Hawthorn Apothecary is tucked away in a cramped, dingy basement shop in one of the roughest neighbourhoods in Camelot City. Gaius always claims that this is exactly the reason why it’s the safest place for him and, funnily enough, he’s right.

Before King Uther’s implementation of anti-magic legislation and the ruthless culling of the Magical Sciences, Gaius used to be an instructor on magical medicine at Camelot University. But once the so-called Purge swept across Albion, he was forced to resign his position.

Instead he’d opened this little shop and moved into the tiny bedsit immediately above it. Officially, Gaius sells herbal soothers, pain relief, and special bathing salts. Unofficially, he provides healing salves and potions, and seals knife wounds with his illegal dermal regenerator in the back room. With his readiness to be woken in the middle of the night for emergencies as well as his strict ‘ask no questions and I won’t need to lie’ policy, the whole district would most likely go to war for him.

Several familiar faces greet Merlin as he makes his way from the El train to Gaius’ street. He side-steps a brawl in front of one of the seedier pubs and briefly stops to chat with Aglain, who runs the district’s kindergarten. With all his dallying, dusk has just started to creep in when he opens the door to Uncle Gaius’ shop.

It smacks against the old-fashioned bell fixed to the frame, the obnoxious sound making Merlin wince just like every other time.

When Gaius doesn’t immediately appear, Merlin calls out a tentative, “Hello? Uncle Gaius?”

It wouldn’t be the first time Merlin interrupts a delicate experiment, or Gaius delivering a to-be-unregistered baby. But when Gaius does emerge, he’s blessedly blood-splatter free and spares Merlin a warm smile.

“Merlin, my boy,” he says as they meet in a brief hug. “It’s good to see you. Would you like some tea?”

Merlin follows Uncle Gaius into the broom cupboard-sized kitchenette.

“Thank you, yes. Tea would be great.”

Gaius starts pottering about, filling his old-fashioned kettle that Merlin has always found baffling. Even his own shithole of a flat has a tap for boiling water on demand.

“How’s your mother?” Gaius asks, unearthing a gigantic tub of home-made biscuits. “I haven’t heard from her in a while. And how’s the flat hunting going?”

Merlin grimaces. “So far, it’s going nowhere. All the places I’ve looked at are either worse than the one I have, or too expensive. And Mum is fine, just very busy. She says she’s thinking of expanding the bakery.”

They slide easily into chit-chat, updating each other on their lives. Gaius has some hair-raising stories about his latest charges, and Merlin shares some anecdotes about his most annoying customers and complains about his current workload at uni.

“Actually,” Merlin says, finally remembering the main reason for his visit. He bends down for his bag, tugging out the now flattened and plastic-sealed cup. “I need your help with something.”

Gaius raises his eyebrow of doom, already eyeing Merlin with suspicion.

“Don’t give me that look! It wasn’t my fault this time!” He pushes the cup towards Gaius, who grabs the spectacles hanging from his neck and slides them onto his nose to inspect it. “I think someone spiked one of our customers’ drinks. I was wondering if you could find out what it was.”

“I can certainly try.”

They move to Gaius’ workshop and Merlin watches as Gaius carefully pries the cup from its seal. It’s always interesting to see Gaius work. He’s taught Merlin some of the basics over the years, but this requires a far more experienced touch.

Even Kilgharrah has stopped all pretence of disinterest, the tips of his wings brushing Merlin’s cheek as he stretches and follows the proceedings with an attentive air.

Finally, after some muttering, sniffing and dribbling various drops of different coloured liquids onto the cup, Gaius straightens with a rather grave expression.

Dread pools in Merlin’s gut.

“I don’t like that look.”

Gaius’ expression, if possible, turns even graver. “I’m afraid this is a rather serious matter, my boy. Do you have any way to get in contact with the person who drank from this cup?”

Merlin fidgets. 

“Not…as such.” He brightens slightly, tentative hope blooming. “But he said he didn’t get a chance to drink from it before I knocked it out of his hands.”

Gaius frowns. “This is very potent magic, I’m afraid a single drop of moisture against his lips would’ve been enough.”

Any hope evaporates. “Potent magic?”

“All evidence suggests that the traces of the liquid in this cup are of the genus amorum.”

Merlin’s stomach drops. “A love potion? Fuck.”

Gaius doesn’t bother admonishing him about his language, mainly because they must be thinking the same thing. Love potions have their own section on the list of illegal substances - magical drugs such as Rainbow-Crack and Crystal-C have nothing on them. Mere possession of a love potion can get you in deep shit with the law.

“Can you identify it?”

Gaius shakes his head. “Given a few more days I’ll be able to narrow it down, however a more detailed diagnosis won’t be possible without a blood sample. You said you don’t have a way to get in touch with this person?”

Merlin shakes his head, dread unfurling further.

Gaius sighs. “Well, if things are as we fear we can only hope he’ll find his way back to you soon.”

Let it be said that fretfully reading up on love potions half the night, because there’s a very likely possibility that the Crown Prince of Albion has been turned into some kind of love slave, is not conducive when paired with the opening shift of the Grind.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Merlin says, a mere two hours before he knows he has to get ready for work.

He’s slumped over on the tiny, rickety fold-out table he uses as a desk, holo-windows surrounding him from all sides. Merlin sighs and banishes them with a swipe on the pad in front of him.

“Sometimes it is best to simply let things run their course,” Kilgharrah chimes in cryptically.

“What are you talking about?”

“None of us can choose our destiny, Merlin. And none of us can escape it.”

Merlin stares at him, tired and not a little annoyed.

“You do talk some shit sometimes, you know that?”

Which prompts a sulk that lasts all through the next morning and well into his shift. Merlin is way too tired and anxious to coax him out of it.

But despite Merlin’s churning stomach and the ever growing sense of dread, the day passes without any sign of Prince Arthur. The shop is busy, the Beltane/birthday festivities still in full swing. For once, Merlin is grateful, if only because it gives him an excuse to dodge Gwen and Gwaine’s sympathetic looks. He’d told them that he has an important essay due as an excuse for his tired absentmindedness.

Thankfully, Gwen and Gwaine know not to inquire more closely if they don’t want to be bored stiff on the subject of Magical Theory. If Merlin had had an actual choice, he’d be studying something more hands-on, but the Purge saw to it that there is only the one subject left. Heavily watered down and ripe with obscurity, not many students last past their first semester, but Merlin promised himself when he started out that he’d finish it if it kills him. 

Never in his wildest dreams had he thought he’d be applying his theoretical knowledge to a situation like this. But while hastily stuffing half a sandwich into his mouth during lunch break, Merlin revisits his calculations. The minimum for the enchantment to take effect is 24 hours, but from what Merlin’s read it can take as long as 48 to properly kick in. Add to that Prince Arthur’s obvious pig-headedness, it might yet be a day or two before he turns up. If the potion actually entered his system at all.

Still, if Arthur doesn’t show up himself, Merlin will have to find some way to get to him. He cannot, in good conscience, go on without checking on Arthur’s health. And he really doesn’t trust one of the royal physicians to recognise the signs of magical illness, especially not in its early onset.

Mostly, Merlin is busy feeling sorry for himself and cursing fate, which seems to always have it out for him.

On his way home, he finally caves and comms Freya, who he remembers wrote an extensive essay on mind altering enchantments only last semester. She’s helpful, if puzzled at Merlin’s sudden interest. 

She’s also a bloodhound, which is why she senses something’s going on even before Merlin can start doing his dance of evasion.

“Just spit it out already!” Freya laughs. “I promise I won’t turn you in if you’re looking into making yourself a sex slave- 

Merlin almost chokes on his own spit. “Freya!”

“-though I will give you a very stern talking to. That’s just dark, Merlin, and I know for a fact you don’t need it.”

Rolling his eyes, Merlin weaves his way in-between two broken bins to take a well-known shortcut. A cat with luminous violet eyes slinks from the shadows to greet him. He pauses to stroke it, noting that from the way his magic reacts that it’s real, if genetically enhanced, rather than a zoondroid.

To Freya, he says, “Stop making me sound like a slag!”

Freya cackles some more. “If it walks like a duck…”

“Piss off, you know I don’t do it on purpose.”

The cat gives him a hopeful look, but Merlin shrugs helplessly. He has nothing he could give her.

“Obviously,” Freya says smugly on the other end. “Not everyone can have my level of mastery.”

Merlin straightens. For a moment, he thinks the cat will follow him, but then the deafening roar of an illegally modified hover-bike makes her duck and fold back her ears, before scampering off.

“I’m never letting you hang out with Gwaine again,” Merlin says once the racket has passed, on his way once more. “It was the biggest mistake of my life, introducing you two. You’re the ones who always get me drunk and encourage my bad life choices.”

“You mean horny life choices.”

Merlin scowls. “It’s not like I do it all the time. And I’ve told you, I don’t actually like casual sex, it’s just so…”

He waves vaguely, thinking of shadowy club corners, cramped bathroom stalls, and dirty alleyways.

“Casual?” Freya supplies helpfully. “It’s alright, you know. Prince Charming will come soon enough, you’re allowed to live a little until then.”

Merlin almost gives himself an aneurism when at the mention of ‘Prince’ his brain immediately supplies an image of Prince Prat, dishevelled and soaked in coffee. He pushes it violently aside.

“I live just fine without getting hand jobs and the odd blowie from strangers in clubs.” 

Merlin concedes that the first few times had been fun; new city, new opportunities. It’d just all been so overwhelming - so many places to go, so many people to meet and have fun with. After being stuck in Ealdor for so long, the whole thing had been a revelation. 

The most exciting thing he and Will got up to growing up was alternately getting pissed in the two local pubs or, if they were lucky, bagging a ride with one of the locals to go to a ‘club’ in the next town over. Said club being an abandoned droid-parts factory with a leaky roof and a dodgy light and sound system pieced together from scrap materials left behind.

Merlin isn’t sure he’s capable of enough nostalgic energy to master any fondness at the memory of passing out drunk in weird places and freezing his bollocks off because there was no way of getting home until noon the next day.

“So,” he says, dragging his thoughts back from memory lane. “Are you ready to move on from your slag ranking and actually help me out here?”

“Of course,” Freya says cheerily. “So tell me, who is it you’re trying to enslave?”

Merlin groans.

Two days later find Merlin stumbling out of the Grind just after one in the morning; the end of his closing shift. Tapping his bracelet to the scanner by the door, he waits for the system to sign him out and activate the alarm. Once the computerised voice confirms everything’s in order, Merlin steps away, relieved to finally be done for the day.

With the festivities gearing up for a final hooray this weekend, the shop had once again been packed and the patrons rowdier than usual. Which in turn means that closing up had taken ages, the last few customers lingering for as long as they possibly could. They’d probably still be there, if Merlin hadn’t politely told them to fuck off so he could take their cups and set the till to finalise the takings of the day, while the cleaning droids bustled around the finally abandoned table.

Looking at the unusually busy streets, Merlin weighs waiting half an eternity for the El train against walking home. He absently rubs at his shackled wrist, feeling the familiar prick of tiny, rounded teeth clamped around him like a nasty little animal. It’s been his jailer for as long as he can remember, only waiting for Merlin to misstep so it can send electromagnetic pulses into his skin, latching on and leashing his magic to the bracelet’s specifications.

Decision made, Merlin sets off on foot, turning away from the main road to avoid the crowds. It’s darker back here and is getting progressively more so as Merlin moves further away from the main hover-tracks and flashier billboards. Even so, he’s not particularly worried. Due to his relation to Gaius, the troublemakers in the area know to steer clear of him if they don’t want to incite the local gang’s wrath.

Which is why Merlin probably ends up paying a little less attention than he should. He most definitely doesn’t expect the hand that shoots out of the dark and yanks him into an alley.

Merlin’s magic flares, bright and instinctive, his eyes no doubt like two beacons in the night. The other person’s grip tightens.

“Don’t!” The voice is quiet, but strong; a command issued by someone who’s used to being obeyed implicitly. “Merlin, it’s me.”

Merlin’s magic relaxes, tension bleeding from his shoulders as he exhales.

“Do you have a death wish, Your Highness?” Merlin snaps. “Jumping me like that, you almost gave me a bloody heart attack! I could’ve seriously hurt you!”

“It’s a good thing it was just me,” Arthur says irritably. “You clearly had your head in the clouds.”

“And you couldn’t have just called my name, or something?”

“I did,” Arthur says between gritted teeth. “But I’m trying not to draw attention, if you hadn’t noticed, so I was hardly going to shout it across the rooftops.”

“Oh.” Merlin subsides, feeling suddenly sheepish at his inattention.

He also realises that Arthur still has a hold of his wrist. His hand is strong, but there’s a slight tremor there, and his skin is hot and a little clammy. There’s something almost…desperate about the way he’s holding onto Merlin.

It triggers something inside him, an urge to look after Arthur and protect him. It’s extremely irritating.

“You’re not terribly surprised to see me,” Arthur says quietly.

Magic squirming restlessly within his chest, Merlin sternly tells it to settle down. 

He runs another assessing gaze over Arthur. “Let’s just say I had an inkling.” 

Gently, carefully, he releases the tiniest of tendrils to brush against Arthur, sweeping him for signs of a magical influence. Almost immediately, the tendril snags on something strange and syrupy, a cloying presence that most definitely shouldn’t be there.

Merlin shudders. “How long have you been a stubborn clotpole and trying to ignore it? Two days? Three?”

It’s a testament to how rattled the Prince must be to not immediately call Merlin out on his disrespectful address.

“Three but-” Arthur shivers suddenly. “What are you doing?”

Merlin starts, eyes widening when he realises that his magic had somehow curled its way around Arthur, cradling him and all but purring in pleasure.

“You can feel that?” Merlin asks, equal parts awed and mortified.

He pokes at Arthur gently with the rebellious tendril. Arthur jerks.

“Of course I can feel- Will you stop that!”

“Sorry!” Merlin yanks his magic back, silently cursing it as it fights him every step of the way. “I’m sorry, you weren’t supposed to notice that.”

Arthur’s glare is intense enough to penetrate the darkness. 

“Oh, of course, as long as I don’t know about it, please feel free to poke at my insides.”

“That’s not-” Merlin huffs. “Look, I was just…confirming a theory.”

“And what theory might that be?”

“That the person you thought I’d made up the other day, did spike your coffee.” The I told you so remains unsaid, but the sentiment stands. “I took the cup to my uncle - he’s a chemist - to run some tests. He found traces of a love potion in your coffee.”

“A love potion?” Arthur’s voice loses some of its tight control. “But that makes no sense! Why would anyone want me to fall in love with-”

Arthur breaks off abruptly.

“With?”

Arthur waves him off jerkily. “Nevermind, just- How do we get rid of it?”

“Depends on the enchantment. There’s currently 376 listed variants of mind altering enchantments that cause the illusion of love, 312 of those are potions.”

Arthur rubs the bridge of his nose, then says eloquently, “Fuck.”

“Pretty much.” Merlin leans back against the cool wall at his back. “And not the good kind, either.”

“What do we do now?”

Merlin bites back an instinctive retort on Arthur’s sudden eagerness to believe him and follow his lead.

“I can take you to my uncle, but you’ll have to promise me something first.”

“What is it.”

“Well, you see…my uncle’s establishment-” Merlin fidgets, searching for words. “It might, maybe, not always be 100% by the book?”

“Are you saying your uncle is a criminal?”

“No! I mean, maybe a little - but he’s not hurting anyone, I promise! You just- You’ll have to trust me, yeah? And I need your word you won’t cause trouble for him.”

Even in the murkiness of the alley Merlin sees Arthur’s eyes narrow.

“This is to do with magic, isn’t it.”

Merlin hesitates, then nods. He feels sick, having laid himself - and most of all Gaius - so bare. He can only hope that Arthur recognises the risk he’s taking. Hopes the fact that he’s here at all instead of joining his father in a witch hunt means that he’s willing to give Merlin a chance, if nothing else.

“Alright,” Arthur says finally. “You have my word.”

Merlin refuses to bring along Arthur’s car. No matter what sort of pretentious model he drives, it wouldn’t survive five minutes in Gaius’ neighbourhood.

Not wanting to alarm Gaius, Merlin doesn’t press the emergency bell. Instead, he taps his bracelet to the scanner at the door and waits until it recognises him and gives them access. He leaves Arthur in the main room while he goes up the dark, narrow stairs to rouse Gaius.

Years of practice have Gaius up and alert within minutes, shrugging into a tatty robe and following Merlin downstairs. They find Arthur curiously poking at some crystals, snatching his hand back when he notices their presence.

Gaius stares and Merlin belatedly realises he probably should’ve told him who their guest actually is.

“Uhm, Arthur, this is my uncle,” Merlin says, eyes flickering between them. “Gaius, this is-”

“Yes, my boy,” Gaius says a little faintly. “I think I can see who it is. Good evening, Your Highness.”

“Good evening. I’m sorry for barging in on you at such an hour, but Merlin insisted you wouldn’t mind.”

Gaius waves him off. “Not at all. Why don’t you come this way, sit down. Would you like some tea?”

To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur accepts the offer and Gaius parks them both in the tiny kitchenette, the wonky table feeling suddenly a whole lot smaller as they both squeeze in between it and the wall.

In the warm, homely glow, Arthur’s hair looks burnished, almost lit by an inner fire. In contrast, his face is drawn and wan, his lips chapped. And there’s something about his eyes-

Arthur raises his eyebrows at him and Merlin realises he’s been staring. He looks away hastily, biting his lip.

“Merlin has told me of your predicament, Sire.” Gaius sets down three steaming cups, then sits down across from them. “Has he told you about our findings?”

“He said something about a love potion.”

Gaius nods. “With your permission, I shall conduct a small examination and then take a blood sample. It would be helpful if you could detail your symptoms, Your Highness.”

Arthur glances at Merlin, which Merlin finds a little odd. Maybe he’d prefer speaking privately with Gaius? But just as he’s about to offer to leave, Arthur starts talking.

“I’ve been feeling quite sick and haven’t had much of an appetite. And there’s been some chills, especially at night. At first I thought it was the flu, but then I noticed some…cravings.”

Merlin had thought that watching Prince Arthur squirm would fill him with a sort of gleeful satisfaction, but seeing Arthur now, sick and faintly flushed with embarrassment, only makes Merlin want to comfort him.

“Ah, yes.” Gaius is nodding. “And these…cravings, they were directed towards a specific person?”

Inexplicably, Arthur glances at Merlin again, before turning back to Gaius and giving a nod of his own.

“Yes.”

“I see.”

Merlin isn’t quite sure what it is that Gaius sees, but he must be seeing enough to declare the interview done for now, because he gets the kind of decisive air Merlin knows so well.

Picking up his as of yet untouched tea, Merlin follows them into Gaius’ workroom.

He watches Gaius get out a haemoscope, Arthur obediently holding out his hand for his finger to be pricked. Like all of Gaius’ implements, the haemoscope is old and a little sluggish. Gaius waits patiently for it to beep, then starts reading the results off the small display along the side.

Muttering to himself, Gaius retreats to his small holo-station in the corner. Taking pity, Merlin joins Arthur at the table and offers him his own tea. To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur accepts it and takes a deep pull.

“So, who is it?”

Arthur chokes.

“What?”

Merlin pats him on the back, slightly alarmed to feel Arthur trembling beneath his touch.

“The focus of the enchantment, who is it?”

Merlin isn’t sure if the redness in Arthur’s cheeks is a blush, or the result of the coughing fit.

“It’s-”

“Ah,” Gaius says from across the room, cutting their interaction short. Merlin doesn’t like the sound of it. “I believe we can narrow it down to about 10 options.”

“I can sense a but,” Merlin mutters gloomily.

“But,” Gaius says and Merlin sighs. “This particular enchantment is rather unstable, not to mention dangerous.”

Tired of Gaius’ prevarications, Merlin crosses to the holo-station to read the results for himself. His stomach plummets.

“Fuck.”

“What,” Arthur says, coming to join the party, but having no way to interpret the results. “What is it?”

“You see this here?” Merlin points at the formular detailing the basis of the spell. “That makes it a 3-point spell.”

“In English,” Arthur snaps impatiently.

Merlin huffs, then casts about for an errant stylus. He swipes the damning results to the side and calls up a blank holo-window.

“Most spells have two points-” Merlin draws a line, then points at one end. “The agent - that’s the caster-” He draws a messy splotch on one end, then does the same to the opposite and taps it for emphasis. “And a receptor - that’s the people or things that the spell is aimed at. There’s some spells, though, that have three points-” Merlin draws a third line sprouting from the middle of the first, this one ending in the same blob as the others. He labels each one for good measure and indicates the final one. “The stabiliser. The name’s rather misleading, though, because stabilisers are only created when the agent excludes themself from a spell and needs something to keep the balance in their stead. In short, it’s really bloody dodgy and unpredictable.”

“Which means?”

Merlin puts the stylus down. 

“Which means that breaking it becomes a whole lot harder because of the high risk of fucking it up and making it worse. Though the good news is that once you figure out who the stabiliser is, chances are you can mostly keep the symptoms manageable.” Merlin gives Arthur an expectant look. “So, who is it?”

But Arthur seems to have developed a sudden fascination with Gaius’ shelving system. It’s only when Merlin turns his gaze to Gaius and receives a painfully sympathetic look that the penny drops.

“Oh, fuck.” Merlin feels the blood drain from his face, his knees weak enough that he has to sink down on Gaius’ uncomfortable desk chair. “It’s me, isn’t it.”

“Yes,” Arthur finally says, still not quite looking at him. He directs his next question to Gaius. “What I don’t understand is why? Why him?”

Gaius rubs at his spectacles with the corner of his robe. “It is not uncommon for the receptor to imprint on the first person they see after the spell takes hold. In this case, I strongly suspect it was a combination of line of sight and the enchantment latching onto the person with the strongest magical ability.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says slowly, dubious. “A powerful sorcerer.”

Merlin glares, still reeling. “I know I might not look like much to you, Your Highness, but you can check my level yourself if you don’t believe me. It’s all on file, after all.”

Arthur at least has the decency to look contrite, almost sheepish. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It doesn’t matter.” And it really doesn’t. What does Merlin care what Prince Prat thinks of him. “At least we know that the potion hasn’t completely addled your brain.”

Such as it is, Merlin thinks savagely.

“You said the stabiliser can keep the symptoms under control,” Arthur says. “How does that work, exactly?”

Gaius sighs and follows Merlin’s example, sinking down on the closest chair.

“With this sort of enchantment, proximity is essential; so is regular physical contact. That way, the parameters of the spell will be upheld and it won’t try as hard to force the intended outcome. It’s not a guarantee, however. For all we know, this particular spell was set to escalate with time, which means the mere presence of the stabiliser might prove insufficient in the long run.”

“So you’re saying it could be fatal?” Arthur asks, voice surprisingly steady.

“It is unlikely, but the possibility exists, yes.”

A laden silence descends on them. Merlin eyes Arthur carefully, trying to imagine what he must be feeling right now. But apart from the tight line of his jaw and a slightly wild look in his eyes, Arthur remains almost eerily composed.

“There’s clearly nothing for it,” Arthur says in that familiar, all-too-arrogant way he has. He fixes Merlin with a determined stare. “You’ll have to move into the Palace.”

Merlin’s jaw drops. “What?”

“You heard what your uncle said - proximity and… physical contact.” There’s a sudden, faint blush on Arthur’s otherwise still too-pale face. He makes up for it by sounding even more imperious as he goes on. “It’s a matter of my health and sanity, Merlin, maybe even my life! Clearly, that leaves us with no other choice.”

“I can’t just drop everything and move in with you! I have a job, my studies-” Merlin cuts himself off, waving his arms a little for the simple fact that he needs some way to express his incredulity. “And what are you going to tell people? The King?”

Arthur doesn’t look happy at the mention of his father. “We’ll have to make an announcement, make it official-”

“Official?” Merlin all but squeaks, but Arthur ignores him.

“It’s probably best if you take time off work for the foreseeable future. If you need a letter for your employer-”

“Did you not hear what I just said? I’m not moving into the Palace as your live-in fake boyfriend!”

The final part is delivered almost in a shout, though Merlin can’t decide if it’s anger or desperation. Either way, Arthur, the golden prick, looks utterly unfazed.

“I could make it a royal order.”

Okay, it’s definitely anger. “You entitled little-”

Gaius chooses that moment to hastily step in.

“Now, now, there’s no need for that.” He gives Merlin a stern look. “Merlin, I believe our choices here are limited. I think it’s best if you stay with Prince Arthur for the time being. I will also need you to monitor his symptoms while we keep looking for a way to break the enchantment.” He turns to Arthur. “Sire, I will need you to keep doing regular blood tests and forward the results to me. If you could both step over here for a moment, I’ll explain the details.”

Merlin stares them both down mutinously. For a moment he wishes he could be the type of person who’d simply stalk off and wash his hands off the entire thing. Unfortunately, he’s very much not that person.

With a long sigh and a comfortingly large amount of self-pity, Merlin joins Gaius and Prince Arthur at the workstation, resigned to his fate.

Arthur’s car is only slightly less obnoxious than Merlin expected. It also somehow looks exactly like something a posh person trying to blend in would pick.

At Arthur’s proximity, the car lights up, the doors sliding noiselessly upwards. Merlin grimaces and feels the odd urge to take off his shoes before sliding into the passenger seat, lest his worn canvas high-tops smudge dirt onto the pristine interior.

Considering how squeaky clean everything in here is, Merlin almost expects it to smell of antiseptic. Instead, there’s a note of pine - which somehow manages to be even more obnoxious - along with the faint traces of Arthur’s surprisingly understated cologne. Merlin catches himself focusing on it, seeking it out and wanting to follow it to its source.

He hastily reaches for the window, cracking it open just as the car rises and Arthur steers it onto the mostly deserted hover-track.

It’s been quite some time since Merlin was in a car. None of his friends can afford one and the price for a cab is extortionate. Plus, with the El train and two healthy feet, Merlin really doesn’t have much need for anything else.

This though, Merlin thinks as he takes in the view of the glittering capitol below them, is undeniably amazing. He’s used to seeing the city from the windows of the El train, but after years of almost daily rides along the same route, Merlin is pretty sure he can draw it blindfolded and hung upside down.

The hover-tracks, on the other hand, run along unfamiliar paths and most of them higher than the El train. After first moving to Camelot City, it had taken Merlin weeks to realise that the hover-tracks are stacked according to speed. When he’d first visited the capitol as a child, equal parts awed and terrified as he clung to his mum’s hand, he’d thought the high-speed tracks, so far above the ground, were shooting stars.

He still remembers his mum’s delighted laughter at his confession, but the utter lack of guile and childish wonder at a new world are now lost to him forever.

“So, that dragon of yours,” Arthur says suddenly, tearing Merlin from his thoughts. “What is it, exactly? I know it’s not a holo. Is it, like, a zoondroid?”

Kilgharrah snorts. “I am not a toy, young Pendragon.”

Merlin stares at him incredulously, the usual lie dying on his tongue. Kilgharrah never speaks to anyone but Merlin. Never. Not even his mum, or Will, who’d been his friend since both of them were still in nappies.

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “He definitely has your lack of courtesy.”

Merlin scowls. “I’m plenty courteous, I just make an exception for prats.”

“You really should learn to address me properly. Especially now that you’re going to be my boyfriend.” The curl of Arthur’s mouth manages to be both smug and soft and Merlin needs to look away or risk having to label the strange thing fighting to unfurl in his chest. A little like magic, only far more dangerous. Arthur goes on, oblivious. “You also didn’t answer my question. About the dragon.”

Merlin licks his lips and keeps his eyes on the hover-track in front of them. “His name is Kilgharrah and he’s, well, alive? Kind of? It’s complicated.”

“So you’re saying it’s magic.”

There’s a strange note to Arthur’s voice every time he says the word. A type of intrigue that only springs from things long forbidden, but guiltily desired all the same.

“Yes,” Merlin says.

Arthur glances at him when he doesn’t elaborate. 

“Well? Tell me about it. How does it work?”

“You really want to know?” 

Merlin says it to test the waters and Arthur doesn’t disappoint, his voice brusk but no less genuine for it.

“I’m asking, aren’t I?”

Merlin is torn between smiling and rolling his eyes.

“It’s an old spell, like, really old, first devised by a healer in the early middle ages. She wanted to create something to help her focus her magic. At first she just made some bright, shapeless blobs, but she kept at it until she managed something more sophisticated. After her, a bunch of other sorcerers took the base of her spell and developed it further. It was quite common practice for a while.”

Arthur frowns. “So why aren’t more MUs running around with miniature animals?”

Kilgharrah makes a huffing noise at being referred to as an animal, but Merlin ignores him.

“It’s a hard spell to master and it requires a lot of energy. There’s really no point teaching it anymore because the bracelets would interfere before the spell could be realised.”

He’d hoped not to sound as bitter as he feels, but by the pinched look on Arthur’s face he doesn’t think he succeeded.

Arthur nods in Kilgharrah’s direction. “How come he’s here, then?”

Merlin’s fingers curl towards his thighs, digging into his dark jeans. He wishes there was a way for him to derail the conversation.

“I inherited him.” Merlin swallows, then lets the words spill out in a rush, not giving himself time to dwell on them. “He was my father’s. I never knew him, he died before I was born. Shot dead by the King’s guard.”

Arthur is quiet for a long moment, his voice soft when he finally asks, “Why?”

Merlin’s fingers curl tighter, the pressure of it pinching painfully at his skin. 

“They thought he was a rebel.”

Merlin feels Arthur’s gaze again, but doesn’t turn to look at him.

“And, was he?”

Merlin fights down something hot and angry, his magic churning as he blinks away resentful tears.

“Would it make it okay if he was?”

“No,” Arthur says and sounds as though he means it. “No, of course not.”

Suffocating silence stretches between them and Merlin unclenches one of his hands long enough to open the window a little further. The sting of the evening air helps clear his head, chasing away stray tears before they have a chance to fall.

When he turns back, his magic has settled and breathing comes a little easier.

“He wasn’t,” Merlin says eventually, suddenly unable to leave it unsaid. “A rebel, I mean.”

Arthur’s gaze on him is heavy, almost as tangible as a physical touch. And in that moment, Merlin isn’t sure which he prefers. He turns his head back towards the window and the soothing, uncomplicated feeling of the air brushing back his hair with invisible fingers.

And then Arthur does touch him, a brief, delicate thing; rough fingertips tentatively grazing his arm.

“I’m sorry.”

Merlin doesn’t reply, but covers the still tingling spot on his arm with his palm, trapping the sensation against his skin.

Merlin’s history teacher in secondary school had been a staunch royalist with an almost unhealthy obsession. This resulted in long hours of listening to all sorts of riveting things, from famous battles to types of chamberpots used over the years.

Which is also why Merlin is rather more informed than he’d ever wanted to be in regards to the Royal Palace. Back then he had to write dozens of tedious essays of spot-the-difference between scans of ancient drawings and old pictures, and more recent memographs.

The sturdy stone walls had lasted for centuries before some past Pendragon had decided that the old look had to go and had either torn down or covered up the original structure. Unbeknownst to them, this had started a trend, making it their descendants’ life mission to re-model or add at least one major feature to the Palace each generation.

Never one to be outmatched, King Uther had taken the challenge head-on and all but torn the Palace apart in his frenzied mission to ‘return it to former glory’. And whoever he’d hired to design it had, admittedly, been a genius, knowing exactly how to maximise effect, having dug out parts of the original, ancient stone structure, then adding a flair of their own. The result being an almost picture book fairytale castle with turrets and battlements.

Still, no matter the amount of scans, memographs and holo-broadcasts, this is the first time he’s ever seen it up close and Merlin refuses to be awed by it. He looks at the golden holo-dragon monstrosity above them, its lazily beating wings almost brushing the turrets, the occasional flicker in the image reflected dully against the stone-clad facade.

All Merlin can see is a blatant reminder of Uther Pendragon’s shameless hubris, claiming a symbol that should never have belonged to someone like him.

“You know,” Arthur says conversationally as they make their way round the back. “Some people would be honoured to be invited to the Royal Palace.”

Yeah, people like Mr Davies, Merlin thinks bitterly.

Maybe he should look up his old history teacher, send him a selfie from inside the Palace, and make him burst with envy in retaliation for years of torture. 

“Clearly, I’m not some people,” he says shortly.

He knows Arthur is probably just attempting to lighten the pensive mood from the car, but Merlin is tired and emotionally wrung out. Not to mention being dragged to live under the roof of the man responsible for making Merlin feel like half a person for all his life. Tagged and registered like cattle.

Arthur doesn’t try to speak to him again and Merlin tells himself that he’s thankful for it.

They’re silent as Arthur leads him past some artful potted shrubbery and tall, gleaming poles of holographic banners. Merlin is just relieved he’s not being marched up the blood red carpet moulded to the grand stairs, straight up to the massive front doors.

“This way,” Arthur says, and it takes Merlin a moment to spot the discreet servants’ entrance.

He watches Arthur first scan his ID-bracelet, then bend to the retina-scanner when prompted by the AI in charge of the security system. Finally, the lock releases and the door slides open. 

And whatever Merlin expected to see beyond it, this isn’t it. Then again, Merlin had never had much reason to imagine what modern servant passages might look like. The ones he’d seen memographs of had all been rather dull and dreary. The long corridor stretching before them is neither of those things.

Tasteful lighting has been installed along the ceiling, illuminating the surprisingly sleek walls and floor. There’s none of that red carpet nonsense here, instead they’re walking on elegant, non-slip tiles which carry faint markings. It takes Merlin a moment to realise that their function is to divide the floor into lanes, likely in order to keep servants from bumping into each other when in a hurry. Every few feet or so Merlin spots a discreet console, some of them displaying to-do lists or various schedules of staff and royal members alike.

“This looks…efficient.”

Arthur looks at him and Merlin never knew that a raise of eyebrows could spell out you’re an idiot quite this explicitly. He hopes his own glower is answer enough. 

At this time of night, the corridor is all but deserted, but the few servants they encounter immediately fall into bows and curtsies. If they find their presence odd they don’t show it. Then again, Merlin is well aware of the rigorous training aspiring palace staff goes through, having to pass gruelling entrance exams and visit a special academy to even be allowed to so much as clean a bog in one of the royal family’s homes. 

They take two different ascenders and finally exit the servants’ corridors through a nondescript door which, when Merlin looks over his shoulder, all but melts away into invisibility from the other side.  

Huge bay windows with stained glass mosaics are scattered liberally on the outside facing wall. Unlike the no-nonsense tiles from before, here the stupid rugs have returned with a vengeance, though their colour is closer to maroon than red, the borders stitched in gold. From underneath, the rich colour of polished hardwood peeks through and Merlin almost bends down to brush his fingers over it, uncertain when he’s last touched wood that wasn’t part of a living tree. Not even Gaius’ vintage furniture is old enough to be made out of wood. If it were, they would’ve sold it long ago and made a fortune.

“It’s...big,” Merlin says stupidly, craning his neck to take in vaulted ceilings and intricate carvings.

Where the servants’ corridors had been sleek, modern and understated, this hallway looks like something straight out of a novel. The walls match the facade of the castle, clad in smooth stone, interrupted only by huge, intricate tapestries, some of which show historical feats by long-dead Pendragons done in a sort of medieval pastiche. 

“What, did the outside not give it away?” Arthur mocks.

Merlin intends to whip his head around and glare at him, but of course that only results in him tripping over his own feet. He’s caught by Arthur’s strong arm around his waist, fingers hot as they slot against his ribs, his body even hotter where it presses against Merlin’s side.

“You really are hopeless,” Arthur murmurs.

It should be an insult, but instead the words are just this side of breathless, laced with an aching kind of tenderness so intimate that Merlin feels heat blooming in his chest and slowly clawing up his neck to his face.

Arthur’s grip shifts, his arms settling more firmly around him, cradling him almost protectively. The movement only brings them closer together, their uneven breaths mingling in the small space between their lips. Merlin fights the urge to look at Arthur’s mouth.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he reaches up to lay a hand against the side of Arthur’s neck. Arthur shivers, the erratic beat of his pulse frantic against Merlin’s palm.

Frowning, Merlin peers into Arthur’s eyes, silently listing symptoms as he studies the slightly glassy sheen. Fevers are common enough, the body fighting off the foreign invasion the only way it knows how, but disconcerting all the same.

“We should check your temperature. You’re burning up,” Merlin says softly.

Arthur’s expression shutters abruptly. He lets go of Merlin and steps away, leaving him chilled and oddly bereft.

“I’m fine,” Arthur says curtly, turning away. “Now, come along. I’d like to get to sleep before the sun rises.”

Merlin is silent as he follows Arthur’s broad back past an assortment of ridiculous vases and statues. Both sport gilded likenesses of mythical creatures locked in combat with faceless heroes.

After turning a corner with an honest-to-gods suit of armour, Arthur finally stops in front of a decorated door. 

“This is one of my personal guest rooms.” Arthur gestures vaguely. “My private quarters are just there.”

He wakes the scanner with his bracelet, then gestures for Merlin to register his own. Once done, the door slides open.

“Won’t the servants wonder why we’re sleeping in separate rooms?” Merlin asks, peering into the gigantic room.

It looks much like the rest of the castle, earthy tones with a lot of gold and modern appliances cleverly disguised to blend in.

“They’re not going to say anything,” Arthur says, drawing Merlin’s gaze back to him. “You should find everything you need inside. Elena and Mithian usually leave some of their stuff behind, but they won’t mind you using it.”

It takes a moment for Merlin to realise that by ‘Elena and Mithian’, Arthur means the Duchesses of Gawant and Nemeth.

“Uhm, thanks.”

They linger awkwardly in the door for several heartbeats and Merlin finds himself once more staring into Arthur’s eyes. Merlin tells himself he’s merely doing it to monitor Arthur’s symptoms and give a report to Gaius.

But there’s no point denying that instead of a clinical examination, he gets a little lost trying to pin down the shade of blue. Something dark and strangely unfathomable.

Arthur clears his throat and looks away. Merlin blinks, feeling caught.

“Well, good night, then,” he says quickly, inching into the room, longing for escape.

Arthur glances at him, then away.

“Good night,” Arthur says quietly.

He doesn’t linger and Merlin doesn’t watch him go. Not at all.

Merlin gets ready for bed on auto-pilot, experiencing only brief flashes of awareness. Such as the fact that the bathroom alone could fit Merlin’s entire flat, or that the shower controls look like antique manual tabs. But the water pressure is fucking ace and the stall so big that half a football team could fit into it. Which means this is the first shower in as long as Merlin can remember where he doesn’t have to clamp his elbows close to his body to avoid bruising them while he shampoos his hair.

Too tired to even think, Merlin throws a dry towel on one of the pillows and collapses naked into the clean sheets with still damp hair.

Merlin wakes to the sound of someone moving around in the other room. Had he slept over at Gaius’? But no, his back isn’t killing the way it would after a night on the horrid pull-out in Gaius’ workroom. One of his other friends then? Burglars?

Alarmed, Merlin’s eyes snap open, the unwelcome rush of adrenalin yanking him into alertness and into a sitting position. At the sight of the lavish room, stained-glass windows, and the intricately woven iron bed frame, the memory comes back to him in a rush. The Palace. Of course.

Which also explains why Merlin can see a prim, neutral faced woman in the palace’s servant garb efficiently transferring a generous breakfast from a tray to the coffee table in the other room. The sight is blocked a moment later by another prim person, this one a young man who can’t be much older than Merlin.

He’s not dressed like a servant, but has the unmistakable air of someone Very Busy.

Remembering his nakedness, Merlin yanks the covers up over his chest, wondering how much of an eyeful the two got when they first entered the room. It had never occurred to Merlin that anyone would simply slip in unannounced. He’d have to keep in mind to always close the bedroom door from now on.

“Good morning, Mr Emrys.” The man’s voice is coolly polite, his accent as crisp as his suit. “I hope your first night here was satisfactory. I apologise for having to impose, but we have rather a full schedule and time is of the essence.”

“Uhm, okay?” Merlin says eloquently, brain struggling to fight off the haze of sleep. “Sorry, but - who are you?”

“George Harper.” He sounds vaguely put-upon, as though such a thing should’ve been obvious. “Prince Arthur’s PA. His Highness sends his apologies that he cannot be here himself. Now, if you have no objections, I will walk you through today’s schedule while you have your breakfast.”

Merlin wonders briefly what would happen if he did object and simply went back to sleep.

“Can I at least get dressed first?”

George bows stiffly and Merlin has the strange urge to throw a pillow at him.

“Of course, Mr Emrys.”

Merlin grimaces. “My name is Merlin.”

George looks downright scandalised, but professionalism and the no doubt giant stick up his arse seem to prevent him from protesting.

“As you wish…Merlin,” he says sourly, then retreats to allow the bedroom door to slide shut.

Dressed in yesterday’s clothes and pining for the most comfortable bed he’s ever slept in, Merlin emerges into the main room. Marginally more awake than last night, he lets his eyes wander, feeling a little as though he’s invaded an exhibition at the museum and decided to live there.

The maid has disappeared, but George is waiting by the laden down coffee table, ramrod straight and cradling his pad like a lover.

“So where’s Arthur, then?” Merlin asks as he takes a seat on the plush couch.

“His Highness is in a meeting with His Majesty the King to inform him of…current developments.”

Merlin winces in sympathy. He really doesn’t envy Arthur the task; gods only know what tale Arthur has spun to explain why his hitherto secret boyfriend is suddenly living at the Palace. At best, it’ll come across as blind infatuation, at worst, it will paint Merlin as a gold digging MU. Neither prospect is particularly encouraging.

“I was instructed to give you a short tour of the premises, then I will accompany you to a meeting with King Uther’s personal assistant and the royal publicist, where we shall discuss how best to proceed.” 

Merlin only barely suppresses an eyeroll. George makes it sound as though they’re going to war. 

“In the afternoon,” George continues primly. “Two members of the Prince’s guard will take you to retrieve your belongings and pick up any other things you deem necessary for your stay.” He swipes at the pad in his hands. “I will also need you to sign this.”

In the absence of his own pad, George reluctantly hands over his own. Merlin wonders if he’s given it a name and sleeps with it at night.

He glances over the document open on the screen.

“An NDA?”

“It’s standard procedure for any guests being admitted into the royal family’s private rooms,” George says as though such a thing is obvious. And maybe it is, but it honestly never even crossed Merlin’s mind. “It’s likely that Miss Moore will ask you to sign a more in-depth contract.”

Merlin wonders why the fuck he has to sign this thing at all if they’re going to make him sign something more detailed anyway. Do they expect him to start distributing royal secrets between now and the meeting? For him to sneak into Arthur’s room so he can take memographs of him in the shower and spread them all over instasplash?

He wonders if Arthur’s shower is even more spacious than the one in the guest en suite. Would the transparent aluminium of the stall be frosted, or would the steam be the only thing preventing a clear view? Or maybe Arthur prefers baths to showers.

Merlin can just picture him, lounging in some claw-footed monstrosity, his head pillowed on the rim of the tub. In his mind’s eye, Merlin traces a path from his strong jaw, over the line of his neck, down to his gleaming chest. There’d be a soft wash cloth, folded and ready, and Merlin would pick it up and dip it into the hot water, then retrace the route his eyes had taken with his hand.

Arthur would look at him, eyes both dark and fever bright the way he’d looked at him last night. He’d take Merlin’s hand and reverse the path once more, pushing it down, down beneath the water and-

The utter lack of sound and the air of expectancy hanging around them snaps Merlin out of his ill-advised daydream. He blinks at George.

“Sorry, what?”

George looks incredibly unimpressed.

“I was merely stressing the importance of familiarising yourself with His Royal Highness’ schedule.” He enunciates every word carefully, as if dealing with an inattentive child. “If you would allow me access to your calendar, I will sync Prince Arthur’s schedule to yours and organise it into a joint timetable.”

Merlin can think of little else he’d rather do than give George some form of control over how he spends his time. He also knows that he has little choice in the matter. Sighing, he pulls out his comm and accepts George’s request for a joint account.

Almost instantly, Arthur’s obligations bleed over the lines, barely able to fit. Merlin’s eyes widen as he scans tasks including anything from lunch dates with aristocrats to attending Council meetings. Also-

“Training?” Merlin reads out dubiously. “Training for what?”

“Prince Arthur,” George says importantly. “Is an international melee champion, trained in many different forms of combat, including ranged weapons.”

“Of course he is,” Merlin mutters bitterly.

He’d seen memographs of Arthur wearing or holding a ceremonial sword, of course. He’d even seen the odd headline of Arthur winning such and such tournament, but for some reason that had never translated into the Crown Prince of Albion actually knowing how to wield a sword.

It’s enough to once more send Merlin’s imagination running wild - as though he hasn’t already done enough of that for one morning. But all he can see is Arthur, devastating and golden, hair drenched in sweat and armour gleaming in the sun as he smiles in triumph, sword held aloft in victory.

Gods, Merlin really fucking hates him. And he hates that his traitorous dick, barely calmed down after the elaborate bath fantasy, is perking right back up despite all Merlin’s vehement protests.

Not even his own body cares about what he thinks. Great.

After a rather perfunctory tour, which included a lot of ‘if you go down this way you’ll find this or that’ and ‘behind these doors lies such and such’ without actually venturing there, George takes him to one of the meeting rooms situated on the ground floor.

While not a fan of clichés, Merlin has to admit that he’s not at all surprised by what he finds there.

At the wavy-shaped conference table, two women sit across from each other. One is young-looking and doll-faced, ridiculously pretty with not an inch left unattended or ungroomed. Her grey eyes are sharp as a blade and her lips made less pouty due to their currently severe set.

She looks about as happy to see Merlin as he is to see her.

The other is an elegant older woman with an alarming shade of red on nails and lips, who looks as though she’s being presented with something slimy and foul-smelling.

“Emrys, yes?” The older woman asks, lips curling in distaste. “Do come in and sit down, we haven’t got all day.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Catrina,” Dollface says, though it’s clearly not in solidarity to Merlin, but rather an underhanded way to assert dominance. They look rather practiced at this particular game. “I’m Sophia Moore and this old harpy-”

“Now, look here, young lady-” the other woman protests, but is bulldozered over by Sophia.

“-is Catrina Talbot, PA to the King. And I see you’ve already met George.”

“Good morning,” George says stiffly, taking a seat.

Merlin’s respect for him instantly goes up several notches if this is what he has to deal with on a regular basis.

“Merlin Emrys.” He smiles sardonically. “But you already knew that.”

Sophia raises an unimpressed eyebrow, but chooses not to comment, whipping out a pad instead.

“I have your file here. I know you’ve already signed a preliminary NDA, but we’ll need something stronger going forward, so let’s get this out of the way.” She swipes a practiced finger across the screen and Merlin hears the faint beep as the document arrives on his end. “It’s not optional, so don’t bother reading it.”

Merlin fights a scowl and takes out his pad. He might be short of choices, but he’s not signing shit unless he’s at least skimmed it. By the time Merlin detaches the stylus from along the edge of his pad, Sophia’s foot is tapping impatiently and Catrina has started huffing obnoxiously.

Merlin signs and sends it back, feeling a small twinge of satisfaction at holding his own.

“Well, now that’s done,” Sophia says pointedly. “We can move on to the important part-”

“Which is how we can possibly sell a sorcerer as an appropriate partner for the Crown Prince,” Catrina cuts in imperiously. Well, that certainly hadn’t taken long, had it? “Really, what was Prince Arthur thinking. The King is extremely concerned-”

“I’m well aware of the King’s concerns,” Sophia says impatiently. “However, there’s many ways we can turn this to our advantage. The Crown’s had a lot of pushback ever since Princess Morgana left-”

“You mean ran off,” Catrina says huffily. “Lured away by that dreadful rebel group, led by that- that boy, Morgwet-”

“Mordred,” Merlin corrects automatically, unsurprised that Catrina hadn’t bothered to learn the name of one of the most prolific pro-magic terrorist leaders in the country. “But I don’t get it, why do we have to announce it? If I just keep a low profile-”

His answer is a row of unimpressed looks. Catrina snorts, but it’s Sophia who answers. Her voice drips saccharine poison, speaking to Merlin as though he’s an utter imbecile.

“If we were to do that, then people would wonder why we’re doing it. They’d think we’re trying to hush it up because you’re an MU and we can’t have that.”

“I still don’t see why we can’t just lock him up in the Palace,” Catrina huffs. “That way we wouldn’t have to risk the King’s image-”

“Absolutely not,” George chimes in for the first time, surprisingly resolute. “Prince Arthur insists that we keep restrictions to Mr Emrys’ life to a bare minimum. He must be free to move about, attend his lectures-”

“Which is why we need to do it my way,” Sophia says firmly. “Now, if you’ve all quite finished I can tell you the plan.”

Thankfully, it seems that they have and Merlin lets out a quiet breath.

The plan, it seems, consists of a series of outings with Arthur that are meant to slowly ‘escalate his presence’. A few visits to swanky, VIP-only nightclubs, some staged coffee-dates, a charity gala, and, last but not least, his presence at the annual parade for the King’s birthday in July.

Merlin feels slightly ill at the prospect of still being a part of this circus in two months, but if his own conclusions and Gaius’ dire predictions are to be believed, a fast-track cure seems unlikely - if not downright impossible.

“-should also get a security detail,” Catrina is saying. “Being so close to the Royal Family makes him a person of interest in the public eye-”

Merlin, who’d tuned them out some time ago, is abruptly torn from his thoughts.

“No,” he says, uncaring how rude it sounds. Especially considering that Catrina barely deigns to address him directly. “That’s just- no.”

Catrina looks scandalised at the notion that Merlin isn’t simply going to sit by and let them do whatever the fuck they want with him.

“Excuse me? Do you think you know better than us professionals?”

“I might not be a professional,” Merlin says tightly. “But I am a Level 7 MU and don’t need some random bloke trailing after me. I’ll be your dance monkey, but I won’t have my studies disrupted and I can bloody well defend myself if I need to.”

Catrina turns her disapproving gaze on Sophia. “Are you sure he’s had no dealings with the rebels? The King-”

“He is sitting right here,” Merlin finally snaps. “And he’s fully registered and has no criminal record.”

Uncomfortable silence spreads as Merlin silently seethes.

This kind of treatment is hardly a surprise, nor is it the first time it’s happened to him. But he’s not going to sit by and let them compare him to a fucking terrorist.

“May I once again remind you,” George pipes up. “That Prince Arthur was very insistent that Mr Emrys should be left unencumbered. I see no reason for a security detail at this stage.”

The words land like an anvil in the quiet room and Merlin could’ve kissed him.

“Very well,” Catrina says stiffly. “But the King won’t be pleased.”

Sophia rolls her eyes, then uses her diamond-studded stylus to cross something off her list.

Leaving the conference room feels a little like emerging into the sunlight after being trapped in a cave.

As they walk, Merlin realises that George is leading him along the same path that Arthur had taken the night before.

“Thank you,” Merlin says quietly. “For having my back in there.”

George flushes an interesting colour, looking almost offended that Merlin dared speak to him with any kind of sincerity.

“I’m merely doing what Prince Arthur instructed me to do.”

The response should’ve annoyed him, instead Merlin feels something warm and unexpected uncoil within his chest.

They step outside and before Merlin can say anything else, he spots Lance and one of Arthur’s other guards, the serious one Merlin remembers is called Leon, waiting for them.

“Alright, Merlin?” Lance asks with a smile. “May I call you ‘Merlin’?”

Relieved to finally see a friendly face, Merlin grins.

“It’d certainly be a nice change to being called ‘Emrys’ all the time. I feel like I’m back in school.”

Lance laughs and even Leon looks like he’s biting back a smile. He’s suddenly fiercely glad he won’t be stuck with that pinch-gobbed bastard Valiant. 

“Shall we?” Lance says, gesturing at the nondescript car parked behind them.

This one, at least, will do a better job of blending in.

“Do remember to return Mr Emrys in time for lunch,” George says, still looking a little pinched.

Lance spares him a smile. “Of course, George.”

Taking the opportunity for escape, Merlin slides into the back. Lance follows a moment later, while Leon takes the driver’s seat. Seatbelts snake from in-between the seats to tether them in place as soon as the car purrs gently to life. Merlin, still unused to such snazzy features, feels vaguely claustrophobic even though the belt around his chest and waist is supple and not restrictive.

For a while, the car is mostly silent, the faint sound of music barely audible over the gentle purring of the engine. Merlin cracks open his window, welcoming the rush of air and noises of the world outside. A world of real people with ordinary lives and problems, not this strange, other dimension he’s been so suddenly thrust into.

Leaning his throbbing head against the cool, transparent aluminium, Merlin closes his eyes.

He must’ve dozed off, because when a warm hand on his shoulder drags him back to the present, the view outside has changed to something more familiar. Merlin would recognise his district anywhere, even from above.

“We’re almost there,” Lance says, sounding sympathetic for having woken Merlin.

“Thanks,” Merlin says blearily, rubbing at his face.

Lance is looking at him, dark eyes thoughtful.

“I just wanted you to know that Arthur told us about what happened,” he says, voice quiet. “With the whole-”

He inserts a rather vague gesture that Merlin interprets as ‘dosed with a love potion and now dependent on an MU barista’.

“Who else knows?”

Lance shakes his head. “Just me, Leon and Percy.”

“What about Valiant?”

If Lance is surprised that Merlin knows the name, he doesn’t show it.

“He got the sack. And good riddance, if you ask me.”

Merlin grins, surprised that Lance has it in him.

“Good,” Merlin says.

Leon parks the car in a convenient spot on the roof, switching off the engine. The seatbelts retreat and Merlin reaches for the door.

“You can just wait here, I’ll be quick.”

Leon nods his acquiescence, but Lance follows him out and gently grabs his arm.

“Merlin,” he says, fixing Merlin with a grave look. “Arthur wouldn’t really tell us how bad it is, but I can see this has taken a toll on him. Tell me honestly, will he be alright?”

Merlin bites his lip, feeling an odd sense of loyalty to Arthur welling up, though gods only know where it’s suddenly come from.

“He’ll be fine, Lance,” Merlin says, surprising himself that he truly believes it.

I won’t let him be anything else, Merlin thinks firmly.

Arthur’s study is bright and richly decorated, suffering from the same affliction as all the other rooms in the Palace - as in that it’s vastly bigger than it has any need to be. The answer to this, Merlin has learned, is to fill unused space with unused - or often unusable - clutter.

In the case of Arthur’s study, this manifests via things such as a mounted armillary sphere, an old-fashioned fireplace that has probably never seen real fire in all its life, and bookcases of bound books, which only look old insofar that they’re bound books. The crisp, gilded lettering across the spine, however, suggests that they’re as much a pastiche as most of the decor in the Palace.

Merlin had never so much as touched a physical book before, which is why on his first visit he couldn’t resist sliding one out. The rush of holding it, of feeling the spine against his palm and running his fingers over the open pages, had taken him by surprise. The binding had been sturdy, the case firm and smooth, but still Merlin had this irrational fear that it might simply fall apart in his hands if handled incorrectly.

It was only when he’d felt Arthur’s gaze on him that Merlin had hastily stuffed the book back in its place, stepping away from the temptation of touching every single spine and spending the day leafing through endless pages.

At Prince Arthur’s request, the servants had set up a little work corner for Merlin, placing a desk by one of the study’s gigantic windows. It’s nice enough, but Merlin has taken to curling up in the nook of the bay window more often than not, having filched a bunch of pillows from the armchairs by the fireplace.

It’s where he’s sitting right now, a bit over a week since moving into the Palace. He’s been studying for most of the day, struggling to make sense of a text so old and dense that he feels like taking a nap every other paragraph. The fact that he’s had to read it off the original scans of an ancient tome doesn’t help.

Merlin sighs and rubs at his grainy eyes. Wanting to give them a break, he lets his gaze wander, only for it to be unbiddenly drawn to Arthur’s straight-backed form, seated primly behind the safety of his massive, intricately carved desk. 

 The amber light of the dying day has gilded Arthur’s hair and put everything into soft focus. Before Arthur had first invaded the Grind, Merlin had been convinced that most of it was amazing styling and some underhanded holo-manipulation. But then there Arthur had been, all deep blue eyes and devastating jawline and more golden than the stupid dragon above his Palace. 

Though the way things are, Arthur might as well be nothing more than a memograph on one of the billboards high above the city, distant and untouchable. Not even when Arthur had been nothing but his customer - albeit a very famous and annoying one - had Merlin felt this yawning chasm between them. Now, they might as well be on two different planes of existence, what with Merlin unable to connect with not only Arthur, but the world he grew up and lives in.

And so far, Arthur had done absolutely nothing to bridge the distance between them. If anything, Merlin is convinced that he’s been trying his very best to keep them as far apart as humanly possible. Arthur, it seems, is hellbent to act as though nothing at all is out of the ordinary. That Merlin’s presence is incidental at best and the fact that he has to have his finger pricked every evening is simply one more point on his to-do list.

Gaius has been keeping up a steady string of communication with Merlin, sharing his evaluations and discussing potential solutions. When Merlin tried to include Arthur, all he’d received was a blank stare, so he’d stopped trying.

Not only that, but Gaius has warned him repeatedly that Arthur’s condition is precarious at best and that his fever is just high enough to be worrisome. Merlin knows it’s because Arthur has been railing against the spell, no matter how stoic he might seem on the outside. More than once this past week, Merlin had caught him swaying after getting up, which is the only time he seems to tolerate Merlin putting his hands on him. Apparently fainting is preferable to physical contact with Merlin.

He tells himself he should be happy that Arthur’s so reluctant. That he’s been largely ignoring him, and yet…

There’s something demeaning about it, about being treated like little more than furniture. And as much as Merlin tells himself he doesn’t care, shouldn’t care, he still somehow ends up resenting it. He’s angry at this prat of a prince, angry to be so dismissed yet still have to hang around like a mopey shadow on the sidelines.

“Don’t forget we’re going out tonight,” Arthur says suddenly, breaking through the silence.

Merlin blinks, dragging his mind back from his musings. “What?”

Life at the Palace, Merlin had learned, is nothing if not strictly organised. Honestly, most days it feels more like bootcamp than anything else.

For all Merlin knows, this is part of the regular routine.

“I said,” Arthur says slowly. “We’re going out tonight. Elena and Mithian will meet us there. George will pick out something suitable for you to wear.”

Merlin scowls, annoyance already on the rise.

“I can dress myself, thanks.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Merlin locks his pad and puts it aside. “Excuse me?”

Arthur sighs, long-suffering.

“We’re going to an elite, high profile nightclub. I can’t very well have my boyfriend turn up looking like-” He waves a hand. “Well, this.”

Merlin’s magic roils unhappily in response to his sudden spike of anger.

“And what,” Merlin says tightly. “Do I look like to you?”

Arthur has the decency to appear slightly uncomfortable, though it’s quickly hidden by his usual bulletproof arrogance. 

“The club has a dresscode.”

“I’m sure they’d make an exception for you,” Merlin says frostily.

Arthur rubs the bridge of his nose. “Look, there’ll be pictures, social media posts…”

Had Arthur led with anything other than an order laced with undiluted entitlement, Merlin might’ve let himself be dressed up like a doll. Now all he wants is to be as contrary as he possibly can just to piss Arthur off.

Having had enough, Merlin grabs his bag and shoves his pad inside.

“Where are you going?” Arthur asks, sounding almost alarmed.

“I need some air,” Merlin says as he crosses the room, feeling suddenly suffocated. “I’m sure your enchanted heart can take the separation until our oh-so-important outing.”

Merlin hates himself for it, but he looks up the stupid nightclub on his comm. 

The website is predictably minimalistic and flashy, bragging about its exceptional security and privacy policies, quoting all sorts of posh knobs who frequent it with supporting images of said posh knobs having a staged ‘good time’.

Merlin is certain that every high-profile, fake, publicity-stunt relationship in the past decade or so must’ve happened there. Never in his wildest dreams had he expected he’d ever play a part in something like this himself. After all, only a week ago he’d been a complete nobody, a struggling MU trying to make ends meet in a magic-hostile society.

Merlin looks down at the polished and perfectly plastic smiles on his comm, at the pristine creases in their clothes and hair so painfully natural looking it must have taken hours of styling. The screen goes abruptly dark and Merlin closes his fingers around it, the edges digging into his skin as he squeezes.

Merlin’s self-preservation instinct has long since rid him of any vanity. After a lifetime of being short on money and dressing in hand-me-downs from friends and the odd charity shop, he couldn’t care less what he covers himself with, as long as it’s comfortable. Though given the choice, Merlin supposes he tends to prefer darker colours, loose shirts and tight jeans.

So Merlin puts on the same clothes he’d worn to numerous clubs and pub crawls; all black apart from his usual pair of royal blue canvas high-tops. He contemplates eyeliner, then shrugs and puts some on. His hair, he leaves alone. He’s never been much for styling it, not seeing what difference it would make. It’s still a little damp from his shower, so he simply brushes it down, leaving it to gently curl just past the tips of his ears. 

He decides that going ahead and waiting by the car is likely to reduce the chance of Arthur making him go back and change.

The Knights are already there, leaning against the same car Lance and Leon had taken him in to pick up his things the other week. A second car is parked behind it which, to Merlin’s horror, he recognises as a limousine. If Will ever finds out he stepped foot in one of those things, he’ll likely never speak to Merlin again.

Thinking of Will makes guilt coil in Merlin’s stomach. They’ve always had that kind of friendship that doesn’t need regular comms or messages to remain strong, but even Will would draw the line at having to find out about Merlin’s ‘relationship’ through social media.

“Alright?” he asks them, giving a small smile.

They grin back at him, returning the greeting. Percy especially seems amused by his wardrobe choice.

“Looking good,” he says and Merlin even believes him. Percy tips his head, squinting a bit. “What is that on your shoe?”

Merlin glances down reflexively, though he thinks he already knows what Percy means. He turns his leg, lifting his heel slightly to give Percy a better view of the crooked wizard’s hat on the outside just under his ankle.

“My best mate from home drew it,” Merlin says, huffing a laugh. “He said it’s to give them character.”

Merlin had bought the shoes on his seventeenth birthday, after what, unbeknownst to him, had been his final growth spurt. Will, in typical Will-fashion, had ripped the shit out of him, then whipped out one of his fancy art-pens and set to work. 

At the time, Merlin had complained, “You couldn’t have drawn something cool? Like the falcon I’m named after, or something?”

Will had snorted. “You’re not cool, Merlin, you’re a nerd. And nerds don’t get birds of prey, they get wizard hats.”

Clearly, he needs new friends.

“I like it,” Percy says, grinning. “Suits you.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “Thanks, I suppose.”

Catching something over Merlin’s shoulder, the three of them straighten abruptly. Merlin half-turns, already expecting the sight of Arthur stalking towards them. What he hadn’t expected are the skin-tight black trousers all but painted to Arthur’s thighs, the fancy material catching the light at odd angles. And if that wasn’t enough, there’s also the Pendragon-red coat sporting more belts and buckles than should reasonably be allowed on clothing. In short, Arthur looks ready for a photoshoot, which, Merlin supposes, is kind of the point.

He scowls at them collectively, his eyes landing on Merlin last.

Merlin watches as a myriad of emotions flicker across Arthur’s face, feeling an unbidden rush at having broken through his usual poise. It’s nothing like the vindictive satisfaction Merlin expected to feel at ruffling Arthur’s feathers, rather something hot and restless churning in his chest like an overcharged bout of magic.

He raises his chin, doing his best to stare Arthur down in self-preserving defiance, but there’s heat climbing up from his chest to his neck. He wants Arthur’s reaction, but not the fallout. Wants his attention, but not his disappointment.

But Arthur isn’t meeting his gaze, his eyes dark and distinctly hungry where they’ve snagged on the exposed skin framed by the frayed rips at the knee of Merlin’s jeans. When Arthur’s eyes finally meet his, it’s with the searing, fever-bright heat that Merlin had seen on that night when Arthur had first brought him to the Palace.

Merlin had expected Arthur to scold him, disparage him in some way, but Arthur’s jaw is a tight line and all he says, when he finally speaks, is “Get in.”

Merlin suppresses a shiver at the hoarse edge of Arthur’s voice, and gets in. 

If he thought Arthur’s other car posh, it’s nothing compared to the inside of the limousine, complete with plush, facing seats and a raised partition between front and back.

Arthur is pale and silent next to him, forefinger pressed to his lips. His ring glints, catching stray beams of light; an amalgamation of streetlights, hover-tracks, billboards and holo-ads.

Merlin studies him quietly, wishing Arthur would let him check his temperature. But there’s something about Merlin’s concern for his health that always makes Arthur go even pricklier than usual. Merlin had tried to pass on Gaius’ advice to take it easy, but Arthur had of course ignored him and gone on to attend every single training practice, swinging swords and all sorts every other morning.

Stubbornly and not for the first time, Merlin tells himself that it’s not his business if Arthur is determined to bake himself alive with fever, but as always, the niggling worry remains. He makes a mental note to ask Gaius for a flask of his elderberry syrup. Hopefully the mild healing spell woven into it will soothe rather than aggravate the insistent strands of the enchantment.

“Stop that,” Arthur says suddenly.

Merlin jumps. “Stop what?”

“I can practically hear you blathering. I’m fine.”

Merlin snorts. “You’re not fine.”

Arthur sends him a venomous glare. “Well, I’m not about to drop dead, which is good enough for me. So stop it. I don’t need your concern.”

Merlin wants to fucking shake him.

“Of course not, what could you possibly need from me other than my silent and unobtrusive presence.”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

Merlin bites his tongue so hard he thinks it might bleed. He turns away, facing the window, fingers tight on the doorhandle for lack of something else to grab.

They spend the rest of the ride in tense silence.

Merlin is still thrumming with annoyance when the car comes to a stop, though he forgets all about it the second the driver opens the door for him.

A lightning storm of flashlights and excited screeching crashes down on him, momentarily paralysing him. He can barely see, the wall of noise so sudden and overwhelming it nails him in place.

But then Arthur is there, solid and warm, a shield against the madness around them. Arthur wraps an arm around him and Merlin leans into him instinctively.

“Is it always like this?” Merlin asks, still wide-eyed and overcome.

“Yes.” Arthur gives the crowd and cameras a polished smile, then mutters from the corner of his mouth. “Smile, Merlin.” Then softer, reassuring. “It’s not far.”

Merlin forces his lips to pull upwards, hoping it looks only half as pained as it feels.

Don’t let me go, Merlin almost says, but bites it back.

Even with the bracelet, Merlin is almost certain he could push back the crowd if he had to. He’s in no danger here, rationally he knows that. But somehow it does nothing to make him feel less trapped, his magic coiled tightly within his chest, ready to burst forth at the smallest provocation.

Around them, Arthur’s Knights fan out in a practiced pattern, covering them while still allowing flattering angles for the cameras. Some of Merlin’s initial trepidation eases and he lets Arthur lead him towards the entrance. 

A few paces ahead of them, a group of flashily dressed people is currently posing for pictures. Merlin vaguely recognises them as a famous pop-group. They look like they’ve come straight off the stage, with manic grins and slightly dishevelled hair.

Looming ahead of them is the madly blinking facade of the nightclub. There’s three different entrances and Merlin vaguely remembers reading something ridiculous about gold and diamond tiers. Whatever they want to call it, it means that none of them have to so much as scan their ID-bracelets.

They enter unmolested under the sharp eyes of the club’s security while the remaining mere mortals at the other entrances are meticulously scanned for hidden weapons and illegal substances.

Merlin lets out a long breath of relief as soon as they step past the main force-field, leaving the worst of the noise behind. Arthur releases him, but remains a reassuring presence at his side. Lance’s hand closes briefly around his shoulder, giving him a small squeeze and a reassuring smile.

Merlin returns it, finally shaking off the last of the strange jumpiness.

They pass a cloakroom, which Arthur completely ignores, but then are intercepted by a girl in tasteful glittery make-up and the club’s staff uniform.

“If you could please come this way and put your comms in-oh! Your Highness, I didn’t- I mean, of course you and your guests don’t have to-”

But Arthur, smiling his infuriatingly charming smile, is already dropping his comm in the sleek lockbox the girl is holding out.

 “Fair is fair,” he says magnanimously. “I’m not your Prince tonight, I don’t expect any special treatment.”

Merlin barely suppresses an eyeroll, but the girl is practically shooting heart-shaped confetti from her sparkling eyes.

He isn’t thrilled about the prospect of leaving his only source of entertainment behind, but follows suit. None of the Knights relinquish their own devices, but Merlin isn’t surprised, considering that he knows each of them have at least one slender phaser tucked away on their person.

“I’m sorry, I know we’re not supposed to- But I just wanted to say that it’s such an honour to meet you, Your Highness.”

The girl sounds a little breathless, but Arthur just smiles at her again as he holds his bracelet to the box, scanning his ID to the lock and securing it.

“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you,” Arthur says. “Thank you…”

“Linda,” the girl jumps in, flush high on her cheeks.

Arthur winks and Merlin thinks he might actually rupture something from the effort it takes not to roll his eyes again.

“Thank you, Linda.”

Linda, of course, looks ready to swoon. “Enjoy your stay with us.”

But when they finally move along, Merlin doesn’t miss the furtive look she sends his way. It makes his skin prickle uncomfortably and for a moment he isn’t sure whether she’s scrutinising his attire or his place at Arthur’s side. Either way, he supposes he’d best get used to it.

The club proper looks, if possible, even shinier and sparklier than the website had promised. Flashy lightshows are reflected and multiplied with the help of well-placed mirrors, the bar and small pockets of seating areas protected by force-fields to dampen the music and make conversation possible. The dance floor consists of huge, deep-black tiles inlaid with something glittery that makes it seem as though you’re standing in space, surrounded by stars.

Countless dolled-up people are already writhing and grinding against each other, many of which Merlin recognises if not by name, then certainly by having seen their faces plastered on billboards and featuring beneath tabloid headlines.

Unlike outside, Arthur’s presence stirs up far less of a hubbub, partly, Merlin supposes, because people must be used to seeing him here, and partly due to frequent exposure to international celebrities.

Arthur leads them unerringly through the crowd, returning friendly waves and greetings as they go. Their destination lies behind a force-field cordoned off in red and gold with a matching Pendragon heraldry adorning the wall above a sprawling seating area.

“So much for no special treatment,” Merlin says in an undertone.

To his surprise, Arthur grimaces. “I tried to tell them to keep it low-key, alas…”

“Arthur!” An exuberant blond woman in a short, blue jumpsuit jumps up and throws herself at Arthur, who catches her with clearly practiced ease. “It’s so good to see you!” 

To Merlin’s surprise, instead of hastily shaking her off, Arthur grips her tightly around the waist, lifting her a bit as he laughs.

“Good to see you, too, El.”

Pretty as she is, Merlin is almost certain he wouldn’t have recognised the Duchess of Gawant from the next person. Lady Mithian, however, he remembers from when she’d done that arty perfume commercial a couple years ago. Just like Arthur, Merlin is disgruntled to find her looking just as stunning as she’d been on the billboards plastered all over the country.

“Hello, you must be Merlin,” Lady Mithian says warmly, reaching out a hand. “I’m Mithian.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Merlin says, taking her hand with a nervous smile, then wonders briefly if he was supposed to kiss it or something. 

But Mithian just smiles, her handshake surprisingly firm. 

“And this is my fiancée, Elena,” she says, gesturing towards Elena, who’s only just finished hugging each of the Knights in turn.

“It’s so good to meet you,” Elena says, foregoing a handshake and stepping closer to give Merlin the same treatment - and gods she’s strong, his ribs all but creaking in protest as the breath is squeezed out of him. “We’ve heard so much about you!”

“Go easy on him, love.” Mithian laughs. “His ribs haven’t worked up a tolerance yet.”

Elena draws back, looking sheepish. “Sorry, don’t know my own strength.”

Merlin huffs a laugh, deciding that he likes these two.

“Which reminds me,” Elena goes on, pointing at someone over Merlin’s shoulder. “You still owe me a rematch, Perce!”

Percy takes her outstretched finger and jiggles it playfully. “You’re on.”

“Maybe we can get Leon to join the bets this time,” Elena says, eyes shining gleefully.

“Leon likes his money where it is,” Leon says drily from his position behind Arthur.

Arthur half-turns and claps him on the shoulder. “Leon isn’t a gambling man. He’s far too sensible for that.”

“You can get the first round of drinks,” Elena says magnanimously. “To make up for being such a stick in the mud.”

That generates a round of laughter and a put-upon sigh from Leon.

They crowd around the table and Elena drags the cocktail menu from the 2D surface into a 3D holo with memographs of disembodied hands making fancy cocktails. 

“I think I’m going for a Bloody Mary,” Elena says.

“Only if you don’t want me to kiss you again tonight.”

“Aw, c’mon, Mithie,” Elena croons, abandoning the menu to drape herself over Mithian’s side. “I even brought mints and everything!”

Mithian makes a face, but even a grimace doesn’t do anything to make her look less regal.

“Can you at least wait until the second round?” she asks. “You’re going to disappear with Arthur onto the dance floor soon enough. You can take the smell of that abomination with you and breathe it in his face instead.”

“Thanks,” Arthur says drily.

They all decide on their drinks, though Merlin notes that Arthur and the Knights all choose something non-alcoholic. Merlin is glad he won’t have to remind Arthur that mixing alcohol with a love potion would be a bad idea. He almost follows suit, then decides one drink won’t hurt and he’s pretty sure he’ll need it to get through this.

No matter how friendly or welcoming these people are, Merlin still somehow feels like an outsider. An intruder, almost. None of them would want him here if it weren’t for this whole mess.

If Merlin felt like furniture before, it’s nothing compared to what he feels like now. Arthur has downright abandoned him, only reappearing in odd intervals to absently touch his arm or shoulder as he takes a drink, never once properly acknowledging Merlin before once more disappearing with Elena to the dance floor.

It’s clear that by delivering himself and Merlin for the media and fans to gawk and snap memographs of, he sees his duty for the evening done. Still, would it really kill Arthur to treat him like a human being instead of a breathing antidote?

Merlin takes a tiny sip of his overly sweet cocktail, watching as Mithian exchanges some apparently hilarious anecdote with Percy and Leon. Her and the Knights have been trying their best to include Merlin, to keep him company, but really, they don’t know him and it’s not their job to babysit him. Merlin doesn’t begrudge them their fun.

“So, not a party animal?” Lance asks from beside him.

Merlin turns to face him, managing a sardonic smile. “That’s not really what I’m here for, is it?”

Lance gives him one of his small, genuine smiles. It isn’t hard to figure out what Gwen sees in him.

“I know what it’s like,” Lance says quietly. “When I first started working for Arthur it was as if I’d been transported into a new world. It still feels like that, sometimes.”

“So what did you do?”

“I reminded myself that, despite everything, they’re still people. They might’ve known a very different life from mine, but they all still feel, have weaknesses.”

Merlin can’t help a snort. “Even Arthur?”

Lance fixes him with a serious stare. “Especially Arthur.”

Merlin looks away, swallowing, suddenly unable to take the weight of the exchange. It’s easier if he can just hate Arthur, can think him callous and supercilious and refuse to dig for hidden depths.

Lance must sense his reluctance, because he banishes the somber mood with another disarming smile.

“Now,” he says, leaning in to companionably bump his shoulder against Merlin’s. “You’ve been sitting here all night. How do you feel about dancing?”

Grinning, Merlin raises his eyebrow. “What, in general?”

Lance chuckles. “More like right now.”

Merlin doubtfully eyes the undulating crowd beyond the safe shield of the force-field. Does he really want to subject himself to a bunch of posh wankers sloshed out of their minds having clothed sex on the dance floor? Then again, it might put things into perspective. After all, seeing them like this only brings into focus what Lance told him: they’re all just people.

And it would definitely beat sitting on his arse for the rest of the night. He’s had more than enough of that for one night.

So Merlin turns back to Lance and shrugs one shoulder. “Why not.”

Up close and boxed in from all sides, the dance floor feels even more crowded. But Merlin has been to enough clubs, concerts and uni rallies, not to mention pride parades, not to be too fazed by it. The only difference is that he never before had to worry about stepping on the toes of shoes that probably cost more than he earns in a year.

He feels his scheme of non-conforming worked almost a little too well.

Still, Lance was right. The lights may be a bit brighter, the people a lot flashier, but in the end it’s not that different from any other club Merlin’s visited. He especially appreciates the fact that there’s a strict ‘no drinks on the dance floor’ policy. It’s nice to not be bathed in ten different kinds of booze within the first five minutes for a change.

The music is also surprisingly good, if a little on the trashy pop side.

Merlin absolutely doesn’t expect to be having a good time, especially considering how incredibly crappy the whole week had been, but he’s soon laughing, letting Lance twirl him with surprising grace and co-ordination while they exchange shouted and mostly nonsensical comments about hating or loving a particular song.

Before long a small group, its members in various states of inebriation, decide to join them and Merlin thinks he recognises some of them as part of the pop-group he’d seen outside. One of them, a slim man with delicate features, is clearly interested, though Merlin isn’t sure how much of it is tied to the fact that he’s both fresh meat and clearly doesn’t fit in.

Under any other circumstances, Merlin might’ve given it a go, but he’s here to play the Crown Prince’s boyfriend - even if said Crown Prince couldn’t give less of a fuck about him. 

The guy doesn’t seem the type to be easily deterred, however. He’s in Merlin’s space, pressing smiling lips to his ear with the excuse for conversation.

“You’re new.”

Merlin is torn between an eyeroll and an amused huff. He can’t help himself.

“You couldn’t come up with a better line than that?”

The guy chuckles and pulls back a little to look Merlin in the eye and Merlin has to admit he’s quite pretty.

“I admit, I’ve had a few and we came here directly from a concert, so I’m not at my best.” He moves closer, his slim hand deceptively firm on Merlin’s hip, a sultry smile curving his full lips. “Give me another chance and I promise I’ll do better.”

Merlin opens his mouth, ready to deliver an amused but resolute rebuff, when a strong arm wraps around him. He knows it’s Arthur, a strange, deep-buried instinct springing to life the moment his scent hits Merlin’s nose. The strange furnace-like warmth of his body burns through Merlin’s clothes where it presses against his side, pulling him closer and away from the other guy.

“There you are.” Arthur’s smile is that of a shark’s. “Who’s your friend?”

To the guy’s credit, he only does a small double-take. Undoubtedly, he must have at least been aware of Arthur’s presence in the club tonight. 

“Uhm,” Merlin says eloquently.

Arthur raises his eyebrow and the guy wilts beneath his superior stare. There’s a lot that can be said about Arthur, but he has true presence. Merlin can tell himself he’s unimpressed all he likes, but the truth is that Arthur carries himself like a king, and resisting the instinctive sense of awe and deference it brings is all but impossible.

The guy looks awkwardly between them. “I didn’t know-”

“It’s alri-” Merlin starts, but Arthur cuts across him with a brusk, “Clearly.”

Merlin glares at him, but Arthur, the bastard - even slightly sweaty and bathed in laser lights - is entirely unruffled.

“Now, if you’ll excuse us,” Arthur says, the heavy beat doing nothing in blunting the crispness of his posh accent.

The guy makes some form of flustered, aborted little bow, but Arthur is already leading Merlin away. Despite the overall chilly politeness, Arthur might as well have thrown him over his shoulder to carry him off to his cave.

Short of mowing over a whole crowd dancing the dance of pissed fervour, there’s no way they could make it out side-by-side. A fact Arthur realises for himself, because he takes back his arm and grabs Merlin’s hand instead.

Merlin almost tears himself free, annoyed at the proprietary handling, but it wouldn’t do to make a scene, nor to lose Arthur in the crowd. The fact that Arthur’s hand, warm and strong and strangely calloused, makes his skin tingle and heat claw up his spine is staunchly ignored.

He’s becoming quite accustomed to the dual sensation of both wanting Arthur while also wanting to punch him. He supposes he could slap him with his tongue, or his di-

Merlin ruthlessly squashes that train of thought.

Emerging from his own head, Merlin realises that Arthur isn’t leading them back to their booth, but instead to the back of the club and through a discreet looking door that leads to a series of rooms that look like changing rooms for the odd live performance. The whole place seems deserted.

Merlin supposes this is preferable, having it out here instead of dramatically exiting the club into a flood of tenacious vultures who are no doubt still waiting outside, desperate to catch drunken missteps of various celebrities.

Arthur rounds on him as soon as the door is closed.

“Care to explain what that performance was out there?”

Merlin’s eyebrows shoot upwards, incredulous. “There was no performance-”

“Oh yeah?” Arthur cuts in sharply, jaw tight and mouth set into an angry line. “Because it sure looked as if you were ready to fall into that bloke’s arms just now.”

“Well, I wasn’t!” Merlin snaps, truly angry now. “I was about to reject him when you swooped in like some gilded neanderthal.”

“Gilded nean-”

Arthur breaks off, dubious, but Merlin doesn’t let him collect himself before he barrels on. It’s as if all his fury has finally burned down the dam that’s been holding everything in over the past week.

“If talking to a stranger is all it would’ve taken for you to remember my existence I would’ve-”

Arthur sneers. “Oh, talking - is that what they call it these days?”

“Yes, it is. And if you hadn’t abandoned me-”

“I didn’t abandon you-”

“Yes you did!” It comes out louder and a little more emotional than Merlin had intended. “You’ve been treating me like some sort of portable lamp since I came to live at the Palace! I know we don’t like each other, but would it be too much to ask-”

“Don’t like each other?” Arthur’s face does something highly complicated. He looks pale, whether with fury or sickness, Merlin isn’t sure. “Are you really this much of an idiot? For all intents and purposes I’m in love with you! Or did you forget the reason why you had to move in?” Merlin stares as Arthur rubs at his lips with a shaky hand, his eyes bright enough to burn. “I’ve been trying to keep my distance, to make this easier for both of us, but you can’t expect me to just sit by and watch some random prick drool all over you!”

Merlin is too stunned to even think of formulating a response. Arthur visibly deflates, his eyes briefly squeezing shut as though in pain.

“Look, I know it’s not real, I know that, but right now it feels real and nothing I do seems to help. And stuff like this-” He swings an arm, pointing in the general direction of the dance floor. “It’s not- The thought of you with someone else is-”

He breaks off and for the very first time, not a single stone of Arthur’s arrogant wall is left standing. He looks raw, torn open, and it hurts Merlin to look at him, his own chest feeling wrenched apart at the seams.

“Arthur-” Merlin barely recognises his own voice.

But Arthur shakes his head, cutting Merlin off even though Merlin has no idea what words could possibly convey everything going through his head right now.

“No, just-” Arthur rubs at his forehead. “Forget I said that, it’s just this stupid fucking-”

Merlin steps closer, truly contrite, reaching out helplessly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” Arthur holds out his hand as if to ward him off. “Just don’t, alright?”

And even though Arthur sounds utterly wrecked and as though he very much means the opposite, as though there’s nothing on this planet that could possibly make it better other than Merlin’s touch, Merlin refrains. He drops his arms, fingers clenching to fists.

“Give me twenty minutes,” Arthur says quietly, not looking at him. “Half an hour maybe, then we’ll go. Just try not to drape yourself over anyone else in that time.”

And then, making sure to give him a wide berth, Arthur walks past him, and is gone. The door swishes closed behind him like a ghost, unsatisfyingly silent.

Sleep clings to Merlin and at first he isn’t sure why he’s waking up in the first place.

He’s still tired and unwilling to face the world, but a series of short, staccato buzzes keep pushing sweet oblivion further and further away. The buzzing finally stops, only to be replaced with the sudden ringing of his comm.

Muttering curses, Merlin flings out a floppy arm, patting clumsily around the edges of his pillow until his fingers meet smooth metal. 

Not trusting himself to blindly hit the right spot on the screen, he mumbles, “Comm, answer.”

The ringing cuts off abruptly, the connection established.

“Yeah?” he says around a stifled yawn.

“I hope,” a very familiar voice says slowly from the other end. “For your sake, that you have the most brilliant fucking excuse as to why my mum rang me at arse o’clock this morning, screeching in my bloody ear about how I dared to ‘keep this from her’. And when I told her I hadn’t the fucking foggiest what she’s on about, she told me to check the news. And ‘lo and behold, what do I see? My best fucking friend cuddled up to the fucking Crown Prince-”

Fuck. How could news have possibly travelled this fast already?

“Will-”

Merlin’s brain is sluggish, utterly unprepared for one of Will’s famous tirades. Will, never one to be deterred, barrels on.

“So I hope you’re about to tell me you’ve been captured, or blackmailed-”

And gods, why does Will always have to be so bloody dramatic.

“That’s not-”

“That your comm and pad were taken away and ground to dust-”

“Will you just shut up for a second, you wanker!” Merlin snaps finally in exasperation. “At least give me a second to wake up!”

Will makes an angry sound. “Oh, I’m the wanker, am I?”

Merlin sighs, struggling to sit up. He’s naked, his clothes from last night marking a trail to the bathroom, a still damp towel on the floor next to the bed. Merlin touches his hair, remembering going to sleep with it still damp and knowing it must now have turned into an epic bird’s nest.

He pats at it absently, snatches of memory flashing in and out of focus. Arthur in his red coat, the harsh exchange in the car, the screams and flashes, Arthur wrapping an arm around him, abandoning him, pressing hot and furious against him, leading him away.

The raw note in Arthur’s voice when he’d said I’m in love with you. His cracked open expression, the way he’d shied away when Merlin had reached for him-

Merlin covers his eyes with his palm.

“Listen, Will. I’m sorry, alright? Stuff just happened and I didn’t think-”

Will snorts. “Yeah, figured that one out myself, thanks.”

Merlin clenches his teeth. He’s so not in the mood to deal with this right now.

“I meant to tell you, I swear. I just thought I had more time…”

“Oh yeah? How long has it been, then?”

Merlin neatly dodges the question. “Look, it’s complicated, okay?”

“I would fucking hope so!” Will bites out. “Which is why I’m talking to you at all, you fucking twit. Now spill. What’s really going on here? Do I need to come to Camelot and assassinate royalty? Are you in trouble?”

Merlin rubs at his face. “No, no, nothing like that. I’m just...helping Arthur with something.”

Will makes a strangled sound. “Oh, you’re helping Arthur-”

Merlin groans again. “Shut up.”

The absence of an immediate, griping response tells Merlin that Will must’ve got the worst of it out of his system. A fact Merlin is intensely grateful for, if only to give his throbbing head a break.

“Where did you even meet him?” Will asks after a blessed moment of silence. “I mean, like, properly and stuff.”

“He was a customer at the Grind.”

Weirdly enough, the memory of Arthur swanning in like an arrogant peacock almost makes him smile.

“The Crown Prince of Albion,” Will says slowly, incredulous. “Came to Gwaine’s sensationalist, sexual-pun-named shop to buy coffee. From you.”

Well, when put like that…

“You’re making it sound weirder than it is.” Merlin really doesn’t want to get into it. “Look, Will, just- Fuck, what time is it?” He wakes the screen of his comm, glancing at the clock and feels his eyes almost bugging out. “Fuck, I have class in, like, 40 minutes. Listen, I’ll vid comm you later and explain everything, I promise.”

“Yeah, no, your promises don’t mean shit, mate.”

“Will, c’mon…”

Merlin’s already struggling to untwist himself from the covers. He grabs his comm and takes it along to the bathroom. The sight that greets him is anything but promising, traces of smudged eyeliner stubbornly clinging to his skin despite his shower last night.

He grabs his toothbrush, barely listening to Will prattle on as he shoves it in his mouth.

“Did you know they’re going to make a limited edition shoe collection where some designer prick is going to ‘re-imagine’ those minging high-tops of yours, including my fucking drawing-”

Merlin chokes on a mouthful of toothpaste.

“What?” he coughs, eyes watering and voice hoarse. “Please tell me you’re having me on.”

Will snorts. 

“I couldn’t make this shit up,” he says, then grumbles. “They should bloody well pay me royalties, it’s my design. Do you think I could trademark it?”

Merlin spits out a second mouthful of water, throat still burning. He wipes half-heartedly at his eyes with the edge of a towel.

“You’re asking me?”

“Who else am I going to ask? You’re the one with the fancy connections now. Least you can do is help me defend my rights.”

Merlin snorts, taking the comm back into the main room to rifle through the one shelf occupied by his things in the ginormous walk-in wardrobe.

“I really need to go,” he says, dragging out clothes at random. “I promise I’ll ring back, yeah?”

Will lets out a noise heavy with skepticism.

“Mate, just so we’re clear. If I don’t hear back from you I’m going to post those memographs from that Samhain when we were six and you were dressed up as a-”

“Thank you, Will,” Merlin all but yells to drown him out.

“You’re famous now. I could probably sell those m-graphs and retire. I have such a great arsenal, like the time you got pissed, got your kit off and drew a Mage Circle with your di-”

“I’m hanging up!”

Will, the knob, is cackling madly on the other end. Despite his threat, Merlin leaves the connection open while he tugs on the last of his clothes.

“Merls?” Will says eventually and it’s his serious voice, no trace of amusement left.

Merlin stills. “Yeah?”

“You’d tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn’t you?”

Merlin’s chest clenches, his magic coiling into something small and unhappy.

“I’m fine, Will,” he says and the worst part is, he doesn’t even know if he’s lying, but the words taste bitter on his tongue all the same.

Perched on the bedside table, Kilgharrah watches him with luminous golden eyes and snorts out a perfect ring of smoke, silently judging.

Having got another glimpse at the time, Merlin curses up a storm as he bursts from the guest quarters, hopping on one foot to get his shoe on, laces still untied as he rushes through the halls and gods, why does it always take so long to get anywhere in this place? Thankfully he remembered earlier to send a message downstairs, which means that his usual driver is already there, car hovering as it idles.

Merlin throws himself inside, at last able to catch his breath.

Heart rate slowed to a more reasonable pace, he digs out his comm to finally check his messages. From Gwen, there’s a simple !!!!! and underneath CALL ME!. Gwaine sent, you tapped that and DIDN’T TELL ME!??! And finally, from Freya, I can’t believe you made the Crown Prince your sex slave!!

Merlin buries his face in his hands and groans.

“Fuck, I’m such an idiot.”

He thanks all his lucky stars that he at least had the self-preservation to tell his mum about this.

“Self-awareness is the first step to betterment,” Kilgharrah, the scaly dickhead, says.

“Uargh, piss off.”

Ever since the dissolution of the Faculty for Magical Sciences during the Purge, once the biggest on campus, magical studies have been relegated to a tiny building, renamed Faculty of Magical Theory.

Despite the low enrolment rate, the lecture hall is small enough to be cramped, packed to the brim with students, their bracelets gleaming in the sun shining in from the east-facing windows. Thank the gods for Freya, who’d been early enough to reserve them seats, otherwise it’d have been another two hours spent on the floor.

Merlin slides in next to her and promptly receives a punch to the arm.

“Bloody ow!” Merlin protests.

Freya leaves off the punching and hits him with her pad instead, punctuating each word with a slap.

“I. Can’t. Believe. You!” She finally leaves off. “Gwaine and Will have been blowing up my comm since morning. At least I don’t have to feel slighted that you left me out of the loop, because apparently you didn’t deign to tell anyone.”

Merlin can’t believe how many times he’s going to have this conversation.

“I didn’t do it on purpose!”

“Oh, I’ve heard that before, but it’s not going to get you out of this one.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Just, a lot has been going on.”

“No fucking kidding.”

“I’ll tell you everything after the lecture, alright?”

Merlin spends the entirety of the lecture staring into space, not hearing a single word. His thoughts are orbiting last night’s disaster like a desolate planet, trapped in its orbit and unable to escape. He feels guilty and angry at himself for feeling guilty, because really, if Arthur weren’t such an enormous prat they wouldn’t be in this situation. If he’d only get off his high fucking horse for once and talk to Merlin like a normal human being-

He lets his head thunk down on the table, officially giving up on absorbing anything useful. At least getting some more sleep will stop the angry buzzing of his head.

Freya elbows him awake none-too-gently sometime later. All around them, students are streaming towards the exit, though Merlin notices some funny looks thrown their way. And what’s that all about, anyway?

“I’ve already forwarded you the notes,” Freya says, voice heavy with judgement. She’s as bad as Kilgharrah, honestly. “Now c’mon, you owe me all the juicy details.”

“Nothing juicy about it,” Merlin mumbles, almost biting his tongue when an unbidden image of Arthur’s plush mouth and unreasonably delicious arse pop up in his traitorous brain.

Merlin hates his brain.

They walk the short distance to one of the many campus coffeeshops. As always, Merlin feels a little as though he’s cheating on the Grind when he enters, though the prospect of not having to stand behind the counter and deal with customers is all the sweeter for it.

“I still can’t believe this happened,” Freya says for the second time after Merlin has filled her in as concisely as possible. She picks up her iced chocolate abomination, sucking at the straw only to realise she’s drunk it all. She discards the cup with a grimace. “Seriously, though, what’s he like? Prince Arthur?”

Gorgeous. Inscrutable. Someone I want to tear open and explore, while also wrap in my magic and keep safe.

But out loud, Merlin’s voice is resentful, the sting of unfair treatment still lingering.

“Supercilious, insensitive, entitled.” Merlin scowls. “He’s been treating me like a door stopper since I moved into the Palace. And last night he criticised my wardrobe, as though he’s embarrassed to be seen with me, or something, the privileged prat.”

Freya’s eyebrows have slowly been inching upwards. “Wow, you must really like him if he gets you this riled up.”

Freya the bloodhound strikes again. Merlin glares at her, fearing that protesting too much will just expose him more.

He watches Freya tap in a fresh order on the table-top, scanning her bracelet to pay for it.

Merlin sighs, deflating a little. “I think I might’ve fucked up. A bit.”

Freya looks at him curiously. “How so?”

“I’ve read the theory behind it, so I thought I understood what it was doing to him, but now I’m not so sure. It doesn’t help that he’s so bloody tight-lipped about everything.” Merlin runs his finger along his own cup, smearing beads of condensation. “He blew up at me last night after some guy flirted with me at the club.”

Freya sits up, alarmed. “You didn’t flirt back, did you?!”

Merlin grimaces. 

“Of course not! What do you take me for?” He finally leaves off the cup, rubbing his finger dry against his sleeve. “But I honestly didn’t think it would bother him so much. If he’d just bloody communicate-”

Freya hums, then leans back as a droid buzzes over, delivering their drinks. She waits for it to zip away before replying. She leans closer to Merlin over the table, her voice quiet.

“In the Prince’s defence, the whole thing must be pretty overwhelming. He’s probably trying to wrap his head around everything while not coming apart at the seams. This is scary stuff, Merlin. Really scary. Imagine just waking up one day and being hopelessly, obsessively in love with some stranger you’ve only met a few times. So much so you need to be near him or you’ll literally die.”

“I’m not some-” Merlin starts, but breaks off when he realises that, to Arthur, he is some stranger.

Just some guy who’s made him coffee a few times and who he exchanged glares with. Merlin still can’t believe Arthur even remembered his name. The thought is strangely discouraging.

“Fine, I get it,” he admits grudgingly. “But I’m stumbling around blind here, too! I’ve had to move to the Palace - the bloody Palace, Freya - so I can play Arthur’s boyfriend.” He shakes his head. “I had to sit through a meeting listening to King Uther’s stuck-up PA and the royal family’s publicist talking about how parading me around like a show horse would benefit the Crown. Do you know how dirty that makes me feel, knowing they’re using me like that?”

Just remembering that farce of a meeting makes Merlin’s blood boil and his magic pulse with fury.

Freya reaches across the table to squeeze his arm.

“I get it, Merlin, I do,” she says softly. “And I don’t know Prince Arthur. But just remember he didn’t ask for this either and that he probably doesn’t have anyone to talk to. I don’t imagine having King Uther as your father is very conducive to developing healthy communication skills.”

Merlin lets out a long breath, knowing that Freya is right. The whole thing just makes the guilt inside him churn harder, his magic fluttering anxiously at his inner turmoil.

Arthur is clearly floundering and in pain, but far too proud to simply ask Merlin for what he needs. But Merlin had promised Lance, promised himself that he won’t let Arthur come to harm.

So, Merlin thinks. If the dragon won’t come to you, you must go seek the dragon.

Back at the Palace he only gets lost twice, until he recognises the shiny set of armour which guards the corner of the corridor leading to Arthur’s office.

He doesn’t bother knocking.

Arthur’s head snaps up from where it had been bent over the holo-station at his desk. He looks pale and tired, though his scowl is no less fierce for it.

“Have you ever heard of kno-”

“Shut up,” Merlin cuts across the beginning of a no doubt over-dramatic tirade. 

Thankfully, Arthur is apparently taken aback enough to actually stop talking for once. Merlin presses his advantage by stalking further into the room.

Rounding the massive, antique desk, Merlin thinks back to his first visit here. Thinks about how little has changed and how much more worn and sickly Arthur looks for it.

“You’re going to get up from behind this thing, then we’re going to walk over there-” Merlin nods at the bay window, still sporting the cozy results of Merlin’s cushion scavenger hunt. “And I’m going to hold your hand and we’ll have a talk. A proper one. Not the kind where you act like a prat, then clam up and glare at me.”

Arthur opens his mouth, then closes it. Merlin stares him down.

“Now, c’mon.”

And, to his eternal surprise, Arthur comes.

Admittedly, he’s still a little tense as he settles in next to Merlin, keeping to some invisible line of propriety as he folds himself a little awkwardly in between the cushions. Merlin wonders for the first time what Arthur is like in private, with people he actually likes and feels close to.

Sure, he’s seen Arthur party, but that was in a room full of polished strangers, each trying to outshine the other. But there must be times, private places and trusted friends, where Arthur’s guard comes down. Right?

Feeling oddly unsettled and trying his best not to show it, Merlin reaches rather unceremoniously for Arthur’s hand.

 Their skin brushes and there’s a strange, suspended moment where everything stills. Merlin studies Arthur, waits for him to stiffen, to grimace.

But then the moment passes and Arthur’s whole body simply…melts. His touch is soft but greedy as he weaves their fingers together, his hand broader and stronger, enfolding Merlin’s longer and slender one. Despite the tenderness of it, there’s a hidden edge of want, something desperate that strikes Merlin’s nerve endings like a flint, sparking a flame that threatens to spread like a wildfire if Merlin doesn’t act fast enough to contain it.

It’s dangerous, being this close to Arthur, building intimacy on a wonky base held together by nothing but induced feelings and Merlin’s frighteningly real reaction to them.

Unwilling to fall down that particular rabbit hole, Merlin licks his lips, intending to pull himself together, only to catch Arthur’s eyes following the path of his tongue. He fights down a shiver and quickly looks away. He needs to get a grip. How is he going to survive if a little handholding already has him flustered? Especially considering the little speech he’s prepared, currently sticking to his tongue.

Merlin almost licks his lips again, but stops himself just in time, swallowing instead. He chokes a little on his own spit, but the coughing is almost a relief, giving him an excuse to turn his face into his own elbow for a second, aiming his body away from the enticing heat of Arthur’s own.

“So,” Merlin says. “About yesterday-”

Arthur’s hand around his tightens.

“Let’s just…forget about that. Just forget what I said, I wasn’t-”

“No,” Merlin cuts in firmly. He squeezes back tightly, drawing Arthur’s gaze to his. “No, I won’t forget that. It’s the first real conversation we’ve had since I moved here, even if it was a bit…”

He waves vaguely, but the meaning is clear enough. Arthur looks away.

“The point is, I didn’t know you felt that way,” Merlin says. “Reading about it, it’s not- It didn’t prepare me for this.”

“It’s fine,” Arthur says shortly, even though they both know it isn’t.

Merlin tugs at Arthur’s hand, trying to catch his gaze once more.

“It’s not fine. I don’t want to hurt you, Arthur.” It comes out mortifyingly gentle, but Merlin can’t bring himself to gloss over it. At least Arthur is looking at him now, fever-bright and achingly vulnerable. Merlin swallows. “But for that I need you to talk to me. I can’t read your mind, yeah? You don’t have to do this alone. That’s why I’m here.”

Arthur remains silent, but Merlin can see he’s finally getting through to him. Merlin’s just glad they haven’t started biting each other’s heads off yet.

“You must see that the way you’ve been carrying on isn’t healthy,” Merlin continues, determined to get it all out now that they’ve made it this far. “What good does it do if you keel over barely a week in?”

Arthur grimaces and Merlin risks a small smile, leaning in to tentatively bump their shoulders together.

“Besides, wouldn’t it be easier if we actually tried to get on?”

Arthur sighs, looking a little out of his depth and incredibly put out by it. But he does finally answer.

“I suppose it can’t hurt.” 

His tone is brusk, but the way his thumb runs along Merlin’s own is anything but.

“Good,” Merlin says. “And one more thing.” Arthur raises his eyebrows and Merlin bravely pushes on. “Starting tonight, we’ll sleep together.”

Arthur jerks in surprise. “What?”

Merlin’s eyes widen, only realising after the fact what that sounded like.

“Not like that!” he backpaddles hastily, trying to ban the array of heated thoughts that instantly jump to the fore. But seeing Arthur’s blown pupils, the darker shade of his eyes - it’s not helping. At all. “Just…sleeping sleeping. A whole night is a lot of hours to be apart. I’m supposed to be your stabiliser, so let me…stabilise you.”

Arthur’s gaze abruptly slides away once more and Merlin gets the distinct feeling he might’ve said something wrong. He pushes on all the same.

“We tried it your way and it sucked. So now it’s my turn, and I’m telling you we need to work together, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Arthur finally says, but it’s quiet, almost a little sad. “I suppose we do.”

And Merlin doesn’t know whether to feel resentful at Arthur’s reluctance to be friends with him, or if there’s something else going on here. Either way, it leaves a bitter taste in Merlin’s mouth.

Entering Arthur’s room is like stepping into a different building altogether.

Unlike Arthur’s office, his private quarters are free of unnecessary clutter. Everything is light and sleek, transparent aluminium rimmed in silver, the colours ranging exclusively within a blue-grey scale.

“Wow,” Merlin says, rubbing curious fingers along the back of the sprawling couch, finding it surprisingly velvety. “Not a fan of red and gold after all?”

Arthur, who’d been lingering awkwardly just inside the doorway, shrugs as he steps a little further into the room.

“I like it fine. It just…gets a bit much at times.” 

Arthur stops by the floor to ceiling windows that give an almost obscenely beautiful view of Camelot City. He looks a million miles away and Merlin finds himself longing to know what he’s thinking about.

The intense pull of it takes Merlin entirely by surprise, makes his skin feel both alive and too-tight. He abruptly averts his eyes, frantically searching for something less precarious to focus on. His gaze snags on the strangely shaped desk across the room.

Curiously, Merlin draws closer. “This doesn’t look artificial.” 

Unable to help himself, Merlin pokes at it, feeling the sleek, cool smoothness of the surface. The whole thing looks like a wave frozen in time, all its edges smoothed away.

“It’s not,” Arthur says quietly. “It’s a mineral - blue anhydrite.” 

He comes over to stand beside Merlin, the heat of his body as intoxicating as ever. Merlin can smell his cologne, something fresh and subtle, complementing instead of overpowering Arthur’s natural scent.

It makes Merlin’s mouth water stupidly and he curses himself for it.

“It was a gift from my-” Arthur swallows, clears his throat. “From Morgana.”

His hand is next to Merlin’s now, their thumbs almost touching. 

“Can I-” Merlin hesitates, then pushes on, tentative but burning to know. “Can I ask? What really happened?”

Arthur is silent for so long that Merlin stops expecting an answer, surprised when Arthur finally starts speaking in a low voice.

“I doubt it’s much different from what the gossip rags have reported. Morgana came into her powers, had a huge blow-up with Father, and took off. I tried to stop her, tried to find her after, talk to her but-” Arthur shakes his head. “She doesn’t want to see me. It’s like her time here, with us, doesn’t matter to her at all.”

Merlin rather doubts that, but then again, he doesn’t know Morgana beyond what he’s seen in the media and in holo-live broadcasts. He aches to cover Arthur’s hand with his own, to hold it like he did in Arthur’s study earlier. But for some reason he…can’t. Because this is different. Raw and unscripted and far too real.

“Maybe…give her some time?” Merlin says, the words lame to his own ears.

Arthur snorts, but there’s pain there, in the clenched line of his jaw, the darkness of his eyes. 

“She and Father-” Arthur shakes his head again. “They hold grudges like no one else. They’ll probably take them to their graves.”

Before Merlin had reason to ponder it in detail, he’d always thought that Prince and King are simply younger and older versions of each other, that Arthur is merely a carbon-copy, shaped by millennia of aristocratic history and King Uther’s hate of all things magic. It’s a shock, to now discover that Arthur is his own person. And, despite never having actually met the King - at least not yet, Merlin mentally adds with stomach-dropping dread - he’s starting to realise that out of the three Pendragons, Arthur might be the one who stands apart.

“C’mon,” Arthur says. “I’ll show you the bedroom.”

It’s not said in any way suggestively, which is why it’s even more ridiculous that the words alone send heat along Merlin’s spine. He can only be grateful that he’s never been much of a blusher. Unlike Arthur, who Merlin has seen slightly flushed more than a few times by now.

Which, really, isn’t the best road for his thoughts to take, especially when confronted with the sight of Arthur’s gigantic four-poster bed.

“Well, at least we’ll both fit,” Merlin says weakly, trying very hard not to think what else one can do on a bed this big.

He side-eyes Arthur and there it is, that slight flush high on his cheeks. Merlin hastily looks away again.

“I’ll just-uhm-” Merlin points a thumb over his shoulder. “Get some of my things, yeah? Though I can keep using my own bathroom if you don’t want me to-”

“No,” Arthur says, sounding determined if a little stilted. “It’s fine. You can- you don’t need to run back-and-forth every night. Just get your stuff. As you can see, I’ve more than enough room.”

Which is rather a generous thing for a Prince to say, Merlin thinks. He’d expected Arthur to be one of those spoiled brats who don’t understand the meaning of sharing, who get annoyed whenever you so much as breathe in the direction of their earthly possessions.

Of course the prat had to go and prove Merlin wrong in this as well.

“Thanks,” Merlin mumbles and makes a hasty departure.

What the fuck had possessed him to all but order Arthur to share his bed? How are either of them going to get any sleep again, ever?

It seems that letting Merlin into his private rooms - not to mention the prospect of letting him into his bed - has made Arthur feel less married to his study. After Merlin returns from picking up a few essentials, they spend the rest of the afternoon in Arthur’s quarters.

Merlin makes use of Arthur’s gorgeous desk and holo-station, filling the space around him with research references as he slugs through an essay on General Formulae for Aerial Spells and their Historical Usage.

He expects Arthur to turn on his entertainment system, put on a show or film, possibly a game he can curse at obnoxiously. Merlin had prepared for that eventuality, putting his in-ears at the ready to filter out any disrupting noise with his study playlist.

But Arthur surprises him again and instead stretches out across his spacious couch with his pad for the several hours that follow, and Merlin’s in-ears remain untouched.

In fact, Merlin cannot remember a time or environment that has helped him concentrate this deeply in…well, forever. Even at the uni library small disturbances happen constantly, which isn’t a big deal when he’s working on something interesting. But when, like today, he’s torturing himself with something as dry as the dust in Gaius’ attic, even the smallest distraction can throw him off and make him think about how much he wants to do anything but this.

But Arthur’s rooms are quiet, cocooned in soundproofing and warded off against people by what Merlin assumes must be royal decree, because not once are they disturbed.

Merlin finally emerges from his essay-frenzy with a pounding head and a surprisingly ache-free spine. Royal arses and backs are clearly much better cared for. Seems all the stupidly fancy furniture is good for something other than looking pretty.

Stretching, Merlin looks over at Arthur, who’s barely moved a muscle since he settled down. Despite the long hours spent at the desk at his study, Merlin never would’ve thought someone as athletic as Arthur capable of such quiet downtime. 

Curiosity finally getting the better of him, Merlin dismisses the holo-windows around him with a flick of his fingers and leans forward on the now bare desk.

“What are you reading?”

Arthur doesn’t look up, but grimaces. “Something Lance recommended. I should’ve known better than to pick it up. He has terrible taste in fiction.”

“Oh? What, is it, like, a romance novel or something?”

“I don’t mind romance novels that much.” Arthur finally looks up and Merlin has no idea what his face is doing, but Arthur immediately hastens to add. “Within reason, of course. Not the completely ridiculous ones, though those can be quite hilarious on occasion-”

Merlin puts his hands up. “No need to defend yourself. There’s nothing wrong with liking romance novels, though I find them a bit boring. I prefer erotica.”

It’s Arthur’s turn to look a little weird. “You do?”

It sounds a little choked, but Merlin shrugs, fairly used to that response. He’s never made an effort to hide what he reads for pleasure.

“Sure. They can be hilarious, too. Have you read any?”

There’s that faint blush again and Merlin honestly cannot believe how golden and aloof Crown Prince Arthur can be this adorable.

“Some,” Arthur admits, an edge of defiance clinging to him as though he’s used to having to defend his actions.

And with a father such as King Uther, Merlin supposes it makes sense. But Merlin finds that he doesn’t want Arthur to feel like that with him.

“I have a pretty extensive collection, I can send you some recs.”

Arthur shuffles into a more upright position and licks his lips. 

“Thank you.”

Merlin realises a little too late how having the person you’re enchanted to be in love with recommend you smutty fiction might be a bit distracting. Merlin hastily tries to yank the atmosphere back from the gutter.

“So what is it that Lance recommended?”

The question seems to succeed in bringing Arthur back from the dangerous precipice they’d been toeing. He clears his throat.

“Some literary novel he waxed lyrically about.” Arthur rolls his eyes. “It’s full of whimsical descriptions of nature and endless introspection. Feels like I’ve been reading the same thing on loop. Nothing at all has happened and the thing has over 400 pages.”

Merlin winces. “Yeah, literary fiction isn’t my thing either.”

“Really?” Arthur sounds surprised. “I thought you’d go in for that type of thing.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows, though he’s more amused than offended. It’s reassuring, somehow, not to be the only one constantly surprised by Arthur’s real self.

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“I don’t know, just-” Arthur makes a sweeping gesture in Merlin’s direction that doesn’t tell him anything at all. “So what do you like? Other than smutty fiction that is?”

There’s a teasing glint in Arthur’s eye and Merlin finds himself huffing out a laugh.

“Fuck off,” Merlin says, grinning. “If you must know, I like high fantasy. You know, dragons, swords and sorcery…the whole package.”

To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur perks up. “So do I.”

Merlin gapes at him. “You’re fucking kidding.”

“I’m fucking not,” Arthur says, sounding and looking incredibly smug for some reason.

“Are you even allowed to read that stuff?” Merlin blurts before he can bite it back. He grimaces at himself, but curiosity is, once again, his downfall. “I mean, surely your father doesn’t approve?”

Arthur scowls. “I’m an adult, Merlin, I’ll have you know I can choose my own entertainment.”

“Yes, but…”

It’s Arthur’s turn to grimace.

“Father isn’t interested in my reading habits,” he says tightly. “As long as I’m not brewing a scandal he doesn’t much care what I do with my free time. Such as it is.”

Merlin bites his lip. “But isn’t this the shit they ask in interviews?”

Arthur nods, unhappy. “I have a Sophia-approved list of what to say in interviews. There’s even a-” Arthur hesitates, looking increasingly uncomfortable. “A fake bestreads account of all my supposed favourite books and all that shite.”

“That’s…”

“Awful, I know.”

Merlin aches to tell Arthur that it isn’t his fault, he’s seen first hand what Sophia’s like, especially in combination with that troll Catrina. He finds himself fighting a renewed longing to hold Arthur’s hand, maybe to simply hold Arthur. Merlin stamps down on it, struggling to understand how they got here.

A mere two days ago Merlin had been nothing but live decor in Arthur’s study, but the blow-up at the club seemed to have obliterated some invisible wall between them. Or maybe the wall hadn’t been a wall at all, rather more like a flimsy curtain, opaque but easily worn thin beneath the relentless pressure of the enchantment.

I know it’s not real, Arthur had told him, pained and desperate. But it feels real.

Merlin knows that his presence doesn’t disappear Arthur’s agony, only alleviates it. And while people often want to believe otherwise, Crown Prince or no, Arthur is only human. A human who seems to be under far more pressure than Merlin ever stopped to realise and who now has the addition of a potentially fatal enchantment on top of everything else.

This last week Merlin had been far too busy feeling resentful to acknowledge that what Freya had said today is right - it’s not just his own life that’s been turned upside down. Arthur hadn’t asked for this anymore than Merlin had, and though it had been Merlin who’d had to leave his flat and work behind for the time being, it’s Arthur whose privacy is being invaded. Arthur who is grappling with a no doubt scary deluge of induced feelings and sensations, trying to keep a clear head and having to fight his instincts at every turn while some diluted and polished version of his private business is presented to the adoring public on a silver platter.

The whole thing is fucking obscene, really.

Fighting his way back from inside his head, Merlin blinks, finding Arthur’s eyes already resting on him.

Letting instinct lead, he gets up, rounds the desk slowly, and makes his way over to the couch. He nudges Arthur’s leg gently with his own, the brief contact enough for Arthur’s shoulders to tighten in a suppressed shudder.

For the first time since all of this started, Merlin recognises that there’s power in this. The realisation is sudden, devastating in its clarity, and the thought of having Arthur at his mercy leaves him burning with equal parts desire and shame.

Throat suddenly dry, Merlin swallows. He forces his thoughts onto a more light-hearted track.

“Let’s see it, then,” he says, then elaborates when Arthur looks at him in askance. “Your fantasy collection. We can compare notes.”

Despite the generous size of the couch, Merlin waits for Arthur to scoot over in invitation. He leaves a careful space between them, but only barely, greedily drinking in ever more familiar heat of Arthur’s body. Arthur shifts restlessly for a moment, the movement bringing him closer.

Their shoulders bump lightly, their sides brushing tantalisingly, and it’s Merlin’s turn to suppress a shiver.

Arthur hands him his pad, their fingers meeting in a shower of invisible sparks. It leaves Merlin’s skin tight and over-sensitised and when Arthur takes the excuse of looking at the pad to lean in and press his chest along Merlin’s side, Merlin lets him. 

Because he’s doing this to help Arthur. Because Arthur is a prat, but maybe not as big a prat as Merlin believed.

And that’s all there is to it, Merlin tells himself firmly as Arthur’s warmth seeps past his bones and pools somewhere deep and fundamental. That’s all this is.

Arthur’s bathroom has none of the faux-antique look and Merlin notices, to his disappointment, that the bathtub does not actually have claw feet. It is, however, the size of a small pool with a myriad of strange protrusions one can lie or sit on. The sight only serves in mentally shifting his previous fantasy into something more…creative.

Merlin groans and lets his forehead thunk onto the counter next to the sink, toothbrush still sticking from the corner of his mouth. Uncaring of how dramatic he’s being, Merlin remains where he is, brushing without much care, trusting the sonic function to take care of the worst of it.

All he can think about is that there’s only one door between him and the fact that when he walks through it, it’ll be to crawl into Arthur’s bed - with Arthur.

He can still see Will’s unimpressed face during their earlier vid comm.

“I know that look,” Will had told him almost as soon as Merlin was done explaining the situation. “It’s the look you get when you’re trying to bullshit yourself. You’re already in for it, aren’t you? You like that posh prick.”

“I told you-”

“Merlin,” Will had said seriously. “I get that you’re already in this mess, so there’s no point telling you to get out. I’m also aware I know fuck-all about all your fancy magical theory bollocks. All I understand is that the bloke’s addled, and he’s going to do and tell you all sorts of shit. Just- remember it’s not real, alright?”

Merlin’s insides twist sharply at the memory. 

“I know that,” he’d told Will stubbornly.

And he does. He’s just not sure what good it actually does him. Will had given him an uncharacteristically sympathetic look. Apparently being out of ‘friendly’ punching range and hugs that more often than not end up in choke-holds means Will is forced to show his affection like a regular human being for once.

“I just worry about you, you wanker,” Will had said gruffly. “This is no way to get your heart broken. Imagine your very first time happening because of a love potion. It’s embarrassing.”

Merlin honestly hadn’t known whether he wanted to laugh or cry. All he’d known is that he’d been too tired to argue.

“I don’t know why I’m friends with you…”

Grinning, Will had said, “Because you’d be lost without me.”

Merlin peels himself off the counter and drags the toothbrush from his mouth, staring at it sightlessly. He can tell Will is worried about him - he always is, even the times he doesn’t want to admit it. But Merlin has the situation under control.

Yes, he admits grudgingly, he’s attracted to Arthur. Really, who isn’t? He’d have to be dead not to find him hot. That doesn’t mean he’s mentally crowning himself and dreaming of being his future Queen.

He’s under no illusions. Arthur and him aren’t friends. They aren’t anything. And as soon as the enchantment is broken and Arthur regains his senses, he’ll send Merlin on his way. There’s going to be some short, public statement to make their ‘break-up’ official and Merlin will be relieved to get back to his regular life.

Arthur will no longer be ‘Arthur’, he’ll be ‘the Crown Prince’. Someone you read about in the news and watch in holo-broadcasts, maybe get a glimpse of at the annual parade - utterly out of reach.

And Merlin might have some vague regret about not kissing him, or making him come, but that’s all it’s going to be. 

Will is wrong. 

There’ll be no breaking of hearts, least of all Merlin’s own.

Arthur’s already in bed when Merlin finally emerges.

Despite the paleness and the shadows that tiredness has painted beneath his eyes, Arthur looks annoyingly delectable. He’s leaning against the headboard, dark covers pooled in his lap, and clad in a loose, white shirt so thin it might as well be see-through, blinking tiredly at the pad in his lap.

Merlin swallows. Arthur looks up at him and frowns.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” he says irritably. “Get in. I want to go to sleep.”

Merlin tries not to think about how unlikely sleep will be for either of them tonight, approaching the bed as though it’s a wild animal. Tentatively, he peels the covers back from one side. Unsurprisingly, they’re even silkier than the ones in the guest quarters. There’s probably some kind of top secret formula that’s only allowed to be used for making royal silk, spun thread-by-thread by gold plated droids.

Merlin is barely settled before the room is plunged into darkness. It’s almost suffocating, especially with the transparent aluminium windows now gone opaque on what can only be a blackout night setting.

They lie in stillness on opposite ends of the bed, and if it weren’t for the sound of Arthur’s breathing, Merlin would think himself alone. Instead, the darkness seems to only enhance Arthur’s soft exhalations, slightly too fast to be restful and almost harsh in the otherwise silent room.

Merlin licks his lips, but it ends up sounding almost dirty and only serves to unsettle Merlin further. At this point, he’s convinced that Arthur must be able to hear the frantic beat of his heart.

“Does it have to be so dark?” Merlin blurts finally, unable to take it another second.

The bed jerks slightly and Merlin thinks he probably startled Arthur. Though, really, what had he expected? For Merlin to simply lie there in tense silence for the rest of the night?

“Are you scared, Merlin?” Arthur asks and Merlin isn’t quite sure if it’s meant to be teasing or disparaging.

Arthur can be such a prick.

“Piss off,” Merlin snaps. “It’s just- it’s pitch-black! I feel like I’ve been buried alive. In a very fancy coffin.”

Arthur makes a disgruntled sound. “Thanks for that imagery.”

Merlin feels Arthur move beside him and thinks there’s a good chance he’ll simply turn over and ignore him. But then the bed moves again and there’s a muffled curse.

“What are you doing?” Merlin asks, frowning into the darkness.

“Hang on,” Arthur mutters irritably. Then after a moment, “There we go.”

The words have barely left his mouth when all around them the room is suddenly lit by thousands of stars, studding everything from floor to ceiling - including the blacked-out windows.

“Satisfied?” Arthur’s voice is dry, but Merlin thinks he can hear the tiniest sliver of wariness. 

Sleep forgotten, Merlin sits up, feeling the silken sheets gliding away and pooling around him. He cranes his neck for a better view.

“When did you get this?”

Arthur doesn’t answer at first and Merlin turns to him, the silvery light only just enough to outline Arthur’s form. He’s bleached of colour, made entirely of shadows and artificial starlight, so unlike the golden Prince Merlin has admired so many times, inadvertent or otherwise.

Arthur isn’t looking at him, his gaze trained upwards, the lights having turned his eyes from an ocean to a night sky.

“There was this one time,” Arthur finally says quietly. “When I visited my father in his study. I must’ve been about 10 or so.”

Merlin has no idea where this is going, but he finds himself burning with curiosity all the same. The fact that Arthur is sharing something personal with him makes his chest almost unbearably tight, doing nothing at all for his still erratic heartbeat.

He’s scared to move and break the spell, instead arrested where he is, silently urging Arthur to continue. After a moment, Arthur does.

“It was before Morgana came to live with us, so there wasn’t-” He breaks off and it doesn’t take a huge leap to infer what Arthur stopped himself from saying. That there hadn’t been anyone else; that he’d been lonely. “Anyway, so I came to Father’s study, but he was quite busy.” The as always is rather heavily implied. “He had to rush off to a council meeting or something. He didn’t tell me I had to leave, so I sat down at his desk. He hadn’t locked his holo-station, so I started poking around-”

Merlin finally shifts, lying back down, but this time on his side, head propped up on one hand to be able to look down at Arthur, close enough now to feel the familiar heat radiating from his body.

“Can’t think your father was happy about that.”

Arthur snorted. “He certainly wouldn’t have been, if he’d actually caught me.”

Merlin grins. “How sneaky of you. Who knew you had it in you.”

“Do you want to hear the story or not?”

Merlin mimes zipping shut his lips and Arthur must be able to see enough of it for the sentiment to come across. Merlin can practically feel his eyeroll.

“Most of the stuff went right over my head, of course, and believe it or not, my father is actually terrible at organising files. He has this tendency of just making folders within folders and giving them all really vague names.”

Merlin is struggling to reconcile his understanding of King Uther with Arthur’s exasperation at such a human quirk. But he’s not King Uther in this story, Merlin realises, he’s just a father who’s left his young son unsupervised in his office.

“But then I found this one folder.” Arthur’s tone is quieter now, almost painfully somber. “It had my mother’s name on it.”

Everyone knows of the Queen’s tragic death when giving birth to her son. And despite his many faults, King Uther’s love for his wife is legendary. Merlin knows what it’s like to grow up with a grieving parent and he can only imagine what a man such as King Uther was like with the pain still fresh and a young child in need of his attention and care. It’s hardly a leap to think that the King was not forthcoming with either.

And Arthur’s next words only confirm Merlin’s suspicions further.

“He never talks about her, you know,” Arthur says tightly. “I used to ask questions, but he always got this look on his face-” 

He presses his lips together and Merlin wants to reach out, trace them with his finger to coax them back into the usual lush pout, then lean in and taste them with his own. He wants to wrap Arthur in his arms and comfort him.

He curls his fingers into the soft bedding instead.

Arthur sighs. “So I…stopped. The only memographs and holos I had of her were official footage that I’d found on the net. But that folder…it was full of all these things, stages of her life I never even knew about. M-graphs of when she was younger, before she was Queen-” 

Arthur breaks off once more, his voice raw. 

Merlin’s magic is clamouring within his chest, his anger at such blatant selfishness manifesting in a very real desire to wring the King’s neck.

“Your father never showed you any of these?” Merlin asks, voice tight with the effort it takes to contain his emotions.

Arthur shakes his head, then clears his throat. His voice still comes out hoarse.

“I thought he’d deleted everything, but it was all there. I just don’t understand-” Arthur cuts himself off abruptly, then clears his throat again, his tone smoothing over into something wooden. “It must’ve hurt too much.”

He’s trying to make excuses, Merlin realises. His father had wronged him, but still here Arthur is, resigned rather than infuriated. Merlin will gladly be furious enough for both of them.

He considers briefly pointing out how utterly despicable the whole thing is, but bites it back. Now’s not the time and Arthur is likely to direct his anger at Merlin instead. The thought saddens him more than he’d like to admit.

Tentatively, Merlin reaches out, his fingers barely grazing the thin material of Arthur’s sleep shirt. Arthur shivers, muscles jumping beneath Merlin’s almost-touch, before abruptly catching Merlin’s hand with his own. The sudden heat of it, the utter realness of Arthur’s fingers sliding against and between his own lights something akin to a wildfire in Merlin’s body.

Merlin’s magic thrums happily, eager to be set free and engulf them both. He fights it down resolutely.

“So, the stars?” Merlin croaks, desperate to focus on something other than that one point where Arthur’s skin is pressed against his own.

“The folder, it wasn’t just m-graphs and stuff. I found plans for a holiday home - a small one, nothing really special. But the master bedroom, it had a ceiling of transparent aluminium so you could see the stars.” Arthur huffs a small, bitter laugh. “And I suddenly got this idea - foolish, I know - that having something like that would…”

“Make you feel closer to your mum?” Merlin hazards gently. He squeezes Arthur’s hand. “It’s not foolish, Arthur. You were a child. It’s natural you’d want that.”

Arthur swallows audibly. “I knew I couldn’t ask my father about it, so I spent about a week searching for ways to ‘get stars on my ceiling’.”

Merlin smiles, imagining little Arthur fervently searching the net for a solution. He’s impressed, really. He knows he himself had been quite a self-sufficient child, but he remembers other kids that age. Will hadn’t even known how to tie his own shoelaces yet.

“And you found this.” Merlin twirls his finger at their surroundings.

Arthur nods. “It was the best alternative. My father wasn’t too thrilled about it, of course. Especially because they had to take out all the stained glass.”

A definite improvement, Merlin thinks. The glass is pretty enough, but it can get a little oppressive, what with being unable to actually look outside through most of them.

“I think it’s amazing,” Merlin says softly.

Arthur’s smile is small, but still bright enough to pierce straight through the darkness.

“Yeah?” Arthur runs his fingers along Merlin’s, an absent caress that nevertheless leaves Merlin breathless. It almost makes him miss Arthur’s next words. “I’d like to think my mother would’ve liked it.”

Merlin swallows, clamping down on Arthur’s fingers both in reassurance and to stop them from literally making him go out of his mind. 

“I’m sure she would’ve.”

Silence stretches between them, the uncomfortable tension from before swept away by unexpected intimacy. Merlin feels vaguely scrubbed raw, despite the fact that Arthur had been the one to lay himself bare. He wonders if Arthur feels the same. 

Arthur’s hold on his hand tightens, his voice barely more than a murmur when he says, “I’m glad you’re here, Merlin.”

Merlin’s breath falters, his heart stuttering hopelessly. He doesn’t mean it, Merlin thinks fervently, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the sight of Arthur bathed in starlight.

But still Merlin holds on to Arthur’s hand; a futile effort to tether himself to reality.

He feels Arthur before he sees him, his furnace of a body pressed against Merlin’s own, his familiar scent filling Merlin’s every breath.

Despite the heat and slight sweatiness of it all, Merlin’s first instinct is to curl closer. Silken hair is tickling him and Merlin scrunches up his nose, then nuzzles in anyway, all but rubbing his face against the soft nape of Arthur’s neck.

His scent is stronger there, mixed in with the vague fruitiness of his posh shampoo. Beneath him, Arthur shivers, then presses back in a subtle, rolling motion that has both Merlin’s breath and hips hitching, the snug fit of Arthur’s perfect arse transforming Merlin’s idle morning-wood into something far more focused and altogether impossible to ignore.

It’s also, Merlin realises as the sleepy fog around him rapidly clears, a far too coordinated movement for someone supposedly still asleep.

Realising that he’s currently pressing his hard dick into the very hot, and very irresistible dip of Arthur’s arsecheeks, Merlin hastily scrambles away. Mouth desert-dry and heart hammering wildly, Merlin looks at Arthur, but finds his eyes still closed.

Even so, Merlin can tell from the tense set of his shoulders moving with not-quite even breaths, and the faint flush of his cheeks that Arthur isn’t asleep. How long had he been awake? Lying there with Merlin’s hard-on snugged up against him?

And gods, Arthur must be hard too. No matter the authenticity of his feelings, his body won’t know the difference. If Merlin is feeling desperate, it’s nothing compared to what Arthur must be going through. In a sudden flash, Merlin remembers the first vague, weirdly charged conversation with Gaius, how Arthur had awkwardly skirted the subject.

I noticed some…cravings, Arthur’s voice echoes back from the memory. He’d meant this, of course he had, Merlin had just been too tired and clueless to realise the full breadth of the implication. And when Gaius had asked Arthur if those cravings were directed at a specific person Arthur had looked at Merlin.

Fuck, but he’d been oblivious.

And now all he can think of is Arthur, in this very bed, hard and aching for Merlin. 

It’s wrong, Merlin knows that, he knows, because Arthur doesn’t want him, not truly. But still, all Merlin can think about is forgetting everything else and just lying back down, of rucking up that bloody sleep shirt and putting his mouth all over that gorgeous back. Touch him everywhere to find out exactly how his fingers fit into every dip, curve around muscle and bone until Arthur’s body is covered in nothing but Merlin’s invisible fingerprints.

Merlin’s magic twists hungrily, eager to burst forth, to wrap around Arthur, sink inside him and keep him close-

He jerks back, mortified, stumbling from the bed and bolting for the bathroom. Inside, he slumps face-first against the locked door, weak-kneed and still painfully hard.

Biting back a groan, Merlin unceremoniously shoves his hand past the loose waistband of his sleep-joggers. He tries not to let his thoughts wander, to concentrate on nothing but the familiar feeling of his own hand.

Instead, he keeps on returning to the moment he’d woken up and felt the perfect way Arthur had fit against him. The smell of his sleep-warm skin, the silky-softness of his hair, the hungry, precise grind of his hips.

Merlin bites back a moan, buries his face in the crook of his arm as his hand speeds up to a rough, almost punishing rhythm. He thinks about how Arthur is just beyond this door, now alone in a bed of silk sheets. Is he rubbing against them now, slow and decadent? Or is he as desperate as Merlin, hand tight on his dick, knowing Merlin is doing the exact same thing a mere few feet away?

Merlin wishes he could hear him, wants to catch every little sound with his mouth, kiss him until they’re both dizzy with it. He wants to know if Arthur’s dick gets wet when he’s turned on, if he likes it fast or slow. He wants Arthur’s weight on him, then turn them over so he can grind him into the sheets until he begs.

“I want you to come on me,” Merlin imagines Arthur murmuring, moaning the words into his ear, those strong thighs clamping down around his waist to lock them together, trapping their weeping dicks between their sweat-slicked bodies. 

Merlin whimpers a breathless “Fuck”, has to wrench his face from the crook of his elbow to suck in a series of sobbing breaths.

In his head, Arthur is panting just as wildly. He’d bite at Merlin’s lip, lick into his mouth, then command him in that infuriating, insanely arrogant voice of his to, “Come for me. Now, Merlin.”

And Merlin would, and he does, coating his fingers and that fucking bathroom door, the cry of Arthur’s name muffled in the harsh clamp of teeth around the back of his hand.

They’re good at pretending nothing happened. So good, in fact, that Merlin almost believes it himself, if it weren’t for the weird, almost static sensation that’s been growing between them since Merlin sheepishly crept out of the bathroom this morning after a much-needed shower.

Then again, that feeling had been growing just fine even before Merlin had a furious wank in the Prince’s bathroom, the reddened indent of his teeth still stark against the back of his hand.

Merlin tugs at his sleeve, wishing he could use magic to heal it. Unfortunately, Merlin has never been all that great with healing spells. Not only that, but they require a disproportional amount of energy and despite everything, the thought of being trapped in the Palace without access to his magic makes Merlin squirm with anxiety.

“Will you stop fidgeting,” Arthur snaps.

They’d come to Arthur’s study straight after a stilted breakfast, quietly taking their respectful places. Since then, Arthur had been deeply engrossed at his holo-station, typing and violently back-spacing in equal intervals, while Merlin has been trying and failing to concentrate on yet another scan from an ancient, dusty tome.

“I’m not fidgeting!” he protests, knowing how ridiculous it sounds as he fidgets some more.

Arthur glares and at any other time, Merlin would probably have taken the unspoken invitation for a good, old row. But he’s still feeling a little raw and there’s something in the tense line of Arthur’s shoulders, the way his jaw is clenched even harder than usual, and Merlin finds himself softening instead. Arthur is clearly wound tight. Had Merlin been wrong? Had Arthur not taken the opportunity to get off this morning after all?

And why is Merlin so determined to give himself another raging hard-on by letting his thoughts go straight down the rabbit hole of debauchery again?

Biting his lip, Merlin tries his best to push all of that away and instead of antagonising, he goes for a milder tone.

“I’m not the one using their holo-station as a punching bag,” he says drily. “What’s got you so worked up, anyway?”

At first, Merlin is sure Arthur’s going to bite his head off, but his irritation smoothes out abruptly on a sigh.

“It’s this fucking speech.”

“Speech?”

“I have to ‘say a few words’-” Arthur rolls his eyes. “At the opening of the new children’s hospital.”

“Don’t you have people who write that shit for you?”

Arthur grimaces. “I’d rather not sound like a complete buffoon. At least fucking up my own speech still makes me sound like myself.”

“It can’t be that bad.” Merlin casts his pad aside and rounds Arthur’s desk-monstrosity. “Let me see.”

Arthur obediently leans back as Merlin bends down, bracing himself on the edge of the polished wood as he skims the slightly stilted, but endearingly sincere lines.

“So?” Arthur prompts, and Merlin knows him well enough by now to hear the trace of nervousness beneath the haughtiness.

“It’s a bit stiff,” Merlin says honestly, sweeping his finger over the holo-pad to move the cursor. “But not bad. We can definitely work with that. Here, scoot back a bit-”

Arthur obliges and Merlin doesn’t think as he folds himself onto Arthur’s lap, hands already on the touch-keys and brain buzzing with possibilities of improvement. He’s tweaked three and written another two sentences before he’s even aware of what he’s done. His hands still above the keys.

Mouth dry, Merlin swallows convulsively, thinks about apologising even though he finds himself not sorry in the least. He almost does it all the same, but then Arthur’s hands are on his hips, warm and hesitant. When Merlin doesn’t protest, his touch firms, turns into something deliberate. Something wanting - and wanted.

Licking his lips, Merlin forces his breathing to calm and his fingers to resume their work.

This isn’t a big deal, Merlin tells himself firmly, even as Arthur’s arms slowly snake around his waist. I’ve sat in Will and Gwaine’s laps a hundred times.

Only that this is neither Will nor Gwaine, and the way Arthur feels underneath him and sets his body alight is whole solar systems away from the casual touches of his friends.

Swallowing hard, Merlin forces his attention back to the screen.

“There,” Merlin declares finally, overly-bright. Because they’re going to ignore the tension and move past it. “All done. You want to have a look?”

But Arthur is silent, the press of his fingers edged in desperation. Merlin can feel as much as hear him clearing his throat.

“In a minute. Can you-” Arthur breaks off, his breath a little uneven. “Can we just stay? Like this? Just for a bit.”

He doesn’t say Please, he doesn’t have to. Merlin can sense his need and finds that there’s little he wouldn’t give him. Slowly, he covers Arthur’s hands with his own, their fingers sliding together with frightening familiarity.

“Of course.”

Arthur’s head drops to Merlin’s shoulder, his forehead hot even through the layer of fabric between them. 

“Thank you.”

Merlin would like to say it gets better, but it really doesn’t.

No matter how many times he falls back on his endless mantra over the following three weeks, it does nothing to clear the ever-muddying waters. There’s simply no amount of logic that could possibly battle being in such close quarters all the time. Sharing someone’s bed is bound to create at least a base level of intimacy, especially when said bed sharing usually starts with them holding hands only to end with their bodies entwined by the time Merlin wakes in the morning. 

There’ll be awkward boners, Merlin’s flight to the bathroom. He’ll have a guilty wank, pretend he’s not thinking of Arthur, or the fact that Arthur is probably doing the exact same thing on the other side of the door. That his magic isn’t begging for Merlin to let it obliterate said door so that Merlin can see, or better yet, fall back into bed and just touch him.

Which is also around the time he comes all over himself in the most unsatisfying way.

And, really, if that’s all it was, Merlin could deal with it. Yes, fine, he’s never been so sexually frustrated in his life, but all that…it doesn’t really mean anything. Sure, it’s a bit uncomfortable and a lot annoying, his dick might be a little sore and his thoughts both scattered and obsessively clinging to the gutter, but things like these don’t dig deep. They float on the surface, souring his mood, before eventually fading away.

But this is an altogether different beast. One that digs its claws in, gouging Merlin’s heart until all the things he’s so desperately trying to bury bleed out and leave him aching and hollow.

It’s not real, Merlin thinks when his gaze snags on Arthur’s across a room and Arthur’s eyes deepen and his mouth softens, the corner lifting just that tiny, involuntary bit.

It’s not real, Merlin doesn’t say to Gwaine when, on one of his and Arthur’s fake coffee dates, he drags Merlin away and corners him in the staff room until Merlin spills the whole story in a rush, carefully wrapped in layers of indignant denial.

I know it’s not real, Arthur told him at the club, and, each night, lying sleepless under a fake sky and seduced by fake feelings, Merlin wonders if Arthur has been repeating the same mantra in his head. 

He wonders if either of them actually believes it.

The flash of the cameras hasn’t become any less obnoxious. 

At least Merlin no longer freezes like a woodland animal in the headlights. He obediently smiles and waves, his other hand held in Arthur’s own as they make their way swiftly towards the grand entrance of the The Avalon.

Unlike the nightclub, the atmosphere of the gala oozes snootiness. The ballroom is huge and already incredibly crowded. Most of the centre is taken up by a glimmering dance floor, a small orchestra seated at the furthest edge of it. They’re real musicians, of course - humans, not droids - who no doubt charged an arm and a leg for bringing their antique-looking instruments to the gig.

Dark-clad waiting staff expertly wind their way in-between glitzy guests, who all seem to be following the same electric colour-scheme and a penchant for excessive jewellery covering them from their hairline all the way to the hem of their dresses and frocks.

Merlin would honestly trade it all in for a club full of drunk, grinding celebrities.

“If we put all of them on a ship do you think it’d just sink to the bottom?” Merlin murmurs as Arthur hands him a tall flute of aggressively bubbling champagne. “What with everyone wearing their weight in gold and diamonds.”

Arthur snorts into his own glass, his lips barely touching the liquid inside without taking a sip. Merlin can’t imagine getting through the experience without the welcome numbness of alcohol.

Reflexively, Merlin’s eyes seek out the Knights stationed along the walls with other security personnel, eyes flickering over the room and fingers going to their ear pieces every so often. It’s just one more thing on a long list of things Merlin resents about the whole business.

“Arthur! Merlin!” Elena exclaims happily, swooping in to press an enthusiastic smooch to their cheeks.

Mithian, ever the more sedate one, air-kisses Arthur’s cheekbone, then squeezes Merlin’s arm with a smile.

It’s a relief to see that both of them went easy on the jewellery, Elena matching his choice in comfortable footwear, if in a more glamorous way.

She grins and punches his arm - and what is it with people wanting to hit him all the time?

“Love the shoes,” she says.

Merlin grimaces. “My best mate basically forces me to wear them everywhere now. He’s trademarked the design. Apparently I’ve made him rich.”

Elena laughs so hard she ends up snorting champagne from her nose. Merlin chuckles and hands her a napkin. Mithian rolls her eyes good-naturedly and wraps an arm around her.

“Fuck,” Arthur mutters. “I see the Dowager Duchess of Cornwall. I’d best go say hello. Be right back.”

Discarding his still full glass on a passing waiter’s tray, Arthur slips past Merlin, giving a gentle squeeze to the nape of his neck in parting. 

Watching Arthur’s retreating back, Merlin touches the still tingling spot, the ghost of Arthur’s fingers lingering.

“So, tell us more about that friend of yours,” Elena prompts, eyes bright with humour.

So Merlin does, regaling them with some of the highlights of his friendship with Will, all the while feeling incredibly vindicated in being the one to share embarrassing stories for once. 

They’re occasionally interrupted by people wanting to trade vapid smalltalk with Elena and Mithian, all of them eyeing Merlin surreptitiously. He sticks to stiff nods and tight smiles, wanting nothing than to be as far away from here as possible.

The latest such interloper seems even more determined than the others, full of oily smiles and cringeworthy compliments. Tuning them out, Merlin grabs another glass from a passing waiter and subtly checks his phone. 

He finds a message from Gwen, updating him on the situation with Elyan, who’d recently lost his job and been evicted from the flat that had come with it. Gwen had first told him about it during his and Arthur’s last visit at the Grind. Merlin’s been trying to help come up with solutions ever since, but so far all three of them have come up empty. 

Guilt twists his insides at the fact that he’s currently surrounded by people whose clothes cost more than his friends’ yearly salaries. No matter how resigned he’s become over his current role, Merlin will never fit in here.

He’s only just sent his response when Elena grips his arm.

“Oh, fairy holes. What’s she doing here?”

Alarmed, Merlin looks up and follows Elena’s gaze, which is trained on Arthur, standing even more rigidly than usual. The bedecked Dowager Duchess from before has disappeared, in her place is now a petite blond woman who is batting her eyelashes.

“Who’s that?” Merlin asks, careful to keep his voice down.

Behind them, Mithian and the oily tosser are still locked in conversation, entirely oblivious. Elena hooks her arm through Merlin’s to give them an excuse to be closer.

“That’s Lady Vivian,” she tells him quietly. “Daughter to the Duke of Dyfed. He and His Majesty are old mates.”

Merlin watches the woman coyly twist a lock of her hair around her finger and something in his stomach tightens.

“Poor Arthur,” Elena continues. “He can’t stand her, but the King and Duke have been trying to get them to marry for years. They’ve been throwing them together since they were kids.”

The unnamed thing in Merlin’s stomach turns into something vicious and ugly. Some of his reaction must’ve shown on his face, because Elena gives him a sympathetic look and squeezes his arm probably a little tighter than intended.

His only comfort is that Elena seems to be right; Arthur looks as though he would rather be anywhere else. The sight leeches away some of the bitterness, replaced by a surge of protectiveness. 

Decision made, Merlin empties his glass and puts it aside, then straightens his jacket.

“I better go rescue my boyfriend,” he says wryly.

The word sits a little too comfortably on his lips, but Merlin ignores it. Elena grins widely and Merlin dances out of the way of another playful punch. Her laugh follows him as he goes.

Merlin quickly finds that the waiting staff must have a whole section of their training dedicated solely to dodging and weaving around posh guests. The fact that everyone here seems to consider themselves the most important means that no one is willing to move out of anyone’s way.

It would be funny if it weren’t so annoying.

“-really couldn’t believe it, Arthur, when I heard. You slumming it like this!” Vivian is saying just when Merlin finally comes into listening range.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what she’s talking about. Arthur looks as though he wishes he could incinerate her with the force of his glare. Merlin feels an instant, unexpected warmth at seeing him so ready to leap to Merlin’s defence.

Any lingering doubts of his right to come to Arthur’s aid disappear. Without another moment’s hesitation, he moulds himself to Arthur’s side; the gesture unapologetic in its possessiveness.

“There you are,” Merlin says, his voice coming out low and intimate.

Arthur opens to him like a flower, his body turning towards Merlin, his arm wrapping around him to pull him even closer. Arthur’s fingers curl tenderly at the nape of his neck, re-awakening the skin to his touch. Merlin feels the resulting shiver all the way to his bones.

“There you are,” Arthur returns quietly, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. There’s a softness in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe. “I thought you might’ve abandoned me.”

And they’re only pretending, so Merlin doesn’t let himself think before he responds.

“Never.”

This close, Arthur’s eyes are very blue and Merlin finds himself weirdly captivated by his pale lashes. There really isn’t anything about Arthur that isn’t golden, Merlin thinks. He’s almost surprised when instead of annoyed bitterness, now there’s only a warm ache unfurling within his chest.

Arthur gazes back at him, unblinking, his warm breath brushing Merlin’s lips like a phantom kiss.

Vivian clears her throat, shrill and obnoxious.

He feels more than hears Arthur’s sigh and Merlin only barely manages to mask his annoyance as he takes a page from Arthur’s handbook of royals and eyes her cooly. 

“And who’s that?” he asks Arthur, making sure to sound as though he doesn’t care one way or another. “Friend of yours?”

As expected, the fact that Merlin seems not to know who she is riles Vivian better than any insult, her artfully rosied cheeks flushing into something dark and blotchy in irritation.

Arthur doesn’t confirm or deny, instead going for a neutral, “This is Lady Vivian.”

Merlin makes no move to extricate himself from Arthur.

“Hello.”

Vivian goes even blotchier. “You’re to address me as my Lady, you peasant.”

He feels Arthur going rigid at his side, drawn tauter than a bowstring. Merlin runs a soothing palm along his spine.

“Well, this peasant is here to steal away his boyfriend, so if you’ll excuse us.”

Vivian turns indignant eyes and a pouty mouth at Arthur.

“Arthur, you can’t go yet! You’re supposed to ask me to dance!”

“Sorry,” Arthur says coolly. “I already promised Merlin the next one. And all the ones after that.”

Vivian looks as though Arthur slapped her and Merlin almost feels a little sorry for her, until he remembers that this is the person who accused Arthur of ‘slumming’ and called Merlin a peasant to his face. He doesn’t bother fighting the urge to give Vivian a smug grin as Arthur leads him away.

It’s only when they’re halfway across the room, drawing dangerously close to the dance floor that Arthur’s words register.

“Maybe now’s the time I should tell you that I can’t actually dance any of your fancy dances,” Merlin murmurs, causing Arthur to stop and turn to look at him in surprise.

“And by fancy dances you mean…?”

Merlin rolls his eyes and tilts his head where a few steps away couples are stiffly circling each other in a poised and sedate fox-trot.

“You know, ballroom and all that stuff.”

To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur looks amused rather than irritated.

“You said you can’t dance fancy dances, that means you can dance something.”

Merlin shrugs. “I grew up in a tiny village. My mum taught me all the country dances she knows pretty much as soon as I could walk.”

There’s a gleam in Arthur’s eye and Merlin wonders whether he should be alarmed by it.

“Well, that’s easily fixed, then. Wait here.”

“Arthur, what-”

But Arthur’s already gone.

Pushing to his tip-toes, Merlin tries to keep track of his broad-shouldered form and golden head. He watches Arthur make his way towards the small stage where the musicians have just finished with their dull fox-trot number.

Arthur addresses the conductor, who at first displays the familiar signs of being starstruck in the presence of a royal. But as Arthur keeps talking, the conductor starts looking increasingly scandalised.

Merlin bites at his lips.

Leaving the disapproving conductor, Merlin then watches Arthur round up his Knights alongside Elena, Mithian and a rather horrified looking George.

With the lull in music, the ballroom’s dance floor is slowly being abandoned by slightly bewildered guests.

“What’s going on?” Merlin asks when Arthur is back.

He takes Merlin’s hand and tugs him towards the dance floor.

“I promised you a dance, didn’t I?”

“But-”

“Shut up, Merlin.” Arthur smirks. “I promise you’ll know this one.”

George materialises next to them, eyes wide and expression even more pinched than usual.

“Your Highness, I really don’t think-”

“You do know this dance, don’t you, George?” Arthur cuts him off pleasantly.

George looks a little faint. “Yes, but, sire-”

Arthur claps him on the shoulder, then does the same to Lance who takes his position across from George.

The first few familiar notes of Shepherd and Shepherdess sound across the ballroom’s dance floor and Merlin’s jaw drops. He looks around in alarm, seeing several heads turn towards the musicians in clear bewilderment.

“You didn’t,” Merlin says, turning back to Arthur with wide eyes. “How do you even know this dance?”

Arthur’s smirk widens. “The Crown Prince’s education is very extensive, Merlin.”

The realisation hits like a sledgehammer.

He did this for me, Merlin thinks dumbly. All this is-

“Hurry up, Mithie,” Elena urges, already bouncing on the spot.

“Hang on!” Mithian laughs, struggling to take off her earrings and the somewhat ornate combs protruding from her artful hairdo. “Give me a second!”

It’s a wise decision, really, seeing as country dances are notorious for their vigorous hopping about. Part of why posh people see them as vulgar, Merlin supposes.

Finally freed of her bulkiest accessories, Mithian takes her place across from Elena, who has no doubt already scandalised half the room by using the slit in her dress to tie it into a sort of mini-skirt in order not to get tangled in it.

Leon and Percy are the last to take their place in the formation and Merlin can’t help but be amused at the varying levels of enthusiasm coming from the group.

Having finished their short warm-up, the musicians restart the song. The pace it starts off as is deceptively sedate, as they circle each other, moving apart and coming back together. And then the music truly kicks in and they’re off. 

Laughing stupidly they break and reform lines, change partners and join sweaty hands as they hop around wildly, trying to keep track of which direction they’re supposed to go and who they’re supposed to do it with.

It’s clear that some of them have more experience than others with this type of dancing.

George looks perpetually torn between general mortification and what Merlin thinks must be horror at the fact that he actually seems to be enjoying himself. Leon keeps sucking in his cheeks to hide the size of his grin, and calm, quiet Lance turns out to be one of the most vigorous of the group alongside Elena. Merlin suspects it might have to do with growing up a country boy himself.

Soon, Elena is whooping, Mithian and Percy are hooting with laughter as they mess up the direction. It makes all of them stumble together in an undignified bundle of limbs, before Merlin shouts out the right direction and gets them back into rhythm, trying not to stumble with how hard he himself is laughing.

And then there’s Arthur, golden and uninhibited, for once utterly unbridled of the constraints of decorum and so beautiful it hurts Merlin to look at him.

And as they twist and twirl, parting only to be reunited, Merlin thinks that when all this is over, when he has to go back to his regular life, this is what he’ll remember.

The light catching in Arthur’s hair as he throws his head back in a laugh, the feel of his hands as they grab Merlin’s own, warm and tight as though he never wants to let go. And his eyes, bright and hungry and only ever for Merlin.

PRINCE ARTHUR GAMBOLS THROUGH GALA; CAMELOT’S PRINCE CONDUCTS COUNTRY FAIR; HOP AND SWAP: PRINCE AND FRIENDS DOMINATE DANCE FLOOR-

“Crown Prince Prances With Country Consort,” Merlin reads out loud. “Well, at least they didn’t call me a peasant.”

Arthur groans. “Father’s going to kill me!”

He’s barely touched a thing on the breakfast table, instead swiping through increasingly outrageous headlines and what seems to be a moment by moment recap of last night.

What’s more, the fun and abandon ended up being contagious, which is why the m-graphs and holos show not only their merry group, but a good portion of guests who hadn’t been so uptight after all. Many of them had followed Mithian’s example to discard heavy jewellery in favour for more unrestrained and comfortable movement. Even the snooty musicians had perked up in the end, no doubt invigorated by the atmosphere and the happy country songs.

Grimacing, Arthur finally flicks away the articles and discards his pad.

Merlin proceeds to watch him poke listlessly at his toast as guilt niggles at him. He looks down at his own abandoned slice. 

Last night had been fun, more than that, it had been brilliant and Merlin can’t bring himself to regret any of it. Still, he can’t help but think he’s failed Arthur somehow. After all, there’s no way Arthur would’ve done what he did if it weren’t for the enchantment. Especially not for Merlin.

He sighs and rubs at his forehead.

“Headache?” Arthur asks quietly.

Merlin moves his rubbing to one of his throbbing temples. “Yeah, I shouldn’t have had more than one glass, that stuff is lethal.”

Arthur closes a warm hand around Merlin’s wrist. “C’mon.”

Merlin frowns a little, but lets himself be led to the couch and gently pushed down on it. Grabbing his shoulders, Arthur coaxes Merlin to face away from him and, after Merlin complies, starts to knead careful, ever-tightening circles from the dip of Merlin’s shoulders to the nape of his neck.

Merlin groans, head falling forward as Arthur finds the base of his skull where tension has gathered like a brewing storm cloud.

“Fuck,” Merlin moans, not even caring how obscene he sounds. “Where did you even learn how to do that?”

“Morgana.” Arthur’s thumbs follow expertly along the top of his spine, framing it firmly, then rubbing across it in more gentle circles. Merlin barely even registers the words through the delicious haze of pain-pleasure. “I used to have really bad migraines when I was younger.”

Merlin carefully rolls his shoulders, whimpering when Arthur’s hands follow and gently dig between his shoulder blades. He slumps forward with the slight pressure, bracing himself against the soft upholstery as he pushes back into Arthur’s touch.

Arthur’s thumbs return to the nape of his neck, but this time there’s hardly any pressure. Slowly, they follow the path of Merlin’s hairline, then dip past where skin meets hair. Merlin shudders, erupting in goosebumps as he bites back another helpless noise.

And just like that, the atmosphere around them shifts, the currents of the tide turning, flooding Merlin in a wave of hunger and longing so strong his vision blurs with it.

He feels weak, his arms trembling where they’re still braced against the cushions, but Arthur’s grip is as warm and strong as ever and Merlin is terrified when he realises that he feels safe here; safe in Arthur’s hands. Safe with Arthur.

 “I love your neck, you know?” Arthur murmurs, fingers gliding up to curl gently in Merlin’s hair, then back down to brush against his skin. “It’s beautiful.”

Merlin feels like an exposed nerve, raw and vulnerable. His ribs are the cage to the wild beast that is his heart, clawing and clamouring at its confines, as though it wants nothing more than to leap forth and fall at Arthur’s feet.

“Arthur,” Merlin rasps, just to feel the way his lips and tongue wrap around the shape of Arthur’s name.

Arthur shifts, his grip tighter, his body closer. Hot breath caresses the over-sensitised nape of Merlin’s neck, the proximity of Arthur’s lips to his skin leaving him instantly, achingly hard.

Merlin bites down on a moan, but the resulting sound ends up painfully hungry all the same. His dick weeps and throbs, unwilling to go ignored even a moment longer.

There’s nothing, in all his life, that Merlin has wanted more than to turn around this very moment, to climb on and into Arthur, to taste his lips and brand the shape of them against his own mouth so that once learned, he’d remember it always.

“Arthur,” Merlin says again breathlessly, because right now it’s the only word he knows.

Arthur’s fingers slip past the neckline of Merlin’s t-shirt, idly dipping into the hills and valleys of Merlin’s spine.

“So soft,” he murmurs, voice gravelly. Then, even lower, “I just want to touch you. All the time.”

He says it like it’s a confession, as though he couldn’t have kept it in for even a moment longer. And something about it, about that thought and Arthur’s tone, finally penetrates the haze of helpless desire clinging to Merlin’s mind, dragging him kicking and screaming back to the harshness of reality.

Arthur doesn’t want this.

The sting of tears is sharp and sudden and Merlin chokes down a mortifying sound, throat burning as he fights it down. Still, something must’ve escaped all the same, because abruptly, Arthur stills.

“Merlin,” Arthur says and maybe he does it for the same reasons that Merlin had, only that it doesn’t matter. None of this matters, because Arthur doesn’t mean it. Not really. “Are you alright?”

Swallowing the taste of salt and bitterness, Merlin rubs the hem of his sleeve across his eyes.

“Yes.” Merlin forces as much cheer into his voice as he can. “I feel much better now. Thank you.”

He stands hastily on wobbly legs, his dick slightly calmer, but still over-sensitised from the intense rush of arousal of only a few moments ago.

“Are you sure-” Arthur starts, but Merlin cuts in quickly.

“Of course!” He forces himself to turn and grin painfully wide. “I just remembered we still need to do your blood test.”

Predictably, Arthur’s face shutters at the mention of his health.

“Yes,” he says stiffly. “Of course.”

“I’ll just get the haemoscope,” Merlin says hastily, already fleeing. “Be right back.”

The salty taste of unshed tears follows him all the way to the bedroom, but he refuses to let them fall.

Merlin knows the instant that he sees Gaius’ face that something’s wrong. He hates that face. Nothing good has ever come from that face.

“Oh, no,” Merlin says. “I don’t want to hear this, do I?”

Gaius sighs. “I wish I had better news, Merlin.”

Merlin feels himself pale in alarm, still shaken up and vulnerable from the events of this morning. Kilgharrah, perched on an ugly, faux-antique lamp, shoots Merlin a concerned look.

“It’s not Arthur, is it?” Merlin asks, uncaring how fearful it sounds. “I mean, he’s not getting worse, is he?”

Kilgharrah bridges the small distance with a few flaps of his wings, his weight a familiar comfort as he lands on Merlin’s shoulder.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Gaius reassures him quickly, his tone mild. “Prince Arthur’s situation is stable, though I do agree with your assessment that this might make him more susceptible to compulsion. However, at present that is the lesser evil - we don’t want to strain his body any further than it already has been. In fact-” Gaius dithers, looking a little pinched. “I would suggest that small indulgences might help keep things…under control.”

Kilgharrah snorts and Merlin sends him a quick glare, even as slow mortification sets in as all the possible implications of ‘small indulgences’ flash through Merlin’s mind.

“You can’t mean-”

Gaius holds up a hand. “I trust you to set appropriate boundaries and not take advantage. I do believe His Highness has been in excellent care so far.”

Seems Gaius has more confidence in Merlin’s self control than Merlin himself.

“That’s not all, is it? There’s more, I can tell.”

“I’m afraid so, my boy.” Gaius leans slightly forward on his folded arms. “With the spell stabilised, and less erratic results, I’ve finally been able to identify what was used on the Prince. The potion is called Sentes Amor.”

Merlin frowns, exchanging a quick look with Kilgharrah and finding him equally mystified.

“Never heard of it.”

Which by itself is rather alarming, considering the amount of time and variety of research he binged after that fateful day at the Grind. Then again, he hadn’t come across any 3-point spells period. Love spells were 2-point for a reason, in that in most cases the agent is meant to be the focus of the receptor, thus closing the circuit.

“I would imagine not,” Gaius says. “The ingredients are extremely rare and the brewing process lengthy and complicated. Not only that, but the incantation requires a great deal of power.”

“But it can be broken?”

“Yes.” 

But Gaius doesn’t look any less grave and the dread pooling in Merlin’s gut churns uncomfortably.

“Merlin,” Gaius says, tone heavy and solemn. “The only known antidote to Sentes Amor is for the stabiliser to break through the induced emotions by returning them genuinely by bestowing True Love’s Kiss.”

Churning dread abruptly turns to nausea. Merlin stares at Gaius, wishing for all the world that he’d misheard, or at the very least, misunderstood.

“Are you really saying what I think you’re saying?” Merlin asks faintly. “You’re telling me the only way to break the enchantment is for me to fall in love with Arthur?”

Gaius sighs and slowly nods.

Merlin’s vision swims for a moment as the world tilts around him.

“That can’t be the only way, Gaius, it can’t! There must be something else we can do!”

Gaius shakes his head, naked sympathy shining from his eyes. “I’m sorry, Merlin.”

And Merlin can do nothing, nothing at all as realisation sinks into him bit by agonising bit. He thinks, a little hysterically, of all the desperate, useless efforts to shield his heart. What a fucking joke.

In the end it’s all been for nothing, because now Merlin knows that to save Arthur, he’ll have to break himself first.

The harsh artificial lighting does nothing to take away from Arthur’s magnificence.

Merlin still remembers the first time he’d imagined him like this; sweat-damp hair, grin as sharp as the edge of his sword. He thinks about that now, about how his imagination had been nothing but an overexposed m-graph, nothing at all like the sight in front of him. 

Next to Arthur, everyone else looks washed out, their opacity reduced and blended into the background. But Arthur has been brought right to the top layer - his outline gilded and the contrast and sharpness set to ‘high’.

Merlin regrets coming down here now. He’d taken pity on a harried George, agreeing to personally drag Arthur away from his toys because he’s running late with his bi-weekly meeting with Sophia.

And who can blame him, Merlin thinks.

For all his usual punctuality, Arthur has no problem utilising lateness to make a point. In this case, Merlin knows, it’s that he doesn’t give a toss about the statistics of his social media accounts and which current brands, music or entertainment are supposedly his favourite at the moment.

A sharp clash of swords draws Merlin’s attention back to the training field, where Arthur has just skilfully parried Lance’s attack.

“C’mon, Lancelot, you’re not beating a carpet!” Arthur shouts gleefully, charging forward with a powerful thrust and briefly unbalancing a laughing Lance.

Merlin bites back a smile, even as he as his amusement flickers and fizzles out. There really hasn’t been cause for much lightheartedness over the past few days, Gaius’ devastating revelation bearing down on him like a wall-closing trap.

If there was ever a time in Merlin’s life where he longed for a pause button, the ability to simply stop time for a while to just process, it’s now.

No matter how hard he tries to get his thoughts in order, to line everything up calmly and try to come up with some kind of plan going forward he just gets lost in emotionalism. His mind seems to have turned into a vortex, sucking up any attempt at detached rationality.

At night, all Merlin thinks about is turning over in Arthur’s arms, gently waking him up just so he can cry on him. To have Arthur comfort him as he confesses all the things he’s been trying to keep buried. For Arthur to kiss him, hold him, tell him that everything’s going to be alright.

But Merlin can’t do that. He can’t do anything. All he can do is stay silent and endure. Step aside and let Arthur obliterate the last, flimsy barriers Merlin has so desperately been clinging to in the hope of protecting himself.

He returns his gaze Arthur. He should be used to the sight by now, but of course Arthur defies him in this, too. Only becomes more beautiful every time Merlin looks at him.

The walls close in a little further.

“Merlin.” Leon materialises at his side, making Merlin jump. “Are you here for Arthur? He’ll be happy to see you.”

“Oh, no,” Merlin blurts impulsively. 

Suddenly facing Arthur in this state, with Merlin quietly coming apart at the seams and Arthur all dishevelled and breathless-

Merlin can’t, not right now, not like this.

“I’ve got to dash, actually. I just came to pass on a message from George,” Merlin goes on, forcing a rueful smile. “Could you just tell Arthur that he’s running late for his meeting with Sophia?”

There’s a small frown between Leon’s brows, but Merlin doesn’t want to think about what it could mean. For a moment, Merlin is terrified that Leon might say something, anything that might hint at Merlin’s flighty behaviour, or wanting news about Arthur’s condition. But then Leon’s expression smoothes back into calm neutrality and he nods.

“Of course. I’ll let Arthur know.”

Merlin’s brittle smile is in danger of crumbling, but he keeps it in place through sheer force of will.

“Thanks, Leon.”

Leon nods, then speaks up just as Merlin is about to turn away.

“Oh and, Merlin, before you go, I thought you’d like to know there’s someone at the shooting range who wants to say hi.”

“Uhm, thanks?”

Leon gives him a small, enigmatic smile, leaving Merlin bewildered as he retraces his steps towards the ascender. The shooting range is one floor up in what Merlin calls the ‘secret service’ basement. It must be every action flick director’s dream set. He idly wonders what King Uther would do if anyone ever dared ask if they could use it as a film location and snickers a little.

Scanning his bracelet on the panel in the ascender, Merlin presses -1 on the touchpad and is soundlessly carried upwards. The shooting range is busy, it always is at this time because everyone avoids it when Arthur and the Knights do their obligatory practice every other morning. 

While no less skilled, Arthur isn’t particularly passionate about phasers. He prefers hitting things. Anyone can press a button, Arthur had told him once when he asked. It’s a coward’s weapon. In close combat you have to rely on speed and skill. You have to face your opponent, get close to them, not simply hide behind a rock and hope for the best.

Sometimes Merlin thinks Arthur might’ve been born in the wrong century.

“Merlin!”

Merlin’s head snaps up. Despite Leon’s mysterious words, he hadn’t really expected to meet someone he knows down here. He squints at the happily waving figure, force-field dropped to allow himself to be heard.

“Elyan?” Merlin’s eyes widen in realisation and he picks up his step, even more bewildered than before as he finally reaches him. “What are you doing here?”

Elyan’s grin is blinding and he yanks Merlin in for a brief, back-thumping hug. Over his shoulder, Merlin sees Percy, who’s leaning against the wall with a small smile. He gives Merlin a wave of his own. Buried as he’s been in his own head, Merlin hadn’t even realised that Percy had been missing from Arthur’s group.

They break apart.

“It’s good to see you, mate!” Elyan says, still grinning, giving Merlin a little, enthusiastic shake.

Merlin grins back, genuinely happy to see him, if still confused by his presence. Then he realises what Elyan’s wearing. Elyan follows his gaze and winks, sweeping a hand along his body, presenting his uniform.

“You like?”

Merlin’s still staring, not quite comprehending what’s in front of him.

“You’re in Arthur’s personal guard? Since when?”

Elyan laughs, clearly pleased to have taken Merlin by surprise. 

“This is my first day, actually. Apparently Lance heard about my situation from Gwen, so he recommended me for the job.”

As much as Merlin believes Lance to be someone to jump at the chance to help a friend, he somehow doubts he had anything to do with this. Pushing away the complicated feeling inside his chest, Merlin drags up a smile and draws Elyan into another quick hug.

“That’s amazing! I’m so happy for you!”

“I still can’t quite believe it, honestly,” Elyan says, then gently shoves Merlin’s shoulder. “And you! I can’t believe you live here. It all just happened so fast.” He sobers slightly, dark eyes turning intent as he gives Merlin a searching look. “Gwen is worried about you, you know? She told me to keep an eye on you.”

Merlin makes a show of rolling his eyes even as an unhappy feeling twists his gut.

“Everything’s fine,” he lies easily, forcing a little huff of a laugh.

Elyan doesn’t look entirely appeased, but he doesn’t press further, simply claps a hand on Merlin’s shoulder and gives him a brief squeeze.

“Well, you know where to find me if you need anything.”

Merlin’s lips quirk with more sincerity this time. “Thanks, Elyan. And congratulations again. You’ll do great.”

By the time Arthur stalks in hours later, the late afternoon sun is low in the sky and has painted long shadows on the walls and floor. Merlin, legs hooked over the couch’s armrest and pad gone dark and forgotten on his chest, startles and cranes his neck. He can’t remember when he last moved.

“So that’s where you’ve been hiding,” Arthur says, coming to stand at Merlin’s side and looking down at him with an unreadable expression.

Merlin lets his head fall back onto the couch, staring up at Arthur from a weird, almost upside-down angle.

“I’m not hiding,” he protests indignantly, even though that’s exactly what he’s been doing.

“Is that why you couldn’t even stick around this morning to say hello?”

Merlin doesn’t squirm. Just.

“I had things to do…”

Arthur gives him a pointed look, raising his eyebrows at Merlin’s still reclined position.

“I was studying!” Merlin snaps, giving a lame little flap with his pad. He’s not entirely sure why he feels the sudden need to defend himself. He deflates slightly beneath Arthur’s steady stare. “I saw Elyan. At the shooting range. Thank you, for helping him.”

Arthur licks his lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. His references were impeccable, there was no reason why I shouldn’t give him a chance.”

And Merlin’s stupid heart stutters and trips, spilling helpless affection until he thinks he must be overflowing.

“Thank you,” he says again, softly.

Arthur clears his throat and looks away. It’s only now that the light shifts along the planes of his face that Merlin notices that he looks pale and tired in a way he hasn’t ever since Merlin started sharing his bed.

Merlin frowns, concerned. “Arthur, are you feeling okay?”

Arthur presses his lips together. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?”

“What, why?”

Arthur looks at him steadily and then he’s suddenly right there, one hand braced on the back of the couch while the fingers of the other alight gently on Merlin’s brow.

“It’s this frown here,” Arthur murmurs, thumb smoothing along the crease of Merlin’s brow. 

It’s such an innocent spot, but Arthur’s touch is hot, his caress lingering intimately. And all Merlin can think of is the way Arthur’s fingers had felt at the nape of his neck when Arthur had told him I love your neck and I want to touch you all the time.

Merlin swallows and turns his head, moving out of reach as he clumsily struggles into an upright position. Because if he has to go another minute with Arthur above him, he might actually go insane.

“I’m fine,” Merlin says, sharper than intended.

Arthur rears back a little, unhappiness in the line of his mouth. “Seriously, I haven’t seen you smile these past three days.”

Bitterness pools on Merlin’s tongue, brimming over before he can swallow it down.

“I’m not sure there’s a great deal to smile about.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens, expression wounded. It stabs uncomfortably at Merlin’s heart.

He sighs, contrite. “Arthur-”

But Arthur is pulling back, turning away and putting distance between them.

“You should get changed. We’re having dinner with my father tonight.”

Merlin blanches. “What? You mean I have to be there?”

Arthur glares at him. “I’d bring my other fake boyfriend, but he’s otherwise engaged tonight so you’ll have to do.”

The weird throb of jealousy is utterly unexpected and Merlin has the sudden urge to bang his head against the closest wall. Could he get any more pathetic?

Frowning and pissed off with himself and the phantom of a non-existent second boyfriend, he watches Arthur disappear into the bedroom.

Like the rest of the Palace, the dining hall is done in a pseudo-medieval style, vaulted ceilings and all, and more of those bloody stained glass windows. Merlin can’t help but see the irony, thinking it rather poetic that the lack of view to the outside world is like a physical manifestation of Uther’s narrow-minded bigotry.

“I thought this room is supposed to be only for close friends and family,” Merlin says, feeling uncomfortable in the yawning space.

“It is,” Arthur says curtly.

Merlin glances at Arthur, guilty for having brushed him off like that before, but terrified of letting on how torn up he really is about it all. He wonders, once again, what Arthur is thinking and regrets not having at least tried to clear the air between them before having to sit down to dinner with King Uther bloody Pendragon.

Facing ahead once more, Merlin dubiously eyes the polished length of the dining room table, the three settings at the very end looking as though they’d got lost. Someone clearly must have a very different idea of what constitutes ‘close friends and family’, considering this table must fit at least a hundred people.

He follows Arthur to his seat, finding to his relief that he’ll be sat next to Arthur instead of across from him, putting him between Merlin and the King.

“Arthur,” Merlin starts, having absolutely no idea how to finish.

He finds himself pinned by Arthur’s gaze, tongue stuck uselessly to the roof of his too-dry mouth and swamped with the intense urge to just touch him. He doesn’t want any more words between them, true or otherwise, apart from maybe one - Merlin’s name, the shape of it on Arthur’s lips as Merlin finally claims them for himself.

The door at the far end of the hall swishes open, slicing through the loaded atmosphere. At the sight of Uther Pendragon, closer and far more real than Merlin had ever expected, any warmth within him curdles and goes abruptly cold.

“Ah, you’re on time,” are the King’s first words.

He isn’t a particularly tall man, but he moves like someone used to big spaces and there’s something about his presence that fills the room to capacity. But unlike Arthur, whose presence is like warm sunlight banishing shadows, King Uther’s is like a blanket made of steel, sharp and suffocating. 

The King takes his seat at the head and if Merlin had ever thought Arthur arrogant and aloof, it’s nothing compared to the look of frosty contempt that the King is gifting him with right now.

“Emrys, is it,” he says, dripping derision.

It’s not a question, but Merlin nods anyway, then, at Arthur’s discreet and none-too-gentle nudge hastily adds, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Like his early days at the Palace, the situation is reminiscent of his school years, being addressed by his surname and looked down on for all his social failings.

The King reaches for his napkin just as the door opens and a line of servants, each carrying a different dish or beverage, comes marching in with soldier-like precision. Merlin hastily follows the example, fiddling with his own napkin and spreading it across his lap.

“It’s good to finally meet my son’s wayward companion.” King Uther shoots a pointed look at Arthur, who twitches but, Merlin notes with admiration, doesn’t squirm. The King returns his unsmiling gaze to Merlin. “Catrina tells me you’re a student.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Merlin leans back to make room for one of the servants, glad for the reprieve. He takes his time choosing something from the platter and serving himself. “At Camelot University.” 

He plans to leave it at that, because surely the King already knows all there is to know about the bloke who’s supposedly dating his son. But the King clearly has other ideas. 

“Magical Theory?”

Next to him, Arthur takes a deep sip of his water glass. Merlin has a feeling he’d prefer it to be the wine.

Merlin wavers only briefly, before reaching for the wine himself. Maybe he can drink for them both.

Throat freshly lubricated and feeling like a broken record, he repeats, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

He does his best to keep his tone neutral, though can’t quite keep his teeth from grinding. He can tell the King is trying to rattle him, make him cower. Too bad such things have never worked on Merlin.

The servants back off, half of them departing while the other half takes up position against the wall, ready to be called upon. Despite having grown used to the staff’s presence over the past weeks, it’s still a little unnerving and does little to settle the jumpy tendrils of Merlin’s magic.

He steels himself for the next round, but it seems that King Uther is conducting some kind of tactical retreat, his next words directed at Arthur. Somehow, instead of feeling like a reprieve, it only makes Merlin’s nerves grow tauter.

“I trust the preparations for the parade are well underway?”

The King’s words almost sound like a challenge, his cold eyes daring Arthur to deliver disappointing news, to show the slightest weakness to be pounced upon.

But Arthur doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash, years of practice in the firm set of his shoulders, an expression of steely detachment effortlessly in place.

“Yes, Father,” Arthur says, deftly cutting into a potato. 

Merlin’s never seen anyone eat with this level of neatness before. It’s something he noticed early on about Arthur, how he never opens his mouth too wide, how he somehow manages to only dirty a small circle at the very centre of his plate, leaving the rest untouched.

Looking at the King’s plate, Merlin finds it looking more like his own than Arthur’s and wonders now more than ever who taught Arthur all these little things. Who’d sat with him and showed him how to tie his laces? To button his coat?

“-certain you’re up to the task?” the King is saying as Merlin tunes back in. “Catrina has voiced her concern to me at your dismissal of her suggestions.”

Arthur visibly grits his teeth. “Catrina’s suggestions included an aerial performance and the hiring of live peacocks.”

Merlin only barely manages to bite back a snort.

“The people expect a spectacle, Arthur.” King Uther’s voice is full of edges and hidden traps. Merlin shudders to think what might happen if one were to slip up and get caught. “Extravagance is key.”

“Extravagance doesn’t mean abandoning all sense of taste and overspending,” Arthur says tightly. “No one will care if we’re short a few fireworks. Instead, we’re going to donate the leftover budget to the free school-meal programme.”

The King looks anything but pleased. “Don’t you think there’s been enough of that during your own birthday celebrations?”

Arthur’s grip on the silverware is white-knuckled, his food almost entirely untouched.

“Some of these charities were founded by Mother,” Arthur says, voice deceptively steady. “I’d have hoped you’d see the merit in cultivating them.”

King Uther waves a dismissive hand. “Your mother was a bleeding heart, a gentle soul. But handing out free gifts to vagrants will just make them get used to it and they’ll never put in the work to get anywhere in life.”

Arthur very carefully puts down his cutlery.

“They’re all our subjects and we’re responsible for them.” His voice is quiet, but made steely with conviction. It makes something hot and fierce surge within Merlin’s chest. Arthur continues, bright and fervent. “Be they unfortunate souls or criminals, it’s our duty to care for them, especially them, because often they are proof that we have failed somewhere.”

Pride explodes in Merlin’s chest, burning along his veins until he’s alight with it, until he has to battle the ridiculous urge to sink to his knees and swear fealty.

“What is this nonsense, Arthur?” There is thunder on King Uther’s brow. “I do believe you’re getting a little too comfortable making eyes at the cameras and wasting energy and resources on your pet projects. You’re the future King of these lands and it isn’t a king’s duty to organise charity galas and hold hands with dirt-smeared orphans. It’s the Queen’s responsibility, or in this case, your future Queen.” He glances disdainfully at Merlin, adding begrudgingly. “Or Consort.”

Merlin glares back defiantly, finding it increasingly hard to swallow down the words burning on his tongue.

“After making such a spectacle of yourself at the Avalon I assume you’re serious about your choice in…partner.” King Uther once more glares down his nose at Merlin, who tilts his chin in defiance. The King scowls, then bestows the same on Arthur. “I would suggest making Emrys here familiar with the duties of a future Consort. I have no doubt he will need all the help he can get, considering his…humble origins.”

Merlin fears he might be leaving permanent grooves in his tongue from his teeth. Beside him Arthur sits up a little straighter - if that’s even possible.

“I hardly think Merlin is ready to-” Arthur starts, but is promptly cut across by the King.

“Maybe he’d like to help organise Camelot University’s magical display?” King Uther turns his unforgiving gaze on Merlin. “Have you volunteered for it before, Emrys? I understand that you hold the highest level in magic use.”

The trap couldn’t be more obvious if it started metaphorically flashing rainbow lights and singing about its intentions to ensnare Merlin and maul him to death. He refuses to back down.

“I haven’t. Sire. Volunteered, that is.”

The trap flashes a little harder, sings a little louder.

“And why is that?”

“Because I disagree with the principle of it.”

“Do you indeed,” the King says softly, danger dripping from every syllable. “Political, I see. A supporter of the Druid party, I take it?”

Merlin grits his teeth. “I am.”

“So you’re telling me you agree with the dangerous propaganda that miscreant Iseldir spouts, which has already led to unrests in all of Albion?”

Merlin is prepared to tell him exactly what he thinks about Iseldir and the Druid party, that they’re the only ones with any power standing up for the MU population, that without them to push back against the hostile anti-magic environment, the rebels would have probably flattened the capitol by now.

But before he can say any of it, Arthur cuts in.

“This is hardly the time, Father.” His voice is calm, but Merlin can practically feel the tension radiating off him. “Merlin is our guest, it’s hardly polite to bombard him with politics over the dinner table.”

“If Merlin wishes to have a place at your side and, by extension, the Royal Family, he will have to put aside some of his idealistic views, and learn the meaning of diplomacy.” King Uther’s eyes bore into him like blades. “Do you believe yourself capable of that, Emrys?”

“It would seem that I am, Your Majesty,” Merlin grits out, thinking, Or I would already have polished the table with your insufferable mug.

Beneath the table, Arthur’s hand closes around his thigh, and squeezes.

“Good. You see, Emrys, political interest is commendable, but young people such as yourself are impressionable and their passion can so easily lead them astray.” He means Mordred, Merlin realises, feeling a hysterical laugh bubbling up somewhere in his too-dry throat. Of course the King would go there. “But there’s no need to bring up such ugliness. After all, you still serve your King, don’t you, Emrys?”

You’re not my King, Merlin wants to yell at him. Never have, and never will be!

He swallows it. Barely. But he has no doubt his eyes are saying everything that his lips aren’t. Arthur’s grip on him tightens.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he lies solemnly.

But whatever game King Uther is playing, he seems satisfied for the moment.

“Excellent,” he says, smiling a cold smile that never once reaches his eyes. “Now, how about some dessert.”

Merlin’s honestly surprised Arthur’s jaw hasn’t cracked yet from the force of the pressure. He’s anticipating the spectacular derailing of Arthur’s temper as soon as they’re alone, but the door to Arthur’s room swishes closed behind them and everything seems to freeze.

Arthur is still and silent, the fury permeating the air around him so potent that Merlin’s skin prickles with it. His magic squirms unhappily within his chest, desperate to burst out and make it better, to find the source of Arthur’s ire and obliterate it.

“I apologise,” Arthur says finally - stiff, formal and impossibly distant. “For my father.”

Merlin shakes his head, takes a cautious step closer.

“You’ve nothing to apologise for,” he says softly, meaning it.

He’s unsure if Arthur even heard him.

“He’s testing you,” Arthur continues woodenly. “Trying to make a point. He wants to frighten you so you cave and run off and he can go back to shoving Vivian in my face every chance he gets.”

What kind of father, Merlin wonders, could possibly stand making his child this unhappy.

“I’m not frightened,” Merlin says quietly.

Finally, Arthur moves, his glare so intense it sears Merlin unexpectedly.

“Yes, I can see that,” Arthur snaps. “Maybe next time we can find a line between ‘not frightened’ and ‘borderline treason’.”

Despite all his best intentions, Merlin cannot help the answering rush of anger, still feeling poked raw by King Uther’s unrelenting prodding.

“It’s not my fault that everyone here takes one look at my bracelet and immediately thinks I’m a rebel! How stupid do they think I am? Why would I bother being here in the first place if that was the case?”

Arthur makes a vague, sweeping gesture.

“You could be a spy.”

Merlin’s stomach drops, hurt lancing at his heart.

“Oh? Thought about it, have you?”

But Arthur only glares at him again. “Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin, I didn’t mean it like that.”

And Merlin takes up the lance and pokes it even deeper into the already bleeding wound.

“How did you mean it, then?” he asks, voice hard.

Arthur whirls on him, cheeks faintly flushed and eyes alight with cold fury.

“Don’t you dare turn this around on me!” It’s almost a bellow, certainly louder than his usual tightly controlled outbursts. “We both know that I trust you a whole lot more than you’ve ever trusted me!”

This, Merlin hadn’t expected.

“What are you talking about?”

Arthur laughs. It’s a dark, hollow sound that tears right through Merlin’s chest.

“You must really think me a fool. Do you think I don’t notice the way you look at me? Like some…science experiment gone wrong? All you do is prick my finger and take my sodding temperature! ‘Poor Prince Arthur, doomed to be my lovesick lapdog until I can finally get rid of him again’.”

Merlin stares, utterly aghast and violently reminded of that night at the club, where the dam had burst and Arthur had exploded with all the things he’d evidently kept bottled inside. Is that how it’s always going to be, Merlin wonders dumbly.

“That’s not- How can you think-” Merlin rubs a rough hand through his hair. “You think this is a walk in the park for me? I forget, sometimes, you know? And then I have to remind myself that you’re not-”

He breaks off, hating every way that sentence could end. Arthur’s expression darkens, his eyes turning flinty as his jaw firms. Merlin has now known him long enough to recognise that the exchange is plunging south. Rapidly.

“Not what,” Arthur prompts sharply. “In my right mind? Able to make my own decisions?”

“Well you’re not!” Merlin bursts out, fury apparently alive and well. “You’re under the influence of a very powerful enchantment, Arthur! You said it yourself, you know it’s not real but it feels that way to you. You’re not in a position to make decisions on your clarity of mind! I have to second-guess everything you say, I need to be careful not to-”

“Because you know everything, don’t you?!” Arthur cuts across him in a shout. “You’ve studied, you’ve read some books, and suddenly you’re an expert!”

Merlin wants to fucking scream.

“That’s not-!”

But Arthur bulldozes across him once more.

“You have no fucking idea what it is I’m feeling, Merlin! Real or otherwise! You’re just here, being patronising and humouring me.” Arthur sneers a little, voice like cracked ice over a sea of hurt. “You’ve been very good at that, by the way. Very convincing. Appeasing the invalid with an impeccable bedside manner! You just hold my hand and let me spill my guts. And I feel like an idiot because it’s been almost two months and I still have no fucking idea what goes on in that head of yours! But it’s okay, isn’t it, you just need to close your eyes and give me a bit of a cuddle to keep me from going round the bend or keel over.”

“It’s not- You must know that-” Merlin tastes the tears already, feels them burning his eyes, ready to spill over. “Arthur, I care about you.”

Arthur laughs and it’s the same, hollow sound as before.

“Yes, I’m sure you do. Would be a bit inconvenient, after all, if the Crown Prince dropped dead from a magical attack. The Druids could kiss their seat on the Council goodbye and where would that leave you?”

His tears feel hot against what must be utterly bloodless cheeks.

“You don’t mean that,” Merlin whispers.

But Arthur isn’t looking at him, his back to Merlin even as he covers his eyes with a visibly shaking hand.

“Just go,” Arthur says dully. “Get out of my sight.”

Merlin presses the hem of his sleeve over his mouth, biting down into the fabric to stifle a sob, and goes.

Chapter Text

Merlin hasn’t stepped foot in the guest rooms in weeks. There’d been no reason to, seeing that within days of moving into Arthur’s bedroom, Merlin’s measly belongings had migrated into Arthur’s quarters.

They look very much the same now as when Merlin had entered them on his first night here. It’s somehow emptier now, not stale of course, not with all the servants dusting shelves and fluffing pillows, but hollowed out. He feels like an alien entity, far more so than he ever had before. Maybe it’s because before he’d simply felt as though he doesn’t belong, but now he does - not here, but at Arthur’s side.

Eyes burning, but oddly anaesthetised from the force and unexpectedness of Arthur’s accusations, Merlin numbly takes a shower and brushes his teeth. When, afterwards, he catches himself standing naked in the middle of the bedroom simply staring at the wall, he forces himself to hunt down some clothes.

All of his own are in Arthur’s room, but he remembers a shelf in the walk-in cupboard that holds an array of pyjamas. They’re horrifying, colour-clashing things, covered in chibi-animal. He assumes they’re Elena’s, while the silky boxer shorts in more somber colours are likely Mithian’s chosen sleepwear. So Merlin blindly grabs an eye-watering top and a pair of boxers, then wanders aimlessly into the other room.

Eventually, he switches on the entertainment system, listlessly browsing the film library in the hope of distracting himself, pushing away the memory of Arthur’s words, the way he’d looked at Merlin, betrayed and flayed open. In many ways, it’s worse than their first fight at the club all those weeks ago - which might as well have happened in another life it feels so long ago. 

But things are different now, Merlin is different. Hurting Arthur now, finding out that he’d somehow been hurting him all along - Arthur might as well have stabbed him with his sword and twisted it in to the hilt.

Blinking back tears, Merlin realises that he’s put on something at random on the entertainment system, which turns out to be a historical documentary on farming. Grabbing one of the cushions, Merlin curls around it, barely even seeing the screen through a sudden, steady flow of tears he no longer has the energy to hold back.

Arthur isn’t the fool here. It’s Merlin, he’s been the idiot all along.

The stupid documentary must’ve put him to sleep at some point - or maybe it was crying pathetically into a pillow. Either way, when Merlin blinks awake, everything is still and silent. Then a hand reaches for him in the dark.

Merlin jumps, letting out an undignified yelp. The hand is snatched back hastily.

“It’s just me.”

“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice comes out hoarse, mind still fogged with sleep. He rubs at his eyes, lashes dry but cheeks still tacky with tear tracks. He turns his head and finally makes out the dark shape crouched at his side. “What are you doing here? What time is it?”

“Half three.” Arthur’s voice is quiet, strained.

He’s close enough for Merlin to feel the heat radiating off him, far more so than he should. Arthur shivers.

Alarmed, Merlin struggles up onto one of his elbows. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t-” Arthur pauses. “I don’t feel so good.”

“What?” Merlin sits up the rest of the way and reaches for Arthur without thinking, one palm finding the tense line of his jaw, while the other brushes sweat-slick hair from a clammy forehead. “Gods, Arthur, you’re burning up.”

Arthur’s hand is like fire, sword callouses rough as it cups Merlin’s own, his head tilting to lean into Merlin’s touch.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur murmurs, chapped lips dragging over the lines on Merlin’s palm. 

Merlin shivers, unsure whether Arthur is apologising for their argument, for startling him in the dark, or something else entirely. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says again, barely audible around the shape of his mouth pressing a breathless kiss to Merlin’s skin, then another. “I think I just…need you.”

The touch leaves Merlin electrified, his free hand slipping in the golden silk of Arthur’s hair, fingers digging in and gripping with unbidden, heady intent. Arthur’s lips part around a breathy moan that goes straight to Merlin’s dick, his breath hot and damp against Merlin’s skin. He mouths hungrily at the heel of Merlin’s palm, only inches from his suddenly hammering pulse.

Merlin bites back a whimper, desperately grappling for control. He has to keep it together, he has to. 

He draws his hand away from the overwhelming temptation of Arthur’s mouth, lets it drop to the loose collar of Arthur’s sleepshirt instead. 

He tugs gently, murmurs, “C’mere” and scoots back against the back of the couch to urge Arthur down alongside him.

The couch isn’t as big as the one in Arthur’s rooms, but with Arthur all but crawling inside him, they manage just fine. The searing heat of Arthur’s body leaves Merlin overheated, his own top sticking uncomfortably to his spine as perspiration dampens the small of his back.

Arthur is trembling against him, his breath nothing but unsteady bursts of heat as he buries his face in Merlin’s neck, murmuring something that might be Merlin’s name or another apology. Merlin wraps him in his arms, feeling protective and yearning in turns; wanting to both soothe away Arthur’s discomfort, and push him into the cushions so they can fuck each other senseless.

It certainly doesn’t help that Arthur is needy and pliant in his arms, his desperation seeping off him in erratic waves, leaving them both wrecked against the slippery rocks of Merlin’s self-control.

“I didn’t mean it,” Arthur mutters, words muffled by Merlin’s heat-damp skin. “Before. I was angry and-”

Merlin presses his nose into Arthur’s shoulder, the raw, undiluted scent of him leaving him so hard it hurts, the proximity of Arthur’s own insistent hardness making his own already weep with desperation.

“I know,” Merlin murmurs.

In a strange, twisted way, having Arthur explode and throw angry accusations is reassuring; proof that the enchantment hasn’t taken over completely.

Gently rubbing unsteady hands along Arthur’s spine, Merlin tries to think calm, unsexy thoughts, hoping that the slow, smooth touch will bank the fire rather than stoke it further. He keeps his hips resolutely still, going so far as to wrap one of his legs over Arthur’s thigh to trap him into place and keep him from squirming and making matters…well, harder.

He tries to focus on what’s important here.

“You’ve been unwell,” he says, accusation creeping in despite his best efforts to keep it level.

Arthur makes no such effort when he shoots back, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

He sounds wounded but defiant, the kind of defensive Merlin knows by now masks genuine hurt. Guilt twists his stomach, his fingers finding their way back into Arthur’s hair. It’s so soft, somehow both slipping through and clinging to his touch. The irony is, unfortunately, not lost on him.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says softly.

Arthur sighs and Merlin feels a hot hand brush against his ribs. It’s tentative at first, but when Merlin doesn’t protest, it firms, scrunching up Merlin’s pyjama top as Arthur curls his fingers into the fabric.

“I’m not saying it to make you feel guilty,” Arthur says, this time devoid of hard edges. “But it’s you who gave me this whole thing about communication, remember? So why is it that you don’t take your own advice? It’s your turn to talk to me, Merlin. Tell me what happened, what I did.”

Merlin lets out a long breath, his hand dropping to Arthur’s shoulder, rubbing in gentle reassurance.

“You didn’t do anything.”

Arthur lifts his head, staring down at Merlin through the darkness.

“No?” Merlin can practically hear Arthur’s eyebrows rising as he says it. “Because I know I got a little carried away the other day.” 

Arthur’s fingers abandon their tight coil in Merlin’s shirt and instead slide up along his chest, to the nape of his neck, re-tracing a familiar path along Merlin’s hairline; a spot Arthur has somehow claimed as his own. Merlin goes all but boneless, shivering helplessly. 

Arthur’s touch firms, gently cradling Merlin’s neck with a big, hot palm. 

“And I know you don’t like waking up with me in the mornings,” he goes on quietly. “That it makes you uncomfortable.”

It takes a moment for the words to penetrate the haze of arousal. 

Merlin blinks, utterly bewildered. “What? Why would you think that?”

Arthur’s thumb traces a tingling, shivery line alone Merlin’s throat, leaving Merlin breathless and only barely biting down on a gasp.

“You running off like the bed is on fire might’ve given me a hint,” Arthur murmurs wryly.

By the gods, but he’s an idiot. Merlin’s precious, golden idiot.

“Arthur,” Merlin murmurs hoarsely. “You don’t make me uncomfortable.” Running his palms along Arthur’s broad, gorgeous back, Merlin likely loses his mind a little, or he wouldn’t do what he does next. Hitching his leg up higher, Merlin wraps it more securely around Arthur, barely recognising his own voice as he confesses, “You make me too comfortable.” 

And then he’s grabbing Arthur’s hips and drawing him between his open thighs. Their dicks line up, hot and hard and so fucking good Merlin’s vision goes blurry from the rush of undiluted pleasure. Arthur bears down on him, wild and instinctive, his gravelly moan half-muffled in the sudden, delicious pinch of his teeth against Merlin’s collarbone.

Merlin latches onto him with a delirious, breathy noise, wrapping every single limb around Arthur’s fever-hot body, back arching and demanding more of Arthur’s teeth, his mouth, the delicious friction of his dick against Merlin’s own - anything, everything; Merlin wants it all.

“Fuck, Merlin,” Arthur groans. 

And it’s far from the first time that he’s heard Arthur swear, but hearing it here, like this, his stupidly posh accent wrapped around the curse and Merlin’s name both - it’s really bloody doing it for Merlin. 

His dick jerks, rubbing against the decadently silky material of the fancy boxers, already damp and clinging to his skin. He realises with growing dread that he’s royally fucked himself over with his little stunt. All he’d wanted to do was make a point, to show Arthur how ridiculous he’s being, to finally, fucking finally let him know how completely stupid Merlin is over him.

Instead he’s brought them both right to the cliff of temptation and he knows very well that it’ll fall to him to be sensible. Fucking fuck.

Arthur’s tongue slicks hot and slow over the still stinging spot on Merlin’s collarbone. Merlin hopes for a mark and many more besides, his fingers twisting sharply into Arthur’s hair when his lips slide higher, mouthing hungrily at Merlin’s sensitive neck and leaving him a gasping mess.

“You really want me?” Arthur murmurs into his skin, somehow managing to both make him melt by nuzzling him sweetly, and make Merlin’s toes curl with another teeth-edged suck of his mouth.

“Of course I want you, you clotpole,” Merlin pants, dragging Arthur against him, wanting him close, closer, all the way inside him; enclosed in the cage of his ribs so he can keep him safe, always.

Arthur traces one of Merlin’s ears, while nipping at the other, breath hot and fast.

“So every morning, when you run off…”

Merlin groans, both in pleasure and a vague sense of mortification. “Don’t make me spell it out.”

“Please,” Arthur breathes into his ear, making Merlin’s fucking spine melt. “Merlin, please, tell me.”

Merlin slides his lips against Arthur’s cheek, his jaw, feeling the first hint of burn from Arthur’s stubble, loving the feel of Arthur’s skin, the smell of his hair.

“I wank myself stupid over you,” Merlin murmurs, biting his lip when he thinks about doing exactly that for so many mornings. 

Fuck, he wants to find the hem of Arthur’s loose sleepshirt, wants to get his hands on his skin, but they’re both already in too deep and so Merlin claws his fingers into the fabric instead. 

“I think about making you come,” he confesses to the tender spot right beneath Arthur’s ear. He wants to shove his hands down the gaping collar of Arthur’s shirt, touch his nipples and spread his legs and suck his cock-

Arthur’s lips stray dangerously close to Merlin’s own, grazing his chin, then the corner of his mouth and Merlin wants nothing more than to turn his head and let it happen, but gods, they can’t, they can’t and Merlin needs to stop this-

“Arthur,” he gasps helplessly, clutching at Arthur like a drowning man. “Arthur we can’t- We have to-”

Arthur groans, but there’s agony mixed in with the pleasure. He buries his face against Merlin’s neck, hips jerking as he trembles in Merlin’s arms, as though he might fly apart any moment.

“We can, please, Merlin, I need you, I need-” Arthur presses against him, shaking all over, utterly delirious. “It hurts, I’ll do anything just, please-”

The words are like an arctic wave, freezing Merlin to the core and bringing back their situation in startling, agonising clarity. What the fuck is he doing?

“Fuck,” he mutters, using his hold on Arthur to try his best to still him, to gentle his touches back to soothing, calming motions. 

“Don’t-”Arthur tries to wriggle against him, making a tortured, little sound that breaks Merlin’s heart. “Don’t stop, please, I need-”

Merlin clutches him tighter. “Shh, I know, I know, I’m sorry.”

Infinitely more collected now that he’s faced with Arthur’s distress, Merlin uses his grip on Arthur to turn them around. Arthur is pliant, shivering and feverish, burning up from the enchantment’s sudden surge to the fore. Something that Merlin only has himself to blame for. Stupid and selfish, he’d only hurt Arthur again - it’s all he seems good at lately.

He settles Arthur against the cushions, brushing sweat-slick hair from his forehead. He presses his lips to it, tasting salt. Pulling back, he looks down at the vague outline of Arthur’s face. This won’t do.

Merlin lets instinct take over, the familiar warm rush of his magic sparking in his chest as a magelight forms in an absently cupped palm, before floating upwards. The cool light washes over Arthur’s flushed face, eyes wide and fever-bright, blue swallowed by dark, wide-blown pupils.

Merlin touches his burning face. “Arthur.”

Arthur blinks, dazed, then smiles dopily at him. And if Merlin weren’t so worried and utterly furious with himself, he’d find it adorable. He still does, a little bit.

He smiles back weakly. “Hey. I’ll have to stop touching you for a moment, okay? I need to get something to cool you down and some medicine. Don’t move, I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” Arthur mumbles absently.

At least the spike of the fever had, ironically, doused the amorous mood. Merlin is beyond grateful for it, utterly terrified by how close he’d come to losing control.

He dashes to the bathroom, running the cold water tab as he tears through the cupboard under the sink. He finds a washcloth, a clean glass and - thank fuck - some of Gaius’ elderberry syrup from when he’d first stocked up on it.

Darkness swallows him as soon as he escapes the bright bathroom light and he curses as he stumbles, spilling some water and almost dropping the syrup.

He returns to Arthur’s side, the soft, cool glow of the magelight illuminating the arm flung over his face, covering his eyes, and his still heaving chest. Merlin resolutely stops himself from letting his eyes drop any lower.

Their hips press together as Merlin sinks down carefully on the edge of the couch, making Arthur’s breath hitch and his arm twitch slightly. Merlin grabs it, wraps his cool fingers around Arthur’s hot wrist and gently lifts it away.

Arthur sighs, but allows it, turning his head to look at Merlin. Even in the dim glow of the magelight, his eyes are still wild and over-bright, but he seems altogether more lucid than just a few moments ago. Merlin counts his pulse, feeling it flutter like a butterfly’s wings, but relieved to note that it’s still within acceptable parameters.

“Here,” Merlin says quietly. “Have some water.”

Alarmingly obedient, Arthur shuffles into an upright position, his fingers closing around Merlin’s own on the cold glass. Merlin doesn’t let go, what’s the point in playing coy now, after what just happened? After what he’d confessed to Arthur - albeit in an utterly foolish and irresponsible way.

So they hold the glass together, Arthur taking a few slow but deep sips and Merlin not bothering to fight the urge to wrap an arm around him. And despite all the uncertainty and the tangled mess of feelings, induced and otherwise, something heavy finally dislodges from Merlin’s chest. And when Arthur lets go of the glass, gently pushing it for Merlin to take back, and letting his forehead drop to Merlin’s shoulder, it’s the first time in days Merlin feels he can breathe again.

“Better?” Merlin asks and Arthur nods.

Putting the glass aside, Merlin lets his fingers sink into Arthur’s sweaty, but still unfairly silky hair, cradling him closer. With his free hand, he picks up the washcloth, pressing it gently to the nape of Arthur’s neck, hoping it will bring his temperature down.

Arthur shivers, but only presses closer, arms snaking around Merlin’s waist and making him smile.

“I brought some elderberry syrup as well.”

Arthur groans. “Why do you hate me?”

His voice is hoarse, but he definitely sounds coherent now. Sighing with bone-deep relief, Merlin turns over the washcloth, feeling the quiet hiss of Arthur’s breath as he presses it back to his overheated skin.

“I thought we just established that I really, really don’t,” Merlin murmurs, throat dry and heart hammering.

Arthur’s head lifts and Merlin is caught in his intent gaze.

“So when you said you want me, was that a ‘sure let’s get off sometime when you’re not fucked in the head or being randomly cooked inside your own body’ or a ‘once this is over I’ll let you ask me out properly’?”

Merlin huffs a laugh, using the cloth to gently dab away the sweat from Arthur’s brow.

“Arthur, if you don’t know the answer to that by now, I really don’t know how to help you.”

Arthur scowls. “You seem to have this erroneous notion that you’re easy to read.”

“I’m an open book,” Merlin protests, but he’s fighting a grin. “Also, you’ve called me an idiot plenty of times. Doesn’t telling me I’m mysterious contradict that?”

“No, it just makes you a mysterious idiot.” 

Arthur sobers slightly and gently cups Merlin’s face with blessedly steady hands, his thumb warm and a little rough as it traces Merlin’s cheekbone. Merlin wraps wet fingers around Arthur’s wrist and turns his face into his touch in an odd role reversal from before.

“Is that a yes?” Arthur asks quietly, face raw and open in that horrible, glorious way that rips right into Merlin’s chest.

He tightens his grip on Arthur’s arm and presses closer, kissing Arthur’s palm.

“Yes,” Merlin says, lips brushing where he’s already sealed the promise into Arthur’s skin. “If you still want me when all this is over, you can come to the Grind and ask me properly.”

Arthur’s smile splits the darkness like a sunrise. And Merlin wants to kiss him so badly, the desire of it so strong he can taste it. He wraps his arms around him instead, pressing his face to Arthur’s burning skin and finally lets go.

The last barrier falls and crumbles to dust.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says quietly. “About before. I can’t believe-” He swallows. “I should never have done that.”

Arthur’s hand rubs soothingly at his ribs, re-tracing an earlier caress, his head nestled just below Merlin’s chin.

“Don’t apologise.” His fingers play at the hem of Merlin’s pyjama top, but don’t stray underneath. “If you must know, it makes me feel better. That I’m not the only one always losing control.”

After getting Arthur to take some of the elderberry syrup, they’d decided that the bed would be more comfortable than the couch so they’d stumbled their way back to Arthur’s rooms. When Merlin checked the time earlier he saw that it’d just gone quarter to five. Still, neither of them seemed inclined to go to sleep just yet.

Merlin gives an incredulous snort. “What do you mean always? You’re practically unshakable. When we first met it was like repeatedly crashing into a very arrogant, very indignant brick wall.”

“I did have a very good teacher,” Arthur says wryly. “Trial by fire, so to speak.”

Merlin thinks of King Uther’s stony disapproval and shudders.

“It’s weird,” Arthur murmurs after a moment. Merlin hums in askance, prompting Arthur to continue. “I don’t feel all that different. I still feel like myself. Just a little more…out there, or something. A little hazy sometimes, a little less inhibited, but still me, you know?”

Merlin bites his lip, holding in the urge to contradict him. He wants to believe Arthur, wants it so very badly, but there’s just too much evidence stacked against him. Still, Arthur had accused him of being patronising and dismissive of his feelings and Merlin doesn’t want that. He’s determined to do better.

He finds Arthur’s hand with his own, feeling the familiar buzz as he slides their fingers together.

“I get it,” Merlin says, even though he’s not quite sure he does. He swallows. “But you understand why we can’t take this any further just yet, don’t you?”

Arthur sighs, running his thumb along Merlin’s and lighting up his skin some more.

“I do.”

“I want to do this right. I want to do right…by you.” Merlin cards his fingers through Arthur’s soft hair and squeezes his hand. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Arthur shifts, lifting his head enough to look down at Merlin, the artificial starlight just enough for Merlin to make out the gleam of his eyes and the gentle curve of his mouth.

“I know,” Arthur says. “Not many people remember that I’m actually human, so this is a nice change.” He sobers a little, voice dropping to something soft and painfully sincere. “Thank you, Merlin.”

Merlin touches his cheek for the simple pleasure that he now can, smiling stupidly when Arthur turns his head to brush a kiss to his palm.

“We should get some sleep,” Merlin says, reluctant but finally starting to feel the events of the night - not to mention the past few days - catching up to him.

“Yes,” Arthur says, a little dry and a lot affectionate. “This communication lark is rather exhausting.”

“Clearly, you need more practice.”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur says and nestles back against him.

Merlin pulls him closer, and smiles up at the starry ceiling.

Unfortunately - or fortunately depending on the angle - there isn’t much time to explore the new and precarious aspect of their relationship. Arthur is being run into the ground with the organisation of the parade, and Merlin is juggling at least five different end-of-term papers, all of which are dry as dust and convoluted as fuck.

Which means that most of the following three weeks are spent quietly suffering in Arthur’s study. And when they finally make it back to Arthur’s rooms and get ready for bed, there’s little will left other than to wrap around each other and pass out mid-murmured-conversation.

But in many ways, things are undeniably different.

Any lingering awkwardness has been swept away once and for all in a tide of mutual boners and understanding. Arthur no longer goes stiff and distant when Merlin shows concern for his health, or takes his blood. In turn, Merlin tries his best to be less skittish and to trust Arthur more.

Then, of course, there’s the fact that they’re now both very aware that - as Merlin had put it - they wank themselves stupid over each other.

Merlin still remembers that first morning after they’d talked things out. He’d planned to slip away, same as any other morning, when Arthur had caught his wrist and gently wrestled him back into the sheets.

“It’s your turn to have the bed,” he’d said, voice low and gravelly from sleep. Then he’d pressed a hot, lingering kiss to Merlin’s neck and whispered, “Think of me.”

And Merlin had been left alone in the bed, intensely aroused and barely even knowing what to do with himself because of it. So he’d pressed his face into Arthur’s pillow, moaned Arthur’s name into the silk sheets, and had come so hard he saw whole universes.

Yes, Merlin rather likes that particular addition to their morning routine.

“How’s the torture going?” Merlin asks, bending down to slide his arms around Arthur’s shoulders from behind. Arthur groans and Merlin hides a smile against his shoulder. “About as well as mine, then.”

Arthur leans back into his embrace, one hand absently stroking Merlin’s forearm, while the other points at one of the holo-projections in front of him.

“Do you see that? Catrina has emailed me every half an hour since eight in the morning. That’s fourteen emails, Merlin.”

“More peacocks?” Merlin hazards, biting back a grin despite the fact that he genuinely feels bad for Arthur.

Catrina really is a troll.

Arthur groans again and closes his eyes.

“Do you really do this all by yourself every year?” Merlin asks.

“Morgana used to be in charge of it.” He says it softly, and Merlin recognises the raw, deeply buried pain he’s learned to be associated with Morgana. Arthur goes on, voice growing quieter and more distant, as though he doesn’t even realise he’s speaking aloud. “Without a Queen, a lot of the responsibilities fell to her. She wasn’t particularly thrilled about that and kept trying to foist them off on me - but the parade, it used to be her thing. She loved it. It gave her even more of an excuse to boss people about.”

Merlin smiles wryly. “Must lie in the family, that.”

Arthur looks at him and Merlin wonders if he’s misstepped, but then Arthur’s lips quirk in turn.

“A true Pendragon trait.”

They fall silent, simply resting together for a while. Merlin is drifting, absently putting together the final argument for his current paper, when Arthur’s touch brings him back to the present. He’s tracing Merlin’s wrist, following the rim of his bracelet.

Merlin grimaces and moves his hand away, hating it and hating the way it makes him feel.

“Does it hurt?” Arthur asks softly.

Merlin draws back and straightens, folding his arms across his chest as he steps into Arthur’s line of sight.

“Why the sudden interest?” 

It comes out a little sharper than intended, making Arthur frown.

“It’s not-” He clears his throat, awkward but with his usual air of determination. “I am interested. I just never had anyone I could ask.”

The wind is taken abruptly from Merlin’s indignant sails and he deflates, feeling suddenly sheepish.

“Sorry. It’s a bit of a sore subject.” Merlin smiles wryly. “For obvious reasons.”

Arthur gives him a long look. “I can imagine.”

Merlin sighs and leans back against Arthur’s desk, feeling the polished edge dig into his spine as he faces him.

“That’s the thing, though. You can’t,” Merlin says quietly, but not unkind this time. “Do you know who invented the prototype for these?” He holds up his wrist. “Non-MU scientists. They understand how magic works in theory, but they’ve never actually felt it. They don’t get what it’s like for people like me. Magic is part of us, Arthur. It’s not a switch you can turn on and off. Having this, it’s crippling.”

Arthur’s expression is grave, possibly a little sad, definitely more than a little angry. He looks at Merlin, unflinching despite his clear discomfort of the subject.

“Do all MUs feel this way?”

Merlin shakes his head. “It’s different for everyone. Mostly it depends on the amount of raw power you have. The stronger you are, the worse it feels.”

Arthur digests this for a moment, but Merlin already knows his next question before he finally asks it.

“And for you?”

Merlin smiles sadly.

“For me, magic is like breathing. So this-” he taps his bracelet, making it light up in reaction. “It’s like someone’s cut out part of my lungs - like a piece of me is missing and I’m suffocating.”

When Arthur takes his hand this time, Merlin lets him have it, and when he turns it over to press a kiss to his wrist, lips barely grazing the accursed metal, Merlin has to blink away the sting in his eyes.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Arthur says softly, eyes lowered and Merlin’s wrist still held in a gentle grip. “I just never felt like it was the right time. But I want you to know that I’ve written to Camelot University that we won’t be needing any volunteers this year.”

Merlin’s throat constricts. “You mean-”

Arthur nods.

And when blinking is no longer enough and his eyes spill over, Arthur catches the first with his thumb, and the next with his lips, and wordlessly wraps him in his arms.

Summer seems to finally have arrived for good. A fact Merlin is happy to celebrate with his friends when it means sprawling out on the perfectly manicured lawn of the campus park, but that he dreads when thinking about having to stand on a hover-platform in stuffy clothes for hours in less than a week.

Freya bumps his shoulder, voice low and conspiratorial. “So, how’s things?”

They’ve demolished most of the food and are now in various stages of food coma. Daegal is outright snoring, hugging the leg of an equally fond and exasperated Sefa, who’s been playing a complicated looking card-game with Elyan.

He and Lance had officially come along for Merlin’s ‘protection’, which is nothing but a veiled excuse for them to enjoy the weather along with everyone else. And Lance is definitely enjoying it, Merlin thinks with a smug smirk, judging from where he’s comfortably rested his head in Gwen’s lap. Gwen, who’s been fawning over him since he arrived and is now feeding him grapes.

He wishes Arthur was here to feed him grapes. It’s a bit ridiculous and a lot alarming how much Merlin misses him.

It would also definitely beat being trapped between bloodhounds Freya and Gwaine. Merlin had told Freya about Gaius’ revelation because he’d needed to tell someone. It’d also been helpful to bounce theories off someone who understands the subject matter. Whereas Gwaine had simply bullied the answer out of Merlin the same way he had the first time around.

“Yes, do tell.” Gwaine leers. “Is the Princess treating you well or do we need to have words? Though I’m also willing to do a practical demonstration.”

Freya, the traitor, gives an equally dirty smile and Merlin feels as much as hears them high-fiving behind his back.

“You know very well it’s not like that,” Merlin says irritably, gently sliding over a snoozing Kilgharrah in order to stretch his legs.

The sliver of a golden, reptilian eye looks at him in reproach, then closes again accompanied by the shuffling of wings as he settles back into sleep. Or at least that’s how it appears. One can never be too sure with Kilgharrah.

“More fool you,” Freya says, grinning. “This is your once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to have a sex slave.”

Gwaine snickers.

“Will you shut up!” Merlin snaps.

They shut up.

“Hey,” Freya says softly, leaning tentatively against him. “I’m sorry. You know we’re just teasing.”

“Well it isn’t funny, alright? This whole situation is just-”

Merlin breaks off, too frustrated to even try to put his feelings into words. He rubs a rough hand through his hair, fingers curling and tugging sharply in frustration.

He can tell Freya and Gwaine are sharing a look and it makes him want to scream. Then Gwaine’s arm lands heavily across his shoulders and somehow the contact settles Merlin a little, reminding him that he’s with his friends who, while infuriating, are steadfast and loving when he needs them to be.

“Why don’t you tell us what this is about?” Gwaine says, more serious now.

Merlin lets out a breath that seems to last forever, but at least releases some of the pressure.

“I want to break the enchantment,” Merlin blurts suddenly. “I want to, but I’m scared. Not just of what will happen after - fuck, I don’t even want to think about that yet - but what if it’s not enough? I just keep thinking it’s not the right time, not with the parade coming up, but then I feel so guilty because what if I could and instead I’m just sitting here, letting him suffer. And then I think maybe I don’t even want to break it, because I just want to keep him, but I don’t want it like that, I know I don’t, I-”

“Merlin, breathe,” Freya orders gently.

Merlin gulps in a lungful of air, then another. Gwaine squeezes him gently.

“There, there,” he says, patting Merlin’s back. “Aren’t you glad you got that out.”

Merlin nods, feeling a rare blush creeping up his neck. Freya hands him some of the sticky, overly-sweet juice Daegal always carries around with him.

“The point is,” Merlin says, calmer now after forcing down a sip of sickeningly strong juice - apple this time. “I’m fucked no matter what I do.”

“Can’t you just-” Gwaine wriggles his eyebrows. “I don’t know, plant one on him and see what happens?”

“Gwaine,” Merlin warns, but this time Freya comes to his aid.

“If a peck was all it takes to break enchantments, shady MUs everywhere would pack up their business and move on to greener pastures.”

Gwaine’s face crinkles in confusion. “What does that mean?”

“It means there has to be intent,” Freya says patiently. “And Merlin has to direct all of it at Prince Arthur to be able to break through. If he’s the slightest bit unsure, the enchantment will know and it’ll only become harder to break it with every try.”

“You’re saying he has to really mean it.” Gwaine says dubiously. “Be serious about it.”

He looks disgruntled at the mere concept. Merlin nods.

“I can’t just randomly kiss him to try it out. He’d ask questions and, what’s more, the compulsion would just try and turn it into an excuse.” The memory of Arthur, feverish and begging as he trembled in Merlin’s arms flashes through his mind. He pushes it aside. “We’d be snogging all over the place just to ‘make sure’, or whatever.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Gwaine waves a hand. “It’s just a bit of kissing, Merlin, I’m not saying throw him down and fuck him!”

“It’s not just anything, Gwaine!” Merlin says hotly. “I can’t trust half the things he tells me right now. I need to be sure, and I need him to be sure. I don’t want him to hate me when all of this is over. For all I know he’ll be horrified and disgusted!”

Gwaine snorts. “Yeah, right. That’s why he always looked like he’d rather drink you than his coffee every time he came to the Grind.”

“Please, don’t,” Merlin says tiredly. “I’m twisted around enough as it is, I really don’t need you putting ideas into my head.”

Gwaine throws up his hands. “I give up.”

“I understand what you’re saying, Merlin, I do,” Freya says seriously. “And, for what it’s worth, I think you’re making the right decision by waiting until this whole spectacle with the parade is over. But just don’t wait too long, alright? Because it’s easy to fall into habits, you know? And very hard to break out of them when you do.”

An uncomfortably serious air descends on them after that, until Gwaine takes it upon himself to break it.

“Maybe Merlin’s just forgotten what a proper kiss is like,” he declares, reaching out as if to grab Merlin’s face. “Here, let me help you!”

Merlin yelps and ducks out of the way.

“Gwaine!”

Gwaine, of course, only takes that as incentive to launch himself at Merlin in earnest. They roll around, laughing hysterically, while Merlin fights valiantly to keep Gwaine’s comically pursed mouth at bay. It’s only when a shadow falls over them and Merlin feels a familiar, intense gaze on him that he realises who it is that’s suddenly looming over them.

“Arthur!” he squawks breathlessly.

Even up-side down, Arthur looks devastating, his shirt almost a quarter unbuttoned, the sunglasses hooked on his open neckline only drawing more attention to his naked skin.

Uncomfortably aware of how he must look, mussed and dishevelled with Gwaine half on top of him, Merlin shoves Gwaine off with a little more force than probably necessary. Ignoring Gwaine’s indignant exclamations, Merlin scrambles to his feet, distantly aware that the others are greeting Arthur cheerfully while he collects himself.

“Replace me already?” Arthur asks once Merlin is finally upright, voice cool but gaze fiercely possessive.

Merlin licks his lips, heat clawing down his spine. He steps closer to Arthur, feels the heat of his body as they press together.

“As if you’d get rid of me that easily,” Merlin says, feeling the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. “What are you doing here?”

Reaching up, Arthur plucks what turns out to be a stray bit of grass from Merlin’s hair.

“I didn’t see why you, Lance and Elyan should have all the fun.” He smiles a small, secret smile, voice dropping to a murmur. “Also, I missed you.”

Merlin is absolutely sure that if it were possible, he’d be nothing but a puddle of goo right now. He reaches out to slide his fingers between Arthur’s own, leaning in to brush a brief, nuzzling kiss to his jaw.

“I missed you, too.” He steps back a little, tugging Arthur along. “C’mon, I’ve been watching Gwen feed Lance grapes for the past hour and I’m jealous. It’s my turn now.”

“Have you forgotten who I am, Merlin?” Arthur demands imperiously, even as he lets himself be towed. “If anyone is getting fed grapes it’ll be me.”

Merlin shrugs, fighting a smirk. “Alright, then.”

Using his hold on Arthur’s hand, Merlin yanks him against him and unceremoniously wrestles him down onto the closest picnic blanket.

“Merlin!” Arthur protests, but he’s laughing, cancelling out any attempts at indignation.

And when Merlin pulls him down to rest in his lap, Arthur simply pillows his head on Merlin’s thigh and smiles up at him, so beautiful it hurts Merlin to look at him. Heart hammering in a chest tight enough it feels fit to burst, Merlin reaches for one of the containers, then gently presses the first, deep purple grape to Arthur’s lips. He watches them part obediently, tongue hot and irresistible against the tip of Merlin’s finger.

“Not so bad, is it?” Merlin asks, breathlessly happy.

Arthur’s lips twitch, the smallest trace of dark juice lingering on his mouth, beckoning Merlin like a siren song.

“It’ll do,” Arthur says, licking away the evidence, only to part his lips in silent demand for another.

Merlin, of course, complies.

Despite patiently listening to all of Arthur’s various, carefully composed meltdowns and less composed fits of fury at the incompetence of such and such and so and so; despite even having helped out where he could and having George chew his ear off about schedules and wardrobes, Merlin isn’t entirely prepared for the actuality of it all.

The hover-platform, which until this point Merlin had only ever seen when he’d skipped over the news each year, is even bigger and more hideous than he’d expected. 

Dominated by an opulent, old-fashioned throne and protected by a transparent, UV-proof dome, the platform is easily as big as Merlin’s tiny flat. Behind the awful throne, two long steps lead to a kind of lower tier where the King and Prince’s personal guard, as well as a handful of attendants - including George, Cartina and Sophia - will stand at the ready in case of an emergency.

“Gods above,” Arthur groans when he catches sight of the feathers peeking out from the artful knots of draped fabric framing the bottom of the platform.

“What is it with Catrina and peacocks?” Merlin asks, fighting to keep a straight face.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to get her a peacock zoondroid and I’m going to program it so it stalks her everywhere she goes. Maybe I’ll add a function so that it’ll give her a good, firm peck every time she tries to email me.”

Merlin’s resulting laughter draws a withering glare from King Uther, and even that doesn’t quell it completely, because every time Merlin is about to calm down, a vision of Catrina being chased around her office by a peacock springs into his head.

“C’mon,” Arthur sighs. “Let’s get in position and get this over with.”

They mount makeshift stairs not unlike those of vintage planes to get to the stupid platform, still hovering relatively close to the ground. To Merlin’s relief, there’s quite a bit of distance between them and King Uther, already seated on his throne and having an intent discussion with Catrina.

Merlin eyes the stoic guard behind them, already feeling sorry for them and the servants for having to suffer alongside him. Elyan catches his eye and they share a subtle eyeroll and a grin.

“Nervous?” Arthur asks, drawing Merlin’s gaze.

“Oh, no, I do this all the time, didn’t you know?”

Arthur snorts softly, but when strong fingers brush and then slip between his own, Merlin something in his chest loosens and breathing is suddenly a lot easier than a moment ago.

“I told you, all you need to do is stand here with me, smile, and wave. Just like all the other times.” Arthur glances at him, his eyes bright with amusement. “And maybe look a little less as though I’ve forced you to attend at phaser-point.”

“Not sure about that, but I’ll give it my best shot,” he says drily. He looks to where Sophia is holding a bottle of gently sparkling water. “I have one question though.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

“What do I do if I need a wee?”

“Hope for the best.”

Merlin starts to laugh, then breaks off in horror when Arthur just looks at him with a mixture of sadistic glee and pity.

“What, you’re serious?”

“I’m afraid so,” Arthur says, then continues as though imparting great knowledge. “It’s all about holding the balance between complete dehydration and pissing yourself. Give it a few years and you’ll become quite good at it.”

“You’re mad,” Merlin says with conviction. “You’re all mad. I always knew royals were barmy. Not that I’m kink shaming of course…”

“Merlin,” Arthur hisses, but he’s laughing quietly, clearly trying his best not to draw his father’s wrath.

King Uther would’ve likely glared at them again, but he doesn’t get the chance. The first holo-drones have started arriving and the King is forced to pretend at pleasantness, switching to ignoring Merlin’s existence instead.

Thank fuck for small mercies.

The stairs are removed and even though the platform’s ascent is smooth and steady, Merlin still finds himself gripping tightly at Arthur’s hand, disconcerted at the lack of firm ground beneath his feet.

Despite George’s dedication to brand the itinerary into his brain - Merlin is certain he would’ve followed him to the loo with one of his checklists if Arthur hadn’t put his foot down - Merlin still jumps at the next part.

He’d seen this once before, years ago when his mother had put on the spectacle on their tiny, outdated entertainment system in their cottage in Ealdor. It had looked impressive even on the small and slightly grainy projection, but this… 

It’s subtle at first, a break in the usually sedate rhythm of the great holo-dragon’s wings. But then the dragon throws back its head in a silent roar, its wings now making great, sweeping motions before finally launching itself from its fixed position.

It glides in a tight circle above them, then another, before reaching out with great, golden talons to grab hold of the ornate rod fixed to the dome above them. It doesn’t actually grab it, of course, but even to Merlin, who’s standing right beneath the projection, it looks uncannily real.

Somewhere from the pompous folds of his high collar, Kilgharrah snorts derisively.

“Hypocrisy is one of humanity’s greatest poisons. So is hubris.”

“Hush,” Merlin whispers, eyes flickering to King Uther.

But the King is too busy making himself look good in front of the cameras to pay Merlin - or the companion hidden in his clothing - any mind. He’d almost left Kilgharrah behind, knowing that it would be hard for him to hold his lizard-tongue - a trait he unfortunately shares with Merlin. But in the end Merlin had been too nervous to miss out on the moral support.

A gentle tug from Arthur’s hand brings Merlin back to the present.

“Ready?” Arthur asks quietly.

Merlin swallows and nods.

“Ready.”

It’s almost unbearably hot, the sun beating down on them mercilessly. The dome might protect them from UV radiation, but true shade and environmental force fields are out due to visibility. How else are all those drones going to get the perfect shot of King Uther’s nose hairs?

Merlin leans in, voice low. “Is being baked alive part of the tradition, or do the royal stylists just hate you?”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

Merlin looks at Arthur, face flushed with heat and his fringe slightly darkened in places, despite the can of damp-proof hairspray Merlin watched the stylist unleash on Arthur’s hair earlier. Merlin watches as he discreetly tugs at his collar.

He takes pity on him, casting a small cooling charm over them both. The little sound of relief Arthur makes is downright obscene, making an altogether different heat pool in Merlin’s gut. He looks away hastily.

“Please tell me this is going to last a while,” Arthur says, sounding vaguely blissed out which in turn does nothing for Merlin’s…rising situation.

“Not that long, I’m afraid,” Merlin says, feeling the beginnings of the first genuine smile in the past few hours. “But I can cast it a few more times.”

“I could kiss you right now,” Arthur sighs.

Definitely not helping.

“While I’m sure the media would love that,” Merlin says hoarsely. “I don’t think your father would approve.”

“I don’t care,” Arthur murmurs, his voice almost a physical caress sliding down Merlin’s back. His eyes linger on Merlin’s lips, before sliding up to catch his own in a fiery gaze. “I’d do it right here, right now if you’d let me.”

“Arthur…” Merlin breathes, the name sticking to his throat as one of Arthur’s fingers dips past the hem of Merlin’s sleeve and draws a hot, slow caress across his bare skin.

Weak-kneed and with a hammering heart, Merlin forces his eyes away, coughing a little as he sucks in a deep breath to calm himself down. Beside him, Arthur chuckles darkly and Merlin risks a quick glare before facing forwards once more.

He takes in the familiar sight of Camelot University slowly coming into view. As they draw closer, Merlin lets his eyes wander across the lusciously green, sprawling campus, different faculty buildings peeking out from between trees here and there. The great fountain by the front gate - dragon themed, because what else - has been hung with banners and garlands, the underwater lights giving it an almost ethereal glow.

And that’s when Merlin sees it. Right there in the exact same spot as every year, standing in loose formation and wearing traditional mage robes in the University’s colours, is a group of MUs. And like every year, King Uther rises and raises his arm, bringing the parade to a halt in preparation for the magic display.

Merlin’s stomach drops.

He looks at Arthur, whose expression is downright murderous. Merlin has never seen him so angry, can feel the way Arthur’s hand is shaking with suppressed fury.

“Excuse me,” Arthur says, eerily calm and hard as steel. “I think I need to have words with Catrina.”

“Arthur-” Merlin starts.

But Arthur has already turned on his heel and marched off towards where Catrina has just glided up to King Uther like a bad smell.

Merlin rubs tiredly at an eyebrow, then looks back down at the waiting MUs. All around them, there’s a vibrating sense of excitement, the crowd hungry for a spectacle. The magic display is the parade’s undisputed highlight, and King Uther knows it, which is why Merlin isn’t surprised that despite Arthur’s best efforts, nothing at all has changed.

Maybe he’d been naive to hope that this year would mark a change, that non-MUs would wonder at the display’s absence and finally start to ask questions. It would’ve meant a chance for MUs to be listened to, to point out the hypocrisy of the mere existence of such a display when most of the propaganda claims that magic is evil and corrupts. That King Uther only takes them off the shelf when it suits him, then puts them back there to choke on dust when he’s done.

Reflexively, Merlin glances over at Arthur, who is having a very reserved, hissed argument with Catrina and the King. King Uther is wearing a fixed smile, no doubt to appear as though they’re having a pleasant conversation instead of a row. Merlin shudders inwardly at the kind of dressing down that must be awaiting Arthur after daring to get into it with the King in public.

“Merlin,” Kilgharrah says suddenly, tearing Merlin out of his gloom. “I feel a magical disturbance in the air.”

Frowning, Merlin lets his magic rise inside him, sending out inquisitive tendrils to test the air around them. While his magic is busy poking about, he takes a moment to look at the gathered MUs. They’re still quite a ways off the ground, but Merlin still thinks he should be able to recognise at least one of them. By all rights, most of them should be in Merlin’s year, but looking down at them, he can’t pin down a single face.

A familiar, niggling feeling spreads in his gut, his magic squirming restlessly within his chest in reaction. He knows this feeling well and it’s never, ever led to anything good.

“You’re right,” Merlin murmurs to Kilgharrah. “There’s something wrong.”

Using his already restless magic, Merlin lets it enhance his vision, studying each of the MUs faces carefully. He doesn’t recognise a single one. They’ve changed formation now, facing each other in two lines that, upon closer inspection, look far closer to a circle.

There’s absolutely no need for a Mage Circle when performing a few parlour tricks.

The bad feeling twists tighter, morphing into something closer to dread. Merlin’s magic fidgets unhappily and Merlin feels the first twinge around his wrist, his bracelet pinging in warning to let him now that his week’s allotment is about to hit its limit. Merlin ignores it.

“What are they doing?” he mutters, trying frantically to pin down something, anything.

The crowd shifts with joint excitement, cheering as the first sparks ignite, bright sparkling colours flowing and collapsing into shapes. They start small, then become bigger, one side of the MUs now focusing on scenery, while the other shapes plants and animals alike - a school of glittering fish weaving in an out of seaweed, a verdant valley swarmed with mythical birds.

But still, there’s the feeling of wrong, of make it stop.

It takes Merlin an embarrassingly long time to realise what’s off with the scene in front of him.

“Kilgharrah, their bracelets! Look at their bracelets they’re-”

Dormant, Merlin wants to say, but the excitement of the crowd is almost manic and he’s silenced in another burst of cheers. His eyes flicker frantically over the MUs wrists, each bracelet utterly non-reactive to the outpouring of power. A power that is growing altogether too much and that no bracelet would’ve allowed.

Electrified with fear, Merlin’s first thought is to get to Arthur. He needs to make sure that Arthur’s safe, needs to feel him close so Merlin can protect him. He’s just about to draw out of his still enhanced sight when he sees something else.

At the very back of the group of fake MU students, two robed figures are arguing. One is wearing a hood, a long, shiny strand of dark hair framing a pale, delicate jaw and a single green eye glaring daggers at her companion. Merlin has never seen her in person, of course, but her features are far too striking to forget - there’s no doubt that this is Morgana Pendragon.

Much calmer and apparently far less concerned about discovery, the person across from her tilts her head in an almost bored fashion. And if Merlin’s stomach wasn’t already somewhere around his feet, he’s sure it’d have reached rock bottom at the sight: Nimueh.

As if feeling Merlin’s gaze, Nimueh turns her head, catches his eye, and smirks.

He slams back into himself with enough force to make him stumble.

“Arthur!” he’s already calling out, but the crowd below has grown louder and almost certainly drowns him out.

He doesn’t dare move. He’s the first, last, and only line of defence between the rebels - for there’s no doubt now that that’s what they are - and everyone else. 

Throwing a frantic glance at them, he sees they now have their hands in the air. They’re in sync, their arms and bodies swaying in an almost hypnotic rhythm. Merlin can see their lips moving, feels the build-up of energy, the thick, syrupy static of it making his skin tingle and raises all the small hairs on his body.

 His curse is swallowed by the oblivious crowd, whooping as the newest shape reveals itself. A dragon.

“Go!” He nudges Kilgharrah, none-too-gently in his panic, but Kilgharrah doesn’t linger, taking off with flapping wings. Merlin yells again, “Arthur!”

And finally, finally, Arthur’s head whips up just as the dragon rises with a whipping tail, and roars.

Unlike the hologram above them, this dragon is not silent, its roar fuelled by the powerful spell woven by a group of righteous MUs out for the King’s blood. As if on cue, a sea of golden eyes rises towards the platform, not just the ones of the MU line-up, but dozens more just behind and around them.

Merlin watches Arthur lurch towards him, his lips forming Merlin’s name, but Merlin holds out a hand, holds him back with loving, desperate tendrils of his magic. His bracelet grips him hard, flashing red and angry, but Merlin doesn’t care.

Stay, he pleads silently, fiercely. Please stay so I can protect you.

Kilgharrah has reached Arthur, but Merlin can’t spare the time to check on them further.

He whirls around just as the dragon lunges forward and it’s as if the crowd around them has been plunged underwater, their excitement submerged in the swelling voices of increasingly fervent chanting.

Merlin’s magic surges, faster than conscious thought. Energy crackles around him like a whip, his senses snapping and aligning with the air around him, the very fabric of elemental forces buried in the earth so far below, rising up to meet him. Merlin doesn’t think, his instincts carrying him forward to bring himself between the crazed, burning dragon and Arthur.

Merlin throws his arms up, palms out. There’s no need for ancient words, because magic is already pouring out of him, drawn from deep within, his connection to wind and earth drawing taut as they struggle to aid him.

The fire-dragon, incandescent and untamed, hits against Merlin’s shield, now wrapped in a tight ring around the platform, sheltering the King and his guard, Arthur’s Knights, and the attendants. Sheltering Arthur, always Arthur…

Fire charrs Merlin’s wrist, the bracelet screeching bloody murder at Merlin’s blatant disregard of it.

Distantly, Merlin hears the frantic screaming of the crowd below, their cheerfulness now morphed into panic. Fire beats against his shield, sears into his wrist, the acrid smell of burning flesh making him gag. Bile rises at the back of his throat, but he refuses to look. It doesn’t matter, nothing matters, because the magical fire is still raging and Arthur is still right behind him.

Somewhere below, the crowds are yelling, spreading out in their flight. And Arthur, Arthur is bellowing something, but Merlin can’t make out the words, can’t hear anything past the rush of the fire and his own power, can’t see beyond the blinding brightness and the darkness creeping in from the corners, reaching out, snagging and dragging at him-

And then Merlin realises it’s him who’s screaming loudest of all. Screaming in agony as the bracelet burns deeper and deeper into his wrist until the shape and width of it is scorched into his bones. But most of all, most of all he screams in defiance, because the push of the fire-dragon is lessening, is so close to dispersing and Merlin needs to hold on, just a little, just a little bit longer-

The spell breaks, Merlin feels it in his chest as it finally crumbles beneath his own power. He holds on for one more moment, two, making sure that the remnants of the spell fizzle out harmlessly, before, finally, he lets go.

The shield collapses just as the earth and air’s hold releases him and his knees buckle.

And then Arthur’s there, his arms and chest hot, but they don’t burn, only cradle him safely, offering a place where Merlin can press his face and shield his eyes because it’s still too bright and now that he longs for the darkness to claim him it’s merely hovering, mocking and elusive.

“Arth-” Merlin tries to say, but his throat is shredded, the bile still burning and threatening to bubble up so Merlin clamps his mouth shut even as Arthur hushes him.

Murmuring, “Shh, love, don’t try to talk, don’t-”

Merlin isn’t sure if Arthur trails off or if it’s him who fades out and back in, but the next words don’t fit right and Merlin knows he’s missed some either way.

“-on its way,” Arthur is saying, but he doesn’t sound like himself at all and Merlin wants to ask what’s wrong, but everything is swimming around him, swimming and burning and- “Merlin. Merlin! Stay with me, you idiot, c’mon. How could you just- Please, just stay with me, alright?”

There’s other voices, one of them more familiar than the others - Elyan? Lance? But Merlin’s world is narrowed down only to Arthur. He clings to his presence, his touch, the way his hands feel brushing shakily through his hair, a thumb across his cheekbone, lips against his brow-

There’s a ripping noise, someone saying something that sounds like shock, then something ice-cold and sodden touches his mangled wrist and relief mixes with agony. Merlin lurches and is violently sick all over the polished surface of the hover-platform, throat searing. Through it all, Arthur’s hold on him never falters.

It’s the last thing he feels, Arthur’s the last voice he hears, when the tendrils of darkness finally have mercy and welcome him into their embrace.

The world swims into focus slowly and with it, the distinct feeling that every single pore on his body hurts; possibly also his hair. And his toenails.

A small groan lodges in his throat, but someone has poured a desert down it - alongside one of Gaius’ vile potions. Not even on the threshold back to oblivion can Merlin possibly mistake the taste coating his dried-out tongue. 

Struggling to hold on to even the shred of a thought, he tries turning his head, but everything just spins and the room is too dim to make out much of anything. He swallows, but it feels like there’s not a single drop of moisture left inside his mouth, only the astringent taste of the potion.

“Gaius?” Merlin tries faintly, but what emerges is little more than a mangled rasp.

He starts coughing just as Gaius’ familiar lined face comes into view above him.

“There, there, my boy,” Gaius says, guiding a straw between Merlin’s lips. “Slow sips, now. Won’t do to choke again.”

Merlin complies, pulling a few mouthfuls of water from the glass and swallowing carefully. Instantly, some of the caked-over feeling in his throat eases and the bitter, herbal taste of Gaius’ concoction is diluted.

Idly sucking on the straw some more, Merlin tries to steer his hazy thoughts, working to pin down slippery strands of fractured memory. Inside him, his magic seems equally out of it. He feels scraped raw, as though someone has tried very hard to scoop out all his power alongside his organs. 

That fire-dragon had really-

Merlin jerks, water spilling over his chin as he hacks out a series of coughs. Gaius grips firmly onto his shoulder, abruptly hauling him into an upright position with surprising strength. His head spins anew, nausea churning in his stomach and he really hopes he won’t be sick. 

Again, whispers a small voice just as the memory of vomiting all over Arthur slams into him. Arthur, who’d been holding him, and pleading with him, and-

“Arthur!” Merlin gasps, barely managing to get it out between coughs. He wants to clutch at Gaius, partly for balance, partly in demand, but for some reason his hands won’t move. “Arthur, is he-”

“Calm yourself, Merlin,” Gaius says evenly. “Prince Arthur is fine. He’s right here.”

Without releasing his strong grip on Merlin, he steps aside, his mage robes billowing gently as they follow the slight turn of his body. And there Arthur is, Merlin’s right hand flattened beneath his cheek, where he’s fallen asleep on their joined hands.

He looks absolutely terrible, pale and chap-lipped, shadows clinging to the angles of his face, painting him with exhaustion. Instinctively, Merlin makes to reach out, aching to touch him, feel his forehead and run his fingers through his hair.

Pain shoots up his left arm and he tears his eyes away from Arthur long enough to see that his wrist has been swaddled in a thick, crisp bandage. Merlin stares at it. He can’t remember when he’d even last seen an honest-to-gods bandage. Between the use of dermal regenerators and Gaius’ many healing potions and salves there certainly hadn’t ever been a need for them.

Looking back at Arthur, Merlin momentarily pushes the twinging pain in his left wrist aside, far more concerned about the fact that Arthur has not stirred once despite Merlin’s flailing. And Arthur isn’t a deep sleeper.

“Gaius, what’s wrong with him? You said he’s fine!” Merlin asks anxiously, cursing the fact that he can’t touch Arthur properly.

He settles for gently squeezing his fingers instead, their joined hands slightly clammy, suggesting they must’ve been like that for quite some time.

“I assure you, Prince Arthur is as well as can be expected under the circumstances,” Gaius says mildly. 

“Your uncle drugged his tea,” a familiar voice supplies from the vicinity of Merlin’s abandoned pillows.

Merlin cranes his neck a little and promptly does a double take, mouth falling open as he stares.

“What’s happened to you?!”

Kilgharrah sniffs, unimpressed.

“I would think it rather obvious.” He shuffles his wings as though driving home his point. “I’ve grown.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Merlin says, still aghast. 

He’s not sure mixing in surprises of this magnitude with his current, woozy state is a good idea. But he’s also not sure how he could’ve possibly missed this. And by ‘this’ he’s referring to Kilgharrah who, for some unfathomable reason, is now the size of a small cat. By the looks of him, his wings must be spanning at least two feet and his tail about half that.

“It would seem unleashing your full power has had a positive effect on me,” Kilgharrah says, sounding pleased.

Merlin eyes him dubiously. “I’m not sure I’d call it posi- Hang on, did you say Gaius drugged Arthur’s tea?”

Gaius doesn’t look the least bit guilty.

“Prince Arthur hasn’t left your side for the past three days and refused to rest. Drastic measures were required.”

Merlin strokes his thumb along Arthur’s. Arthur’s cheek is hot, the enchantment no doubt not thrilled about being deprived of Merlin’s attentions while unconscious. Not to mention that Arthur’s stress levels must’ve gone through the roof, which is also anything but helpful.

“Three days?” Merlin asks, not at all happy about the news. “I was under for this whole time?”

Gaius sighs and reaches behind Merlin to fluff his pillows, only to have Kilgharrah promptly settle on one of them with a wide, sharply-toothed yawn. If Merlin had to take a guess, he’d say that Kilgharrah must be feeling the drain on his magic just as badly as Merlin himself, connected to it as he is. Combine that with his growth spurt and he must be completely exhausted.

“I had to keep you sedated in order to help you heal,” Gaius says and gently urges Merlin to lie back down. It does help somewhat with the spinning. Gaius fixes him with a grave look. “The injury to your wrist was extensive, the bracelet very nearly burned your hand off.”

Merlin glances briefly at the bandage. “But it’s going to be alright, yeah?”

Gaius nods, but doesn’t look as happy about it as Merlin would like.

“I’ve repaired the damage as best I could,” Gaius says. “Unfortunately there was a lot of interference between the bracelet and your magic. It created a sort of electromagnetic field, which kept short-circuiting the dermal regenerator. I’m afraid there’s going to be quite a lot of scarring.”

Merlin shrugs, then winces as the movement jostles his arm once more. He tries for a pained smile.

“Could’ve been worse, I suppose.”

Gaius sighs once more and takes a seat in the vacant chair next to where Arthur is slumped over in his own.

“Merlin, before the bracelet finally came off, your heart stopped twice.”

“What, but- Oh.” Comprehension dawns and Merlin grimaces. “You said electromagnetic field. My magic was trying to fight off the EMPs from the bracelet and I basically got electrocuted a couple of times.”

“Essentially,” Gaius agrees, looking unhappy. “This was a very close call, Merlin.”

A sudden thought occurs to him, almost making him shoot right back up before his spinning head abruptly reminds him what a bad idea that would be. Still-

“You didn’t tell Mum, did you?”

Gaius gives him a slightly pitying look.

“I didn’t have to tell her, Merlin. She called me in tears almost as soon as it happened.”

Realisation floods in once again. Gods, he really is out of it.

“The live holo-broadcast,” he says, defeated. “Of course.”

Gaius nods sagely. “She and Will came as soon as they could.”

Merlin stares at him, for some reason not having expected that, even though, really, he should have.

“Mum and Will are here? As in here here? They’re staying at the Palace?”

Gaius gives a small smile, no doubt amused by his fuzzy-brained babbling.

“They are,” he says. “They’re resting now, but I’m sure they’ll be back in the morning. Your other friends have also been inquiring after you constantly, but I’ve advised holding off for a little longer. You still need a lot of rest, Merlin.”

Merlin nods, annoyed at the drooping of his eyelids as he truly starts to flag. He blinks, fighting to keep awake just a few moments longer.

“Is everyone else alright?” he asks, slurring a little. “The King?”

“Everyone is fine,” Gaius reassures gently.

“Can you…blanket on Arthur?” Merlin murmurs, hoping he’s making sense. “He’s…fever.”

“Don’t worry about Prince Arthur, I’m keeping an eye on him. Please get some rest now.” 

Merlin wants to reply, though he’s not quite sure what it is he wants to say and in the end no words come. His eyes slide shut and he feels Gaius’ hand, stroking his head, lingering to give him a gentle pat.

“You were very brave, Merlin. I’m just glad you’re still here for me to tell you so.”

It’s the last thing he hears before he slips away once more.

Merlin jolts awake, dizzy and nauseous, the only thing louder than his own breath the wheezing coming from beside him. His right hand is held tight enough for the bones to grind painfully together.

“Arthur,” Merlin gasps, voice scraping at his throat.

The grip releases abruptly.

Merlin reaches out clumsily, wanting Arthur back. He doesn’t have to wait long, because in the next moment there’s movement in the dark and then Arthur is there, carefully crouched over him, his hands hot and slightly damp, but infinitely gentle on Merlin’s face.

“Mer-” Arthur starts, but his voice breaks in a burst of uneven breaths.

Merlin reaches up, murmuring something mangled between Arthur’s name and a soothing sound as he finds the crinkled fabric of Arthur’s collar, and drags him close. Arthur comes easily, face hot and damp as it presses into Merlin’s neck, trembling all over.

“I thought you were-” Arthur mutters wetly, damp lashes fluttering against Merlin’s skin. “You almost-”

Merlin slides his good arm around Arthur’s heaving shoulders and clings to him. It hurts, pressing their bodies together like this, but Merlin doesn’t care. 

Right now, all he can feel, all he can think is, I love you, I love you so fucking much. I’d defeat a hundred - a thousand - fire dragons for you. I want to protect you, be with you, always.

“It’s alright,” Merlin murmurs, lips pressing against Arthur’s clothed shoulder. He turns his head, seeking skin, tasting salt at the curve of Arthur’s jaw. “I’m here, I’m okay.”

Arthur sags further against him, but only for a moment. Merlin feels his muscles growing taut once more just as he pulls back, his thumb rough-soft as it follows the line of Merlin’s cheekbone, his gaze bearing down on Merlin through the darkness. Merlin wishes he could see his face, touches it instead, meeting prickly stubble as he wipes away tears.

“How could you just-” Arthur starts, then breaks off, his touch disappearing briefly, no doubt to drag his hand across his lips. “Never do that to me again. You hear me, Merlin? Not ever.”

Merlin smiles sadly, and he knows Arthur can’t see him, but then his thumb is back, this time tracing his lips. Merlin kisses it, then takes his hand, sliding their fingers together.

“I can’t promise you that,” he says quietly, squeezing Arthur’s hand at the small, wounded sound. “But I’ll try.” He swallows, breath catching wetly in his own throat. “I don’t want to leave you.”

I don’t want to, but I’ll have to. 

The realisation slices through him, sharper than ever. He’s certain, has never been more certain about anything in his life. He loves Arthur, he can break the enchantment.

“Then don’t,” Arthur is saying, shifting to align their bodies without crushing Merlin, head nestled close on the pillow, words whisper-soft. “Don’t leave me.”

Merlin swallows down a pained sound, eyes burning as he presses his face into Arthur’s silky hair, breathing him in. Days of worry and the faint, acrid smell of smoke still cling to him, but Merlin doesn’t care. He wants to brand Arthur into each and every sense, wants him etched into his skin and carved into his bones. So that when he does have to leave, Arthur will still be with him, no matter what.

When he next blinks open his eyes, muted daylight backlights the opaque setting of the transparent aluminium, the curtains of Arthur’s four poster bed half-drawn to create a protective shroud. Still, this feels much more as if he’s waking from sleep rather than the clutches of unconsciousness. His head is clearer and his mouth less dry and less as though one of Gaius’ magical herb concoctions has come to die in it.

He’s alone, but warmth lingers in the rumpled sheets. On his other side, Kilgharrah has taken over one of the pillows, wings twitching in his sleep.

Merlin tries to shift his left arm. Pain burns across his nerve-endings, but this time he at least manages to lift his hand from the bed to his stomach. Tentatively, he traces the edges of the bandage, testing the skin underneath. The whole area feels sore and vaguely itchy in an unpleasant, burning kind of way; his skin stretched too tight.

Gaius had said there’d be extensive scarring and Merlin can’t help but wonder what he’ll find once the bandage is gone. Leaving off, he turns his attention inwards, a little disconcerted with his magic’s uncharacteristic dormancy.

Carefully, Merlin prods at the golden lump of misery within his chest and it shies away instantly, curling up even smaller; fervently uncooperative. It’s a strange, utterly unprecedented feeling, and while it hurts, it’s also almost…satisfying. As though, for the first time, he’s stretched a muscle that’s been tied down and neglected all his life.

The sound of the bathroom door swishing open tears Merlin from his musings. He turns his head to watch Arthur emerge, followed by the fresh, familiar scent of posh shower gel and shampoo.

He’s shaved and the last of the parade clothes are finally gone, replaced by a fresh set of comfortable jeans and a deep red button-down that, while soft, looks a little formal for lounge wear.

“Are you going somewhere?” Merlin blurts, unable to keep the apprehension at the prospect from bleeding through.

Arthur smiles at him. It’s a little tight, his face still pale and drawn, but his eyes are soft. 

“Not at all.” He closes the distance between them, reclaiming the empty space at Merlin’s side, fingers gently brushing back Merlin’s hair. Merlin leans into it, instantly warmed. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, I think.” 

Arthur gives him a searching look. “Any pain? Nausea? Gaius left some potions for you just in case.”

Merlin grimaces, his tastebuds crying out in horror at the mere mention.

“No, thanks. I’m good for now.” He looks at Arthur, then hooks his fingers into the open collar of his shirt, fingering a sleek, shiny button. “If you’re not going anywhere, then what’s this for?”

Arthur takes his hand, his fingers dipping delicately into the valleys of Merlin’s knuckles.

“I think your mother will appreciate me looking less like a deranged castaway.”

A grin pulls at Merlin’s lips. “You’re worried about making a good impression on my mum?”

There’s the faintest flush on Arthur’s cheeks, made more visible by his wan complexion. Merlin can’t help but huff a laugh and drag him closer, pressing a kiss there. Arthur nestles his face into his neck, carefully wedging his arms under Merlin’s back to hug him close.

“Shut up,” Arthur mutters into Merlin’s skin. “Also, did you know that your friend has a massive chip on his shoulder?”

“Will?” Merlin snorts and threads his fingers into Arthur’s hair. “Don’t take it personally, he’s like that with everyone. Plus, he hates the upper class and it really doesn’t get more posh than royalty.”

“He’ll be glad to see you awake,” Arthur says quietly. “You’ve had everyone worried.”

“I know.” Merlin gives him a squeeze. “But I’m okay now.”

Arthur pulls back, mouth an unhappy line. He traces the edges of Merlin’s bandage, much the same as Merlin had done earlier.

“Does it hurt?”

“A bit.” An understatement, but not by much. It already seems better than yesterday. Gaius must’ve given him the good stuff. “What-”

The door chime cuts across him and Merlin frowns. It’s not like he doesn’t want to see his mum and Will, but he was hoping to have a bit more time alone with Arthur, or even Kilgharrah. He’s bursting with questions about what exactly happened at the parade, wanting to know if they’d managed to apprehend anyone at all. 

If, Merlin thinks with a sinking feeling, Arthur saw Princess Morgana there. Then again, what if he hadn’t? What then? How is Merlin supposed to tell him that he saw his sister with a group of rebels trying to kill him and his father?

Maybe getting interrupted is a good thing, after all. 

Mum and Will are understandably frazzled. His mum holds on to him for what feels like forever, doing her best to act as though she isn’t crying even as she subtly sniffles into Merlin’s shoulder. She then proceeds to repeatedly smooth down his hair in a familiar fashion that no doubt leaves Merlin looking like an old-fashioned broom.

Even Will looks suspiciously bright-eyed as he gives Merlin what has to be the gentlest and most restrained hug ever. Not even when they were eight and Merlin had fallen out of a tree - which, one might add, Will had dared him to climb - and he’d ended up concussed and miserable for a week had Will been quite this careful with him.

“You gave us a right bloody scare,” Will grumbles, sitting closely at Merlin’s side and keeping his voice low enough so it won’t travel further than the two of them. “Especially His Ponciness over there.”

Will jerks his chin in Arthur’s direction, who is having a rather solemn-looking conversation with his mum by the window. At least she’s stopped stroking Merlin’s hair for the moment. Will turns back to him and fixes him with a serious stare.

“How’s that going, anyway? With the-” He inserts some vague finger-gymnastics. “Enchantment and stuff.”

Merlin sighs. “It’s fine. We’ve found a way to break it, actually. Once I’m better…”

He trails off, the lump in his throat lodged too tightly to continue. He tries to swallow around it, already feeling the traitorous sting of tears. Fuck, he really hates how that always happens.

Will, of course, reads him like a book, his mouth pressed into an unhappy line. He’s used to Merlin’s tears, but that doesn’t mean he’s any better at handling them. More often than not, his answer is to conjure up a guilty party and proceed to get incredibly outraged over them. In this case, that party seems to be Arthur.

“Fucking posh wanker,” he mutters darkly.

Merlin huffs a wet laugh and wipes at his eyes, fighting hard to keep his emotions in check. Right now, he’s glad he hasn’t told Will about the specifics of getting rid of the enchantment. He doesn’t think he could sit through another talk about broken hearts.

“Don’t be so hard on him,” Merlin says, amused and protective both. “It’s not Arthur’s fault. None of this is.” He looks over at Arthur, heart instantly doing something warm and melty at the sight of him. “He’s a good man, you know.” 

Honest, brave, and true hearted, Merlin doesn’t say. And so fucking beautiful it hurts.

“Gods in thongs, I don’t know why I bother,” Will grouses. “You couldn’t be more gone on that tosser if I catapulted you to the moon.”

Merlin shoots him a dubious look. “You make less sense with every year that passes, you know that? Should I be worried?”

Will’s resulting, affronted punch is little more than a poke to his shoulder.

“Fuck off,” he says with feeling, then sobers. The poke turns into a gentle grip and Merlin’s eyebrows rise a little in alarm at the graveness of Will’s expression. “Do you want me to stay for a while? I can take care of your shithole, wait around until you’re, you know, done here. If you want. I don’t want you to…feel alone and all that shite.”

Warmth blooms in Merlin’s chest and he wraps his good arm around him, drawing the strangely amenable Will into an impulsive hug.

“I love you, you grumpy bastard,” Merlin mutters, bursting with affection.

“Uargh,” Will mumbles. “Love you, too, you impossible pillock. So you better tell me if you need me, alright? I don’t want you suffering alone, crying yourself to sleep every night over that royal wanker. You hear me?”

“I’ll be alright,” Merlin says, thinking of his crappy flat, the narrow bed with the stone-slab mattress. Of lying there, alone, with Arthur all the way across the city and most likely hating him for having encroached on his privacy. Remembering and detesting each and every moment of their intimacy, glad to finally be rid of him. He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his face to Will’s shoulder, surrounded by the familiar scent of childish things and adolescent stupidity. “I’ll be fine.”

“Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind,” Will says, tone turning brisk. “And you better check in with me, or I’m coming back here to knock some sense into you. Plus, I’ll know when you’re bullshitting me. I have my sources.”

Merlin laughs, rolling his eyes as he pulls back. “Freya and Gwaine are not legitimate sources.”

“You only say that because you know they see through you and know when you’re being a slippery knob.”

Merlin wisely decides to give up this round, too tired and dizzy to go into a full headbutting match with Will and his special brand of iron-clad bullheadedness. He changes tactics instead.

“Do you know anything about what happened after I passed out? If there were any arrests or something?”

“A few, but no one important if your Prince is to be believed. As soon as your shield came down the King ordered his guard to pretty much arrest everyone in sight. But by then the place was swarming with police and reinforcements from the royal guard and the rebels weren’t dumb enough to stick around for that.”

“And there were no reports of…other important people being present?”

“You mean like Mordred? A few people claimed they saw him, but there’s no evidence.”

“No, not-” Merlin rubs his face, glancing guiltily at Arthur. 

Him and Mum have apparently moved on to more cheerful subjects. Arthur is gesturing to emphasise some point or other and Mum is smiling gently. She’s inserting the kind of encouraging and genuinely interested nods and sounds Merlin knows from experience make you feel appreciated and listened to. It also often results in the person going on forever without realising, casually divulging their greatest dreams and deepest fears along the way.

Will breaks into his thoughts. “Merls, spit it out, will you?”

Merlin sighs and finally tears his gaze away, stomach churning unpleasantly as he leans closer to Will, lowering his voice to the barest murmur.

“Just before the attack, I saw Princess Morgana. She was talking to Nimueh.”

Will’s eyes widen and Merlin is sure he’d have burst out something thoughtless if Merlin hadn’t gripped his arm and hushed him pre-emptively.

“You’re sure?” Will hisses instead, at a thankfully much more sedate volume. Merlin nods. “You think she was part of the assassination attempt?”

Assassination. Merlin hadn’t associated the word with what had happened at the parade, but of course that’s what it had been. An attempt on the lives of the Crown Prince and the King.

Merlin sucks in a deep breath, feeling worse by the minute. “I don’t know. They were arguing. She was definitely very unhappy about something.”

Will makes a thoughtful sound, then suddenly latches onto Merlin’s arm so firmly it sends a twinge down his still sore muscles.

“I almost forgot!” he whisper-shouts, jiggling Merlin’s arm. “After you collapsed, before any of the emergency services arrived, there was someone on the scene. Arthur said she helped stabilise you. According to Gaius she saved your life.”

“Who?” Merlin asks urgently. “Who was it?”

Will shakes his head. “No one knows. She disappeared just before Gaius got there.”

Merlin has a very bad feeling.

“What did she look like?”

Will frowns.

“It was weird, like her face was kind of…” He makes a vague, sweeping gesture in front of his own face. “I don’t know. I couldn’t really pin it down. But, I mean if you think you can stomach it, there is the recording of the whole thing.”

Of course, the live holo-broadcast that Merlin keeps forgetting. He groans inwardly at his own stupidity. But even without having seen the evidence, a certain kind of sinking assurance has started unfolding inside him. Like a dark, blurry m-graph that has finally been enhanced and brightened enough for Merlin to make out all the details he’d been missing, and together they make an altogether new image.

“Do you have your comm? I want to see the footage.”

The visuals from the broadcast cling to him like tar. The whole thing had been hard to watch, even without pulling it up into a holo and instead watching it on the small screen of his comm in 3D.

He’d looked…strange. Otherworldly. A static field of power surrounding him, eyes burning liquid gold as the shield sprang up between the platform and the raging fire-dragon. The flames had made it hard to see for a time, turning everything hazy and too-bright for the eye to follow.

But the worst, by far, had been Arthur, desperation coming off him in waves as he’d watched on, powerless. And the second the shield had fallen he’d been there, catching Merlin in his arms, wild-eyed and shaking as Merlin lost consciousness, mangled arm limp at his side.

The Knights had swarmed around them, clearly trying their best to form a barricade between them and the holo-drones. Elyan had been the one to tear a strip from his shirt, drenching it in ice-water with Lance’s help to put on Merlin’s charred wrist.

Merlin had watched the whole thing without sound. He knows that no matter how state-of-the art the mics on those drones are, the cacophony of the crowd below and the bellowed orders of the King and the Guard Captain would’ve drowned out anything useful. He also hadn’t wanted to alert Arthur and his mum to what he and Will were up to.

And then there it was, a person with no face and yet every face at once. But this time there was no hood and no confusion and Merlin had known what to look for. In her apparent haste, Nimueh hadn’t bothered to disguise her hair and, looking at the back of her head as Merlin had been, there was no mistaking her.

Zooming in, Merlin had looked on as, under Arthur’s watchful eye, a purple-nailed hand had reached out to feel for the pulse at his neck, checking his eyes and inspecting the angrily flashing, half-broken bracelet still clinging to his injured wrist with impressive stubbornness.

Her and Arthur had exchanged some words, and then Nimueh had reached first for the bracelet - which came apart beneath her not-quite-there touch - and then to press her palm to his chest.

Your heart stopped twice, Gaius had said.

Merlin sighs and briefly glances around the room, empty now but for himself. Arthur, impeccably mannered when he so chooses, has taken it on himself to walk his mum - and a grumpy Will - downstairs to get some lunch.

A movement to his right catches Merlin’s eye, just in time to see Kilgharrah artfully slipping in through the open window, before making his way over with a few flaps of his alarmingly big wings.

“I’m still not used to this,” Merlin says, feeling the dip of the bed as Kilgharrah lands next to him. “Where have you been, anyway?”

“I felt the need to stretch my new limbs,” Kilgharrah says. “I’m not quite used to it myself.”

Abruptly remembering his musings, Merlin points an accusing finger at Kilgharrah.

“You didn’t tell me Nimueh helped me!”

If Kilgharrah had eyebrows, they would be climbing upwards.

“And when did I have the time to tell you that, young warlock? I was under the impression that you wanted to keep that part of your history from Arthur.”

Merlin bites his lip, guilt lying heavy in his gut.

“You disapprove.”

“It is not for me to approve nor disapprove. However, if you’re asking for my opinion, then you already know it. I think you should tell Arthur the truth, and I believe you want that as well.”

“What if he hates me?”

“A half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole, Merlin,” Kilgharrah says solemnly. “You’d do well to remember that.”

Feeling a familiar mix of affection and exasperation, Merlin pats the pillow at his side.

“Go back to sleep, you muppet.”

Kilgharrah looks suitably outraged, but curls up and is asleep within seconds, clearly still drained from their ordeal.

Sighing, Merlin sinks back down as well, intending to map and untangle some more of the mess before him.

Only when he next opens his eyes, the light in the room has changed and he’s somehow ended up with his face buried in Arthur’s thigh, clinging to his leg from where he sits propped against the headboard with his pad.

Making an unidentifiable sound, Merlin buries closer. He feels hazy and achy and very much as though he doesn’t want to be confronted with all the fucked up stuff in his life right now. Or ever.

Arthur’s fingers card through his hair, then curl gently around the nape of his neck.

“How are you feeling?” Arthur asks quietly.

“Like I’ve been run over a few times.”

Arthur hums in sympathy, his thumb drawing soothing little lines against Merlin’s skin.

“Do you want one of those potions now?”

Merlin grimaces. “I’m not that desperate.”

“Can’t be too bad, then,” Arthur says and Merlin can hear the smile in his voice, though his tone sobers a moment later. “Maybe it was a little soon for such an extensive visit.” His hand is back in Merlin’s hair now and Merlin goes a little boneless with it, almost missing Arthur’s next words. “You and Will looked like you were having a serious conversation.”

And already part of the pleasant haze is bleeding away.

“I watched the footage,” Merlin admits to Arthur’s thigh, voice muffled. “From the parade.”

The muscles beneath his hands tighten, Arthur’s fingers sinking in deeper and stilling.

“I see.”

Merlin draws back slightly to look up at Arthur, finding him grim-faced, jaw tight. Merlin reaches for his hand, tugging gently until Arthur relents and slides down next to him so Merlin can hold him.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says quietly, good arm tight around Arthur’s waist, Arthur’s distress from the holo branded into his brain. “For scaring you like that.”

Arthur shifts them carefully so that he can wrap an arm around Merlin and draw him close to rest on Arthur’s chest.

“When you pinned me in place like that, and I couldn’t get to you-” Arthur trails off and Merlin feels rather than hears him swallow. Merlin turns his head to press a kiss to his clothed chest. Arthur holds him tighter, and continues. “Being helpless like that - it was the worst feeling of my life. And when you started screaming, I thought- I thought I was going to have to watch you die, and there was nothing I could do.”

Merlin hadn’t thought that actually hearing the words would hurt this much. Throat tight and chest aching, Merlin wraps himself tighter around Arthur, murmuring his name and pressing his lips to his throat in a lingering kiss.

He receives one to the top of his head in return and for a while neither of them speaks.

“I know-” It comes out hoarse and Arthur clears his throat, then starts again. “I know it’s stupid, but-”

He breaks off and Merlin gives him a moment, but gently prods when no more is forthcoming, “But?”

“But all I wanted was to hold you,” Arthur murmurs eventually. “I just kept thinking that- that if it was me, if I was the one dying, that’s all I’d want. For you to hold me.”

Merlin hugs him fiercely. “I’d never let that happen. Ever. I’ll always protect you.”

Arthur lets out a long breath.

“I’ll hold you to that.” His hand is once more a warm presence at the nape of Merlin’s neck, squeezing gently to drive his point home. “So next time you throw yourself at a group of bloodthirsty rebels, remember that I need you. So you can’t die on me.”

“No more bloodthirsty rebels,” Merlin agrees, voice rough, thinking of Nimueh and feeling like a liar.

Merlin thinks about little else over the following week. Whenever he’s not resting or being besieged by Mum, Gaius and Will, he contemplates how he can possibly open even one of the conversations he needs to have with Arthur.

Arthur, it’s possible your sister was out to murder you, but I can’t be sure. Oh, and by the way, I know one of the rebel leaders and I think she had something to do with this whole fucked up situation with the love potion.

And talking about the love potion, I know how to break the enchantment. I’ve known for weeks and just thought it best not to tell you, because I wasn’t sure I could do it. But now I can - surprise!

He’s so completely and utterly fucked. And absolutely not in a good way.

It really doesn’t help that Arthur has been absolutely amazing; sweet and considerate in a way Merlin had never even dreamed of. If anyone had come up to him some months ago and told him that the clotpole Prince making a nuisance of himself at his place of work has the ability to be this quietly caring partner, Merlin would’ve laughed in their face.

Arthur doesn’t hover exactly, but he hasn’t really left his side, either. He’s always there, anticipating Merlin’s needs, providing potions, food and entertainment alike. Merlin supposes it should be annoying, but instead he finds it reassuring. 

Sighing, Merlin looks down at his wrist. It’s been five days since he woke up with the bandage, three since Gaius had declared it healed enough to remove. In its place is now a raised rope of scar tissue, slender like a bolt of lightning that’s wrapped itself around him.

Between Gaius’ concoctions and Merlin’s own, rapidly recovering magic, the scar is washed out, almost white against Merlin’s pale skin. He traces it absently, feeling tired and beaten by the tempest trapped inside him.

Closing his fingers around the scar, Merlin forms a manacle, gloomily thinking about how many more days of freedom he’ll be granted. It’s the first time in his remembrance that his left wrist is bare and unrestricted and the sensation is both alien and exhilarating.

The sense of liberation is palpable and that, mixed with the feeling of his magic, free and utterly unrestrained for the first time since he was a toddler, have had him riding a strange sort of high.

On the other hand, however, is the sharp edge of anxiety, the knowledge that without an ID-bracelet, Merlin can’t do anything. He feels trapped and naked, knowing that at the moment, he might as well not exist. No doors will open for him and even should he, by some miracle, be able to enter somewhere, he wouldn’t be able to buy anything. He can ride neither public transport, nor hail a cab. He can’t even unlock his own possessions, reduced to using Arthur’s comm and pads, which Arthur unlocks for his use.

The sound of the door opening makes Merlin look up, then frowns as he finds Arthur hovering in the door.

“Arthur? Is everything alright?” It’s only then that Merlin sees the elegant, understated package in Arthur’s hand. Merlin’s stomach drops violently. He swallows. “Is that-”

He breaks off, but Arthur understands.

“Yes,” he says.

He’s eyeing Merlin carefully, coming slowly to sit beside him on the bed. Gently, he pries Merlin’s fingers from his wrist, then takes it to hold in his lap, thumb tracing the edge of the scar.

“Merlin,” he says, strangely intent. “It’s not- It’s going to be alright. I promise.”

Merlin doubts that, but doesn’t say anything.

“Do you want me to…?” Arthur asks.

Merlin nods, fingers digging into Arthur’s thigh, looking for an anchor.

At Arthur’s touch, the box unfolds smoothly, revealing the bracelet clasping a small, velveteen cushion as if it’s some fancy piece of jewellery instead of a government shackle.

“It’s going to be okay,” Arthur says again and the quiet certainty in his voice loosens something in Merlin’s chest.

He watches Arthur slide the bracelet onto his wrist, and steels himself.

Clasp closed, both of them watch the metal seamlessly fuse together, leaving not a single mark. And Merlin is ready, he is, but there’s no teeth, no heart-rending outcry of his magic within his chest, rebelling at once more being subdued and controlled.

The bracelet is active, but its grip is gentle and when Merlin reaches out with incredulous fingers, it obligingly moves beneath his touch.

Merlin raises wide eyes to Arthur’s. “They’ve made a mistake. This isn’t an MU-bracelet.”

There’s a small smile curling the corners of Arthur’s mouth, eyes deep and blue and unbearably soft.

“There’s no mistake,” he says quietly. “Here, try it.”

Arthur reaches for the bedside table where Merlin’s comm has been lying abandoned these past few days. At the proximity of Merlin’s bracelet, the screen comes to life.

“Arthur this is- How did you-”

Arthur sighs, rubbing at his lips.

“I wish I could do more,” he says quietly. “I wish I could collect all those fucking things and burn them, but for now, this is all I can do.” He carefully slides a finger between the bracelet and Merlin’s skin, caressing gently. “But this is my promise to you that I’ll do everything I can to make things right. And that when I’m King, things will be different.”

Merlin blinks against the burning in his eyes.

“Arthur-” he starts, but there’s no words that could possibly describe what this means to him.

Solemnly, Arthur brings Merlin’s wrist to his mouth and presses a soft, lingering kiss to his scar.

“Thank you, for saving me,” he says with quiet ferver. “For saving all of us.”

They’re standing on the edge of the platform. 

Fire is reaching up from below, licking and flickering at their feet. Merlin is clutching Arthur’s hand, trying to tug him back, but they’re rooted to the shiny aluminium.

Arthur, he wants to say, but his vocal cords refuse, smoke sharp and acrid as it burns down his throat.

Merlin’s grip on Arthur’s hand tightens and Arthur looks at him, but his eyes look strange, glazed and empty…like glass.

Arthur, Merlin tries again.

This time, he can feel his lips moving, but there’s no sound, just the crackling of the flames below them, the air growing thicker, sliding like bitter syrup down his throat - elderberries, Merlin thinks distantly, it tastes like elderberries.

Arthur blinks, his eyes full of stars, his lips smeared purple.

Merlin, he says but doesn’t say. Why did you lie to me?

I’m sorry, Merlin says miserably, eyes overflowing, drip-drip-dripping gold-

A sea of gold at their feet, driving back the flames. The fire-dragon, huge and angry, roars in their faces, but the gold holds him back, dousing the flames as it drip-drip-drips from the platform-

Merlin wipes at his eyes, smearing gold across his fingers, then notices it’s not only his eyes, but his wrist. Gold gushes over their joined hands, turns them slick. His grip slips, Arthur’s hand slipping away. Merlin cries out, soundless and anguished, he tries to hold on tighter, both hands now clutching at Arthur’s own.

But Arthur’s skin is hot, hotter, searing his flesh. Merlin doesn’t care, he only holds on tighter, but there’s gold everywhere and Arthur keeps on slip-sliding away, away…

You said you wouldn’t leave me but you lied, Arthur says, hard and angry and so very sad. You lied to me, Merlin.

No. No, Arthur, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t-

We should do something about that, Nimueh says, looking curiously at his burned hands, his gushing wrist. I’ve a potion-

NO! Merlin yells, stumbling back but not moving an inch. Get away from me, get- 

But instead of Nimueh, it’s Arthur who starts backing away.

Arthur!

But Arthur keeps going, slowly, slowly, the platform shrinking behind him. The fire-dragon roars, massive wings beating as it circles them hungrily, watching, waiting.

No, Arthur, stop, you have to-, Merlin looks around, frantic. Kilgharrah, help!

I’m sorry, young warlock, Kilgharrah says sadly. I told you, there’s no escaping it.

Arthur is now clear of the golden pool, out of Merlin’s reach, beyond his protection. He steps again, eyes bright with stars. The platform shrinks. The dragon roars, flames exploding all around them.

Merlin stretches out a hand, wanting, needing, for Arthur to stop, please-

Please, you have to stop, Arthur. Please stay, so I can protect you.

But Arthur doesn’t stop, the stars spilling over, spreading out and painting the transparent dome above them, the spaces between each tiny light so deep Merlin fears he might fall into it, get sucked in and be lost forever.

It was all a lie, Merlin, Arthur says mournfully. None of it was real.

That’s not true-

Only lies, Arthur sighs, and steps back, arms stretching out, reaching for the stars-

Arthur!

And falls into the flames.

ARTHUR!

“-erlin! Merlin!”

He’s trapped, restrained, his new bracelet digging into his wrist. He struggles, thrashing frantically-

“It’s me,” Arthur says firmly. “I’m here, it’s alright, it’s alright now. I’m here, love-”

Heart hammering painfully and throat raw, only now realising that he’s been repeatedly choking out Arthur’s name like a deranged litany.

But Arthur is here.

The realisation finally takes hold and Merlin stills abruptly, sagging into Arthur’s arms, weak and shaking and drenched in sweat. Arthur draws him close, holding on desperately, and Merlin can feel the galloping beat of Arthur’s heart against his own, as though both are trying their best to break free and meet in the middle.

Merlin snakes his arms round him and presses his wet face into Arthur’s neck.

“Hey,” Arthur murmurs senselessly, palms big and warm along his spine. “Hey.”

Ignoring the usually so rigorously kept boundary, Merlin’s hands find the hem of Arthur’s sleepshirt and slip underneath, seeking warm skin just so Merlin can be sure that he’s here, that he’s real. Arthur shudders beneath his touch, warm and alive, and Merlin stifles an unidentifiable sound in Arthur’s skin.

He feels Arthur’s lips, hot and lingering on his bare shoulder, his own sleepshirt bunched and twisted.

“Tell me,” Arthur murmurs, kissing him again. Then again. “Please.”

“It was- We were on the hover-platform. And there was fire.” Arthur’s star-filled eyes, gold spilling everywhere. “Below us, the ground was burning. The dragon was there too, but-” Arthur’s hand slipping away, the stars spilling over. “The platform, it was shrinking and you kept stepping back and then-” Merlin sucks in a breath, voice shaking as badly as the rest of him. “You fell. And there was nothing I could do, there was-”

Arthur holds him tighter, cupping the back of his neck to cradle him closer.

“It was just a bad dream, Merlin,” he murmurs. “I’m right here.”

He is, he’s right here, but all Merlin can think of, all he hears is Arthur’s sad voice from within the dream.

It was all a lie, Merlin. None of it was real.

If Merlin were in any state to pace, he would. As it is, he’s still feeling rather achy and the harried night sticks to him like a hangover. He really wishes he could stop thinking about it, but his mind is like a vulture, circling and fucking circling-

It doesn’t help that Arthur isn’t here, having been called away by his father, who’s no doubt chomping at the bit to put him back to work. After all, there’s a whole kingdom to reassure and anti-MU rhetoric to encourage.

That whole assassination thing had been the worst kind of double edged sword. On one hand, the media has latched on to Merlin as a heroic knight in shining armour. On the other, they all seem to be working very hard on driving home the point that Merlin, while an MU, is a monarchy-loving, strictly law-abiding saint and the rebels are all twisted little demons corrupted by magic.

And the Druid party who are, as always, the only ones speaking sense are being drowned out in favour of fear-mongering and sensationalism.

None of this is exactly unexpected, but the additional strain of it is doing nothing for Merlin’s already frazzled nerves. 

Which is probably why Gaius hasn’t even fully entered the room when Merlin blurts, “I’m going to break the enchantment.”

Like ripping off a plaster, Merlin thinks firmly. Or ripping out his heart. Either metaphor works.

Gaius’ eyebrow rises with alarming speed. He slowly finishes his entrance and comes to Merlin’s bedside, putting down his tattered bag of salves, potions, and illegal medical equipment with a faint clink.

“Are you sure you’re up for it, my boy?” he says eventually, lowering himself onto the chair that, at this point, has become a fixture next to the bed.

At least he doesn’t insult him by asking Merlin if he’s sure. 

He stares Gaius down, resolute. “I’m not going to use my health as an excuse to keep lying to him.”

Gaius lets out a resigned sigh. “Merlin…”

But Merlin doesn’t want to hear it. Instead, he has a far more pressing question.

“Did you know it was Nimueh? That day at the parade?”

Gaius’ eyes flicker cagily for a moment. “I suspected, but I couldn’t be certain.”

Anger ignited, Merlin’s fingers curl into the duvet, clenching tight.

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” he demands, fighting to keep his voice level.

Gaius folds his wrinkled hands in his lap, infuriatingly calm.

“I didn’t think agitating you further was a good idea.”

“Agitate me? Gaius-”

“Merlin,” Gaius cuts in, quiet and firm. “I knew you’d see the footage eventually. Springing it on you wasn’t going to help your recovery.”

Merlin wants to scream and, for a moment, wonders with horror if this is what Arthur feels like whenever Merlin admits to having made decisions without consulting him. It really is a horrible feeling.

“I’m going to tell Arthur,” Merlin says firmly.

Gaius looks vaguely alarmed, which, all things considered, is a feat all on its own.

“And what, exactly, are you planning to tell His Highness?”

Merlin is pretty sure that the use of Arthur’s title is supposed to remind him of his position - as if Merlin could forget - and awaken some sort of hitherto undiscovered sense of self-preservation. If only it were that easy, Merlin would be a different man.

He meets Gaius’ eyes without flinching. “Everything.”

Which is, admittedly, a rather alarming thought. He’s worked so hard to bury that short time of his past that the memory of it feels as though it belongs to someone else. A bit like a bad dream, or a story told to him on a wild night out when the rush of endorphins and the haze of alcohol make everything seem bigger and more exciting.

“Merlin-”

There’s a warning in Gaius’ tone now, but Merlin doesn’t let him finish.

“Look, nothing even happened! I didn’t do anything wrong!”

Which, he well knows, while technically true would definitely not hold up if King Uther were ever to hear about it. Gaius clearly thinks so, too.

“I realise that,” he says calmly, composure returned. “But I still don’t think it’s a good idea. Prince Arthur is in a fragile state of mind-”

“If he finds out some other way he’ll never forgive me.” Merlin’s gut twists at the utter certainty of these words. He pushes on. “You can’t change my mind, I’m telling him. And I’m breaking the enchantment. Tonight.”

Gaius visibly deflates, looking suddenly much older than Merlin is used to. No doubt this whole mess has been hard on him as well - not to mention that sitting right beneath King Uther’s nose is a singularly unnerving experience.

“Merlin, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

Merlin’s heart plummets, taking his stomach with it in an ugly tangle of dread.

“Oh no.” And why is it that this is always the first thing he says when Gaius ‘needs to tell him something’. He feels actual tears springing to his eyes. “Please, Gaius, please no more bad news.”

Gaius looks at him, pure sympathy writ across his lined face.

“Believe me, my boy, I don’t like being the bearer of ominous news any more than you like listening to them,” he says mildly. “However, I’ve been talking to your friend, Freya. She raised some legitimate concerns, especially in light of the release of your magic.”

Merlin buries his face in his hands and groans. He has the sudden, childish and irrational urge to cover his ears and just not listen to whatever new obstacle Gaius is about to throw in his path.

Gaius must have some ideas as to Merlin’s thought process, because he hastens to continue.

“There have been cases where extended exposure to mind altering enchantments in connection to a stabiliser have created a sort of…dependency,” Gaius says and Merlin hates that he can already see where this is going. “Once the enchantment is broken and the connection between the receptor and the stabiliser severed, the brain will be left without the anchor it has grown accustomed to. If the enchantment is strong and was established enough, it might cause an echo-”

“And with my magic all volatile it might latch on again to-” Merlin snorts at the irony. “Stabilise itself.”

Merlin can practically see the formula in his brain, lowering the number for the amount of time Arthur has been under and ratcheting up the component indicating his own power. The equation does not look good.

“Fuck.”

He is, once again, grateful that Gaius doesn’t reprimand him on his language. Merlin holds a long-held suspicion that Gaius had a rather wild youth, especially considering his liberal interpretation of the law. He almost sobs out a laugh at the sudden, ridiculous image of Gaius - traditional mage robes swapped out for a leather jacket - riding a hover-bike, white hair flying in the breeze.

Gaius’ hand lands warmly on his shoulder.

“Look at it this way, my boy. The dangers of the broken enchantment notwithstanding, taking some time apart is an advisable course of action. Arthur will likely be extremely confused and the aftermath will not feel unlike a withdrawal. Distance will be beneficial - for both of you, and especially for His Highness.”

Merlin struggles to see even a shred of positivity in any of it.

“How long?”

Gaius pats him gently, as though preparing him for the blow. “I would suggest seven weeks as the minimum.”

“Almost two months,” Merlin says dully, too wrung out to even try and pretend otherwise. “He’s going to hate me, isn’t he? After it all wears off, he’ll remember who I am and what I’m about to tell him, and he’ll hate me.”

Gaius squeezes his shoulder. “We won’t know for sure until after the fact, but I doubt it’ll be as dire as all that, my boy.”

Merlin presses his forehead to his knees, and says nothing.

The sun is high in the sky, but the canopy of leaves is thick enough to keep Merlin and his unfortunately pasty skin safe. He’s had quite enough of being burned recently.

Somewhere above him, Kilgharrah is circling, riding the mild breeze and alternately growing and shrinking as he adjusts his altitude. Deeper in the branches, a bird has taken it onto itself to chirp its little lungs out, and somewhere by his ear there’s an intermittent buzzing where a bumblebee is keeping busy.

If only he could enjoy any of it.

Instead, his heart might as well be a boulder within his chest, the edges already crumbling in anticipation of being hacked to pieces, and his mind nothing but a roiling storm of doom-filled thoughts.

“Last I checked the royal gardens didn’t have any trees this big.”

Merlin turns his head, instinctively shielding his eyes despite the generous shade from the lush canopy.

“I don’t think one of your shrub-flamingos would’ve done the job as efficiently,” Merlin says drily.

Arthur huffs a laugh and gracefully lowers himself onto the blanket, then ruins the picture by flopping down onto his back at Merlin’s side. Merlin turns, propping himself up on an elbow and looking down at Arthur, his magic purring happily while his heart stutters.

“You found my note, then?” Merlin asks quietly.

Arthur gazes up at him with a soft smile, covering Merlin’s hand with his own as it comes to rest on his chest.

“And they say romance is dead,” Arthur says with a laugh.

Merlin smiles weakly, wanting nothing more than to feel the shape of that laugh, but knowing that when he does get to finally have Arthur’s lips, his first taste is very likely to be the last. The thought almost makes his eyes well up again, but Merlin resolutely fights it down. He can do this. He can.

He can give them this one day of happiness before he has to go and smash it to pieces.

“Hey,” Arthur says, smile replaced by a small frown. He touches Merlin’s cheek. “Where did you go?”

“Sorry.” Merlin tries for a more genuine smile. “Just a little tired, is all.”

Arthur’s frown deepens, which is the opposite of what Merlin had intended.

“Still thinking about the nightmare?”

Merlin gratefully leaps on the excuse and nods.

Arthur’s fingers move to the nape of his neck, and Merlin shivers pleasantly, letting his forehead come down to rest on Arthur’s chest, some of the tension bleeding away. He slides an arm around Arthur’s waist and turns his head, the fancy fabric of Arthur’s shirt silky beneath his cheek, and his heartbeat deep and soothing in his ear.

“I dream about it, too.” Arthur murmurs, fingers soft as they slide deeper into Merlin’s hair.

Merlin holds him tighter, wondering how he managed to drag down the atmosphere despite his best efforts. He thinks of his first night of coherency after his injury, about Arthur’s harsh breathing in the dark. He must’ve been dreaming about it then.

“So,” Arthur says, breaking into his thoughts. It seems he’s doing nothing but getting lost inside his head lately. “Is there a reason why you felt a sudden need to commune with nature?”

Merlin follows the fine weave of the fabric with his finger, feeling Arthur shudder under his delicate touch. He halts, spreading his fingers and pressing down his palm instead, not intending to turn this into anything suggestive - intentional or otherwise.

“I just thought we could use a break,” Merlin says eventually. “And see something other than your bedroom for a change.”

Arthur’s fingers dip low again, sliding into the back of Merlin’s collar and making him shiver.

“You’re saying my bedroom isn’t exciting enough for you?”

So much for not being suggestive.

“I think I’m a bad influence on you,” Merlin says drily.

Arthur ruffles his hair with gentle affection. 

“The best kind of bad influence.”

Merlin raises his head and turns to smile at him, then thinks fuck it and unceremoniously crawls on top of him, his face finding the warm, delicious smelling skin of Arthur’s neck. Arthur accommodates him easily, pulling him close, letting Merlin slide a thigh between his own, then wrapping a leg around Merlin’s to secure it in place.

“Do we need to have another talk about your hypocritical tendencies?” Arthur murmurs into Merlin’s hair.

“Mh?”

“I can tell something’s bothering you, you know.”

And Merlin really wants to know when Arthur had suddenly become this perceptive. Or maybe he’s always been this way and Merlin had just fooled himself into a false sense of security.

“I’ll tell you,” Merlin promises quietly. “I’ll tell you everything. But for now can we just…stay like this? Please?”

And it’s only after he’s said it that Merlin realises that the words are an echo of Arthur’s own, weeks ago in his study, his forehead hot where it had rested on the back of Merlin’s shoulder.

It’s strange, thinking back to those early days, where Arthur had been so distant and Merlin completely out of his depth dealing with him.

He only distantly hears Arthur’s soft, “Of course.”

Instead, he can’t help but fall into the same, worn grooves of anxious thoughts.

Are you going to be like this when it’s over? Merlin wants to ask. Will you still hold me like this?

But he’s going to get his answers soon enough, whether he actually wants them or not. For now, he closes his eyes and breathes.

It becomes increasingly clear that no matter how amazing it is to spend time with Arthur like this, the growing dread swelling inside him isn’t going to let him fully enjoy it.

But he tries, clinging onto every second, trying desperately to put everything else from his mind. He play-wrestles Arthur for the final miniature sandwich (he’d told the kitchens to keep it simple and apparently posh hors d'oeuvres was the best they could come up with), and finally takes his turn at being fed grapes.

Eventually, dusk starts creeping in, the long summer day coming to a close and taking the waning sun with it. And Merlin knows that if he doesn’t do this now, he won’t do it at all, seduced by the siren song of simply following Arthur to bed and letting himself be held.

Then the nightmare comes back to him and he shudders. No. No more.

“Do you mind if I leave the tree?” Merlin asks quietly, after they’ve finally peeled themselves off the blanket.

Arthur takes the picnic basket from him like the ridiculous, chivalrous fairytale prince he is.

“I don’t mind, but the gardener will probably have a fit,” he says, looking thoughtfully at the tree. “Is it possible to…ungrow it?”

Merlin follows Arthur’s gaze, looking sadly at the winding branches and lush leaves. “Yeah.”

Arthur’s gaze slides to him with genuine interest. “How does that work?”

Merlin runs his fingers along the bark, feeling the thrum of natural magic and life as it echoes within his chest.

“It’s a bit complicated, but you basically create a small time-field and just…turn it back. Like it never happened.”

He drops his hand, but Arthur catches it in his own.

“Hey,” he says quietly, trying to catch Merlin’s eyes. “It’s alright, the tree can stay. I’ll tell Paul to leave it alone.” He squeezes Merlin’s fingers with a tentative smile. “Okay?”

Merlin nods, warmth spreading inside him and tugging his lips into a small, answering smile. Arthur beams at him and tugs at his hand.

“Good. C’mon, let’s go inside.”

They make it through a familiar servants’ entrance and Merlin is once more shocked how at home he’s started to feel here, despite it all. He also tries very hard not to think how this might end up being the last time he gets to be here as he watches Arthur flag down a passing servant, handing off the basket.

Once back in their - Arthur’s - rooms, Merlin doesn’t wait for Arthur to prompt him again.

“We should sit down,” Merlin says quietly.

Arthur gives him a quizzical look, but sits obediently. Merlin takes one look at him and feels the urge to jump up and pace. Arthur must feel him vibrating in his seat, because he puts his hand on Merlin’s thigh and squeezes.

“You’re making me nervous.”

Merlin wonders for the umpteenth time how it is he’s supposed to open this conversation. He takes a deep breath, then releases it again without speaking. He grabs Arthur’s hand and holds onto it like a drowning man.

“There’s some things I haven’t told you,” he finally starts, tentatively. “Mostly because I didn’t know how. I still don’t, really. I don’t- I don’t know where to start.”

Arthur’s eyebrows have slowly been rising in alarm, picking up on Merlin’s distress.

“Merlin, whatever it is, you can tell me.”

He sounds so earnest Merlin wants to cry. He huffs a watery laugh.

“That’s what you’re saying now.” He takes another deep breath. “You know how I told you I came to the city for uni?”

Arthur nods, clearly bewildered at the direction of the conversation. Merlin bites his lip, a tremor of nerves sparking across his skin and making his heart flutter unhappily behind his ribs.

“When I first moved here, the rebels tried to recruit me,” he goes on, unsteady. At his side, Arthur stiffens and Merlin instinctively tightens his hold, his hand feeling cold and clammy with nerves. He gives Arthur an imploring look. “Arthur, I swear I didn’t know who they were. I just thought they were a political group fighting for MU rights.”

Arthur’s face is blank now, clearly falling back on royal stoicism. But he never lets go of Merlin’s hand.

“Go on,” he says evenly.

Merlin licks his lips, forcefully dragging his flittering thoughts into line.

“A lot of the people I met were students, or claimed to be. You have to understand that this was the first time I met so many others like me. I only really had Will growing up, and my mum of course, and they did their best, but they never really understood, you know?”

Arthur nods and Merlin believes that he does know, at least in some vaguely related sense. From what Merlin has learned about Arthur’s childhood and seen from his interactions with his father, he knows Arthur isn’t a stranger to being the odd one out.

“When did you find out who they were?” Arthur asks.

Merlin sighs, grimacing a little at the memory of being a naive, fresh-to-the-big-city country boy. 

“Not for a while. But after a time things got increasingly weird. They started asking me ‘favours’, small tasks, like pass this package on to so and so, or can I enchant this because such and such’s allotment was already used up for the week. Stuff like that.”

Arthur is frowning now, but he doesn’t look angry.

“Did you do them?”

Merlin suppresses a squirm, rubbing his free hand along his thigh instead. 

“Some. But I got suspicious, so I asked Ni- the person who introduced me. She went all cryptic and mysterious on me, tried selling me something about great causes and prophecies, which finally clued me in.” He shakes his head. “I know it was stupid, that I shouldn’t just have blindly trusted them, but-”

Arthur gives him a firm squeeze, his expression gravely serious as he looks at Merlin.

“No,” he says firmly. “This isn’t your fault. They took advantage of your goodwill. You couldn’t have known what they were after.”

“You really think so?” Merlin asks, weak with relief and warmed to the core.

“Of course I do,” Arthur says. “Did you really think I wouldn’t believe you?”

Merlin chokes out a small laugh.

“I don’t know. Not like people ever needed an excuse to believe I’m a rebel.”

Arthur’s free hand, the one not being strangled in Merlin’s hold, cups the curve of Merlin’s neck and shoulder, squeezing gently.

“The fact that you had the chance and didn’t take it says far more about you than if you’d never met any of them.”

Merlin’s heart swells, brimming over with bright, helpless love so intense it hurts.

“Thank you.”

Arthur pulls him close, for a brief squeeze, pressing a lingering kiss to his temple as he releases him a moment later.

“So, was that it?” he asks mildly. “Your big dark secret?” 

And all the warm happiness dissipates beneath the dark cloud of dread still brewing on the horizon of his confessions. He sits back, sagging against the couch.

“There’s more,” he admits, throat dry.

Arthur props up an arm on the back of the couch, the other is still holding Merlin’s hand, thumb stroking soothing circles.

“Okay?”

Merlin picks the least incendiary of his options.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve figured out who’s responsible for slipping you the potion.”

Arthur’s eyebrows are up again. “And when did you figure that one out?”

Merlin licks his lips.

“The parade-footage.” He gestures vaguely. “The person who helped me - I recognised her. Her name is Nimueh, she’s the one who introduced me to the rebels. I didn’t know at the time, but she’s very high up. Very powerful.”

“What reason would she have to orchestrate any of this?”

Merlin shakes his head. “I’m not sure. Nimueh isn’t like the others, she follows her own agenda. She’s devout, calls herself a High Priestess of the Old Religion.”

“So why do you think it’s her?”

“I recognised the spell she used to disguise herself. Not many people have the skill to cast that spell, or the power available. But it was the same one as the day at the Grind. I didn’t realise it then, but I’m certain now that it was her.”

Arthur pierces him with an intent stare.

“There’s more, isn’t there.”

For the first time, Merlin seriously second-guesses his decision to spill everything at once. But he’s started now and he honestly doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to go through this whole thing again.

“Yes. It’s-” Merlin breaks off, swallowing around a sandpaper-throat. “Arthur, that day at the parade, I saw your sister.”

Arthur goes rigid and pales at a sudden, alarming rate. “What?”

Merlin scoots closer, desperate to offer comfort.

“I saw her there,” he repeats quietly. “With Nimueh.”

There’s a sharp, jagged glint in Arthur’s eyes, disbelieving, wounded and enraged all at once.

“You’re sure?”

Merlin nods, heart aching fiercely for Arthur. “I’m sorry.”

Arthur shakes his head, still pale and wild-eyed.

“I just don’t understand, why would she do this?”

Such an honest heart, Merlin thinks sadly. The world must be a dark place indeed where people as golden, and good as Arthur are betrayed by someone they loves so dearly. It makes him impossibly angry and all the more determined to be Arthur’s shield. He can only hope Arthur will let him, even after everything.

Merlin wraps a tentative arm around him, unsure of his welcome, but he needn’t have worried, because Arthur leans into him instead of shaking him off.

“If it’s any consolation,” Merlin says softly. “I don’t think she was happy about what was going on. She was arguing pretty fervidly.”

Arthur looks lost inside his own head for long moments, jaw set and expression tight. Merlin quietly waits him out, dreading having to heap even more on him.

Abruptly, Arthur turns his head, eyes sharpening into a glare as if only now realising the implication of Merlin’s silence.

“I can’t believe it took this long for you to tell me.”

Merlin sucks at his lip and gives a small, helpless shrug.

“I’m sorry, I just-” He plucks at the hem of Arthur’s shirt, looking at him abashedly. “Hate hurting you, is all.”

Arthur deflates considerably, rubbing a hand over his face before shooting Merlin an exasperated look.

“It wasn’t you who hurt me, idiot.”

Merlin smiles wanly, chest drawing tight. “You haven’t heard the next bit yet.”

Arthur groans. “Fuck, how long is that list of yours. Should I start making tallies?”

It would be funny if Merlin didn’t feel so much like crying.

“No. I mean, this is the last one.” He thinks fervently of a way to put it delicately, to ease into the topic, maybe. To approach it from a more general angle. He takes a breath, and blurts, “I know how to break the enchantment.”

Yeah, that wasn’t the angle he’d intended. Merlin groans inwardly at himself, thinking he might actually be sick from the renewed swamp of anxiety and heartsoreness.

For a moment, silence stretches thickly between them. Merlin has the ridiculous urge to cover his face and peek through the gaps of his fingers.

“You know how to break the enchantment,” Arthur says flatly; far too calm. “And how long have you been sitting on that one, exactly?”

Merlin looks at him pleadingly.

Arthur doesn’t budge, voice low and a little dangerous as he prompts, “How. Long.”

“Since the day after the gala.”

“A month!” 

Arthur catapults off the couch to start a jerky back-and forth, as though needing to work off some of the frustrated rage.

“I know,” Merlin says, utterly miserable, following Arthur’s tight pacing with his eyes. This feels even worse than he thought it would. Desperate to explain, he pushes on. “But there was nothing I could do at the time! And I didn’t just want it…hanging over our heads, I just-” He rubs trembling hands through his hair. “I was trying to make the right decision for both of us.”

Arthur rounds on him, standing straight-backed and furious by the end of the couch.

“Funny how that always involves not consulting me,” he snaps. “And what do you mean there wasn’t anything you could do at the time?”

“The parameters weren’t right…yet,” Merlin hedges. “Gaius told me that to break the enchantment the-” He swallows. “The stabiliser needs to return the induced emotion genuinely.”

Arthur scowls. “In English, Merlin.”

Merlin rubs at the nest of his hair again, feeling hot with shame and apprehension.

“The only way to end this,” he says, voice trembling around a hitched breath. “Is for me to love you. And I do. Love you. A rather stupid amount, actually.” 

Arthur stares at him and Merlin couldn’t hope to decipher the complicated expression on his face. His eyes sting viciously, and he wipes at them roughly, thankful that they haven’t spilled over yet. He pushes on, desperate to make Arthur understand somehow. 

“And I needed to be sure, or it wouldn’t have worked.”

There’s another moment of stillness, then Arthur’s whole body sort of…ripples and softens. He rubs both hands over his face with a short, heartfelt groan.

“How am I supposed to be angry with you after that?” he accuses.

Merlin looks at him hopefully, heart a sick mess of love and fear, battered from throwing itself against the cage of his ribs for the better part of the evening.

“Then…please don’t be angry?” Merlin asks softly.

Arthur throws up his hands.

“Uargh!” he shouts at the ceiling, turning away, then back, before marching to where Merlin is still sitting in the same spot. “You can be so bloody infuriating sometimes!”

“I know,” Merlins says. “I’m sorry.”

“And stop apologising!” Arthur snaps, then grabs Merlin in a surprisingly gentle grip and drags him into his arms, hugging him fiercely. 

Surprised and relieved, Merlin clings to him, weak-kneed, not quite believing his luck.

“I could shake you right now!” Arthur rants angrily into Merlin’s shoulder, palm warm at the nape of Merlin’s neck as he moulds them tighter together. “You can be glad I adore you so much, you stupid idiot.”

Merlin’s heart clenches painfully and he squeezes his eyes shut, wanting it to be true so much he aches with it.

Arthur draws back, looking at Merlin searchingly and cupping his face.

“C’mon,” he says gently. “Let’s sit back down. You look about ready to keel over.”

The irony, it seems, isn’t lost on either of them. Merlin lets himself be pushed back down on the couch, Arthur following suit, one hand warm and steady on Merlin’s shoulder.

“Is loving me really that terrible?” Arthur asks and Merlin can tell he’s only partly joking.

Merlin smiles shakily and takes Arthur’s hand. “It’s more the you hating me once you’re back in your right mind that worries me.”

“That’s not-”

Merlin presses a finger to Arthur’s lips. “Don’t. Please.”

Arthur’s face falls, his mouth drawing into that horrible, sad line that always makes Merlin want to scream, then kiss it away, kiss Arthur’s mouth until it’s soft and breathless and wet from Merlin’s tongue.

He touches that mouth now, drags a delicate fingertip along the seam of Arthur’s plush bottom lip.

“At least I get to kiss you. Even if it’s just this once.”

Arthur frowns at him. “Merlin-”

But Merlin cuts him off once more, knowing that his heart can’t take Arthur’s sweet words right now, not when he’s so certain they’re not real.

“Gaius said this will be really rough for you, that you’ll probably experience something like withdrawal. You’ll need time to recover and clear your head. Take it easy; no swinging swords around.”

Arthur’s frown only deepens.

“Why are you talking like that? It’s not like you’re going anywhere.” When Merlin stays quiet, Arthur prompts. “Merlin?”

Merlin clears his clogged throat, unable to meet Arthur’s eyes.

“We’ll have to…stay away from each other for a while. Just until your body recovers from the strain and the after-effects have worn off.”

Silence falls heavily between them.

“And how long is that?” Arthur asks eventually.

Merlin looks up, resigned. “Gaius said at least seven weeks.”

“Two months?”

Resolutely, Merlin stomps down on the tide of misery welling inside him, magic twisting mournfully. He has to be reasonable about this.

“Arthur, you might not want me here,” he says with forced calm. “I know it doesn’t seem like that right now, but-”

Arthur crosses his arms, looking petulant as he cuts across him.

“Stop. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Arthur…”

“So you spring this on me out of the blue, then kiss me, and then I won’t see you for two months. Did I get that right?” He’s back to glaring at him, but Merlin can see the hurt as much as sense it. “Can I at least call? Text? Send a bloody pigeon?”

Merlin shakes his head, torn apart. “I don’t want this, either. Don’t you think I wish we could talk? But Gaius says it’s important.” He reaches for Arthur’s hand, gratified when Arthur lets him have it. “I’m not going anywhere. You know where to find me.”

“And I will,” Arthur says firmly, before Merlin can cut him off again. He points an imperious finger. “That’s a promise.”

So bloody stubborn. Merlin fucking adores him.

He grabs onto Arthur’s stupid finger and tugs gently.

“How do you want to do this?” Merlin asks. “You’re probably going to faint, so maybe move to the bed?”

“I don’t faint,” Arthur shoots back, scandalised.

And of course that’s what he would focus on. 

“You will after this, I can promise you that. Not even golden prats are immune to magic this powerful.”

Arthur makes a face. “Fine. The bed, then.”

He lets Merlin pull him up and lead him along the familiar path.

Upon entering, Kilgharrah takes one look at them and makes himself scarce. Merlin is grateful for the privacy. He doesn’t feel like sharing this with anyone.

A strange atmosphere lingers between them and they end up just awkwardly hovering by the bed for a moment, until the ridiculousness of it catches up with them. They’ve been sleeping in this bed together for months, whispered dirty things in each other’s ears with the full knowledge that it would lead to desperate wanks. They’d felt each other’s hard-ons on a regular basis, for fuck’s sake!

Still, even as they huff little laughs at their own self-consciousness, Merlin knows that this isn’t the same as all the other times. He’s going to kiss Arthur, really kiss him and-

Merlin takes a deep breath. Right. Best to just jump in.

“Here,” he says quietly, nudging Arthur towards the top of the bed. “Sit down against the headboard.”

Arthur, for once, obliges without protest. Once settled, Merlin refuses to think about what he’s doing and unceremoniously straddles Arthur’s lap.

“There,” he declares, slightly too bright. “It’ll be easier this way.”

Arthur doesn’t even falter as he wraps his arms around Merlin’s waist, the smug bastard.

“Oh, yeah?” he murmurs. “Full of practicality, aren’t you?”

“Piss off,” Merlin says without heat, feeling himself trembling as he wraps his own arms around Arthur’s strong shoulders. 

Arthur squeezes him gently in reassurance. “You know, I thought I’d be the nervous one in this situation.”

Merlin brushes back Arthur’s gold, silky fringe. “And why is that, exactly?”

“Because at least you’ve done this before.” Arthur’s face darkens to something unhappy. “More than a few times I’d wager.”

Merlin stares at him. “And by ‘this’ you mean…”

Arthur grimaces, a slow blush starting to deepen across his cheeks. “Any of it, all of it.”

Feeling slightly dizzy with the implication and not a little turned on, Merlin cups Arthur’s hot cheek.

“Well,” he says slowly. “I’ve done some of it, but certainly not all.” Arthur leans into his touch and Merlin strokes a thumb across his cheekbone. “And not with anyone that matters.”

“Good,” Arthur murmurs and tugs him in closer, making Merlin shiver at the drag of their thighs and groins. “We’ll have to make this count if we’re going to be apart for two months. Don’t want you running off and finding some other prince in the meantime.”

Their foreheads come together, Merlin feeling Arthur’s slightly unsteady breathing hot against his lips. He cups Arthur’s jaw.

“There’s no one else for me,” he says softly. “Prince or otherwise.”

“Good,” Arthur repeats. “And don’t you forget it.”

Merlin smiles, no longer able to resist sliding one of his hands into Arthur’s hair, gripping gently and feeling more than hearing the resulting gasp.

“You’ve really never done this before?” Merlin can’t help but ask. “Not anything?”

Arthur sighs, their lips so close Merlin can practically taste him.

“Some drunken snogging.” He wrinkles his nose which, for some reason, Merlin finds both adorable and incredibly amusing. “But no, other than that, not anything.”

“How is that even possible?” Merlin asks. “You’re so…”

Arthur smirks, dripping smugness in that unbearably hot way of his.

“Yes, Merlin? Do elaborate.”

“Piss off, you know what I mean.”

“I just…” Arthur licks his lips and Merlin almost can’t hold back leaning in. “Want it to mean something, that’s all.”

Merlin smiles wanly. “Of course, you don’t do things by halves. Got your wish, though, didn’t you? Doesn’t get much more meaningful than True Love’s kiss, yeah?”

It’s a weak joke, but Merlin clings to it, the gravity of the situation, paired with all his fear and desperation suddenly bearing down on him once more. Some of it must be showing on his face, because Arthur squeezes him, tilting his head to brush their noses together and place a series of tiny, sweet kisses on his cheek, his jaw, and the corner of his mouth.

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs. “We’ll be alright, love.”

And Merlin, who cannot possibly take another second of this, leans in and finally claims Arthur’s lips for his own - even if only for the moment. 

Merlin’s magic surges, colliding with the horrible, sticky-syrupy feel of the enchantment, which has sensed the threat and is angrily thrashing about. Arthur shudders, his skin heating, body temperature rising in reaction to the havoc being wrecked inside him.

But his lips are soft, pliant, parting for Merlin’s tongue, both their gasping moans muffled in a clash of hungry mouths. Merlin wishes their first kiss could be softer, more careful, more about them than driving out this disgusting, cloying mess. 

Pressing forward, Merlin kisses him hard, pinning Arthur to the headboard with fervent determination. Arthur shivers, arching hard and hot against him, burning up and no doubt delirious with it. His own magic wraps around him protectively, gently restraining as he all but comes apart in Merlin’s arms.

And then, finally, Merlin feels it, the first, hairline fracture.

Please, Merlin thinks desperately, latching onto Arthur’s lower lip with sharp teeth and a soothing tongue. Please, I love you.

And with one last push, the enchantment gives, and shatters.

Panting, Merlin draws back, lips sore and heart pounding. He slides his palms back up to Arthur’s jaw. The skin feels normal, warm, but not too hot.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks, anxious.

Arthur blinks at him, dazed, but then he’s looking back at Merlin and for the first time in months, his eyes are completely clear. No glazing, no overly-bright, fever-hot inner fire, just deep blue eyes.

He blinks again, a frown slowly forming on his brow.

“Mer-” he starts, but never gets to finish as the strain on his body finally catches up with him and he slumps into Merlin’s arms in a dead faint.

Merlin clutches him close, shaking like a leaf and unable to stop it. All he can think is that it’s done, he did it, he’s actually done it.

It’s done and he has absolutely no idea what it means. And now he has two endless, agonising months to wait until he can figure it out.

Arthur’s forehead is clammy, but cool enough. His pulse is steady and other than looking a little pale and being clearly passed out, he seems to be alright. Merlin has checked three times in as many minutes, grateful to have something to focus on.

He’s made Arthur as comfortable as he can, covering him with the duvet and sympathetic to the fact that he’ll wake up slightly uncomfortable having spent this much time in his jeans.

It won’t be long before Gaius gets here and Merlin would rather not have an audience for the next part.

Ironically anaesthetised from the overload of emotion, Merlin glances at Kilgharrah, perched precariously along the edge of the headboard.

“You really think it’ll work?” Merlin asks, not for the first time.

Kilgharrah gives him an unimpressed look. “It would be far easier to simply try and see, Merlin.”

Knowing he’s right, but apprehensive nevertheless, Merlin closes his eyes and forces himself to focus. He’d memorised the spell ages ago, even without the prospect of ever using it. He never thought he’d be able to.

Reassured that he remembers it correctly, Merlin puts his hands together and starts to chant softly. Magic blooms in his chest, pulsing and bursting forward, his palms heating with the raw power of it, the spell swelling between them like a miniature supernova.

Slowly, he draws his hands apart, eyes still squeezed shut in concentration as he holds on to the strands of magic. He repeats the incantation to anchor it, carefully hooking tendril upon tendril together, creating and closing circuits until they’re strong enough to sustain themselves.

And, finally, the final word that would seal the spell.

“Aithusa.”

There’s one last surge and then it’s done, Merlin feels it in his bones. 

Blue eyes blink up at him from a still tingling palm.

“Hey,” Merlin whispers past a suddenly clogged throat, managing a watery smile.

Aithusa chirps, her tiny wings flapping enthusiastically.

For some reason, the sight of that little dragon cracks through his numbness and leaves him torn open and bleeding. Sensing his distress, she starts rubbing her little head against his thumb, making soft purring noises. Merlin reaches out to stroke her, running a finger along her spine, scales still soft and pliant.

“A white dragon,” Kilgharrah muses, craning his neck to bring his head closer. With Kilgharrah almost nose to nose with Aithusa, the size disparity is all the greater. He really has grown rather a lot, while tiny Aithusa is only the length of Merlin’s hand. “And you named her after the light of the sun.”

Merlin glances at Arthur’s sleeping form, breath hitching traitorously in a near-sob.

“I thought it was fitting,” he says softly, then looks at Aithusa. He shifts slightly so she can have a better view. “Aithusa, this is Arthur. You’re going to watch over him for me, alright?”

Aithusa turns big, questioning eyes at him. She’s not speaking, but Merlin understands her all the same.

“I can’t-” Merlin bites back a wet sound and roughly wipes at his leaking eyes with the sleeve of his free hand. “I have to go away for a while, so I can’t protect him right now. He’s a bit of a clotpole, very prone to getting himself in trouble, so I need you to keep an eye on him. Can you do that?”

Aithusa chirps and promptly launches herself off Merlin’s hand and onto Arthur’s chest, her wings flapping wildly, if ineffectually. Still, she isn’t particularly heavy and Arthur is still out cold, so her landing doesn’t make him stir. She sniffs curiously at him, then nestles herself into the crook of his neck and shoulder. It pulls at Merlin’s shredded heart, lips twitching in a sad smile.

“It seems young Pendragon will be in good hands,” Kilgharrah says dryly, tail twitching.

Merlin can only hope he’s right.

After Gaius’ arrival, he’d been adamant Merlin leave as quickly as possible to reduce exposure. Hastening to gather his belongings, Merlin had made Gaius promise to relay Aithusa’s name to Arthur before finally departing with a heavy heart.

Now, standing in front of his shithole of a flat, Merlin wishes he could say he’s surprised when he finds the door half-open, the scanner on the wall smashed with its innards spilling out. 

Sighing, he pokes listlessly at the wires. He only briefly entertains the thought of using his magic, but the chances of a small explosion are far higher than anything getting set to rights. Plus, he’s had rather enough of creating unwanted electromagnetic fields by pitting his magic against technology lately.

So Merlin squeezes through the slim opening, then disables the scanner and flimsy security from inside the flat. He then erects a magical barrier to keep any more unwanted ‘guests’ outside.

Whoever it was that had been desperate enough to break into a shithole in this part of the city must’ve been incredibly disappointed, the only things worth stealing having moved with Merlin to the Palace. Realising that must’ve sparked a fit of frustration, judging by the amount of senseless destruction and general chaos.

They’d also, apparently, decided that their consolation prize is Merlin’s rat-eaten couch - seeing as that’s the only thing that’s missing. That and, if Merlin’s not mistaken, his favourite frying pan. At least they left the bed.

Standing numbly in the ruins of his meagre possessions, he wonders if he should be feeling something about this. But he just…doesn’t care. There’s a black hole inside his chest, the loss of Arthur consuming every thought and feeling, leaving him with nothing but the bleak thought that this is it. That by walking out of the Palace he’d sealed away the chance to ever return. That this small blip of insanity and brightness in his life had just been that. A blip.

And the black hole in his chest might shrink with time, but Merlin knows with crippling, frightening certainty that the loss of Arthur is never going to be fully erased. It’s going to cling to him, full of yearning and regret, while Merlin watches him from afar and remembers that brief time he was allowed to be close to him. What it was like to hold him, the smell of his hair, the touch of his lips on Merlin’s forehead, his wrist. The feel of his mouth, hot and hungry, pliant and greedy all at the same time.

The tears are back, but Merlin doesn’t bother to wipe them away. There’s no energy left, and certainly none to fret over a broken door and the loss of his ratty couch.

He moves from his spot eventually, his magic like molasses as it mournfully unfurls from within his aching chest. Broken things put themselves back together, while the pieces that had survived the burglars’ frustrated hurricane fly back to their place.

Merlin undresses slowly while behind him his bed strips itself of its old sheets and he only notices the new ones are inside out when he comes back from brushing his teeth. The tiny bathroom mirror hasn’t survived either, but Merlin merely scoops the shards into the bin, unwilling to look himself in his wet and red-rimmed eyes.

He ignores Kilgharrah’s look of concern and collapses into the clean - if slightly musty smelling - sheets. Turning on his back, he stares at the dark ceiling in this empty, too-small room.

Stretching out his hand to the ceiling, Merlin swallows around the permanent lump in his throat and whispers, “Heofoncandela.” 

Slowly, constellations blink into existence above his head, spreading to every corner of the stained, cracked plaster. 

And Merlin stares up at them, and aches.

With uni being out for the summer, Merlin is free to take on as many shifts as possible. Gwaine tries to talk him out of half them on three separate occasions, until Merlin puts his foot down and tells him honestly that if he won’t give him this chance to distract himself he might actually lose it.

Feeling extremely weird but also not wanting to risk it, Merlin digs out a misdirection spell that will let him go unnoticed. The last thing he needs is being begged to join in on selfies and being pestered why he’s back here instead of with Arthur.

But other than that, it’s frighteningly easy to fall into the well-worn grooves of work at the Grind. The familiarity of it all also does wonders for switching off his brain as he floats along, mechanically going through every task and parroting lines he’s said a million times before. Thankfully, Gwen is there to take over most of the direct customer service, shooting him intermittent, soft-eyed looks of concern and squeezing his arm at random intervals.

Merlin has to hand it to Gwen - she’s great at not saying anything. He has no idea what Lance and Elyan have been telling her, but she doesn’t press. Not even all the times he comes back from the stock room having taken far longer than necessary, eyes red and lashes still clumped wetly together.

She just keeps plying him with big, steaming cups of hot chocolate, topped with a thick layer of cinnamon. And despite it being the height of summer, Merlin takes them gratefully.

Merlin has more sad, tearful wanks than any one person should be allowed in a lifetime, nevermind in barely a week. And though he tells himself every single time he won’t do it again, there comes a point in the day - be it morning or night - where he misses Arthur so desperately that he might as well get off while sobbing pathetically into his pillow.

He’s lonely and hopelessly in love and he wants Arthur and sometimes, letting himself just think and fantasise about how much he actually wants him makes him feel just that little bit closer to him. It’s only post-orgasm that everything comes sweeping back in with crippling intensity, leaving him hollower each time.

It certainly doesn’t help that every day, Merlin expects some kind of official statement - courtesy of Sophia - that announces the ‘regrettable split’ of his and Arthur’s relationship. But there is, in fact, nothing at all about Arthur in the news - and Merlin would know because he’s put Arthur’s name and every single keyword he can think of related to the Royal Family on his alert list.

Honestly, he’d never even realised what big of a deal announcing his and Arthur’s relationship had actually been. He’s Arthur’s first public partner and combined with the fact that Arthur is at ‘a marrying age’ - whatever the fuck that means - there really is no surprise that the media latched onto it so fiercely. He just wishes he could simply message Sophia and ask her what the official timeline is. And maybe beg her to let him know before she releases any devastating statements.

Unfortunately, Gaius is also being difficult and stubbornly tight-lipped, telling him nothing beyond a bland “Prince Arthur is fine, Merlin” whenever he asks. He knows it’s some weird mix of patient confidentiality and his idea of encouraging distance between them, but it’s still frustrating as fuck.

But for now, there’s nothing he can do other than move forward.

Merlin wakes feeling as though he can’t breathe properly, his throat trapped and his chest weighed down by a sack of potatoes. It’s only when he flails blindly, still half-asleep and slightly panicked, and his hand connects with smooth, warm scales that he realises that the sack of potatoes is, in fact-

“Kilgharrah,” he groans, fighting against dragon limbs that seem to have somehow multiplied since last night. “Geroff, you scaly bastard!”

Kilgharrah makes an affronted sound, but thankfully collects his 50 appendages, including the tail that had been doing its best to constrict Merlin’s airways.

“This bed is too small, Merlin,” Kilgharrah complains like the diva he is.

Merlin glares at him through half-open eyes, batting away a stray wing and digging a knee into Kilgharrah’s side as he turns away from the edge, trying not to tumble over it.

“It’s my bed,” Merlin says irritably. “You don’t have to keep lying in it!”

“And where else am I supposed to sleep? You have yet to replace the couch.”

“You’re a dragon! You can sleep on the bloody floor!”

“That’s hardly fair, young warlock,” Kilgharrah sniffs. “I’ve slept on your pillow all your life.”

“Yes,” Merlin says, exasperated, as he gives up and struggles into an upright position. Glancing at his comm, he sees that it’s only a few minutes until his alarm goes off. “When you were the size of my palm!” He gives Kilgharrah a once-over, then groans. “Fuck, have you grown again?”

Kilgharrah yawns, steam curling from his nostrils, his wings now spanning 5 feet as he stretches, then re-folds them. He’s now roughly the size of an Alsatian.

“So it would seem,” he says solemnly.

“Uargh,” Merlin says eloquently, and gets up.

Perched on the kitchenette counter, cup of tea balanced on his propped up knee, Merlin looks down at the headline - only one in a row of stupid headlines in his alert notifications. He already regrets it as he clicks it. 

Prince Arthur, who has not made a formal appearance since reassuring the public of his health after the attempts on his life and that of his father, His Majesty King Uther, has finally been spotted taking an informal luncheon with close friends Her Graces The Duchesses of Gawant and Nemeth. He arrived at The Avalon without his partner, Merlin Emrys, 23, who has not been seen since being injured at the assassination attempt during King Uther’s birthday celebrations. Royal Communications’ official statement reads that both Prince Arthur and Mr Emrys are in good health. However, inside sources-

Merlin snorts.

-claim that Merlin hasn’t been seen at the Royal Palace for some weeks. Taking into account Prince Arthur’s troubled appearance, we cannot help but wonder if there might be trouble in paradise. Could the strain of dealing with dating royalty in combination with almost losing his life have caused a rift between our favourite couple? Or could there be a more sinister reason for Prince Arthur’s sickly complexion?

Despite knowing very well that the ‘more sinister reason’ for Arthur’s paleness is the result of his recovery, Merlin cannot help the sharp concern gnawing at his gut as he studies the few, terribly shot m-graphs accompanying the articles. While as impeccably styled and dressed as ever, there really is no denying that Arthur looks sick and tired. He’s unsmiling, his jaw tight, and marching swiftly from his car, up the broad stairs to the entrance.

Looking at him makes Merlin’s whole chest ache, heart constricting and magic wailing mournfully. All he can think about is the Palace’s vast spaces, filled with no one to properly care for Arthur. He can only hope that Arthur isn’t being a stubborn prat and is letting the Knights be there for him.

He scrolls through some more articles, but they’re all saying the same thing and re-using the same m-graphs. 

Sighing, he puts his comm down, placing his mostly empty, lukewarm cup next to it and presses his forehead to his knee. If following Gaius’ revelation about breaking the enchantment had made Merlin want to stop time, he now wishes he could fast-forward it.

Even if Arthur hates him and never wants to see him again, at least he’d know.

Around two weeks after Merlin’s departure from the Palace, a group of teenagers comes to the Grind, clearly on a mission to single-handedly uncover the mystery of his absence. It’s rather amusing - in a weird, ironic way - that while they over-casually try to wheedle information out of Gwen, he’s standing about two feet away polishing the spout of the steamer.

“You really haven’t seen him?” One of the teenagers finally blurts out. “But he used to work here, right?”

Gwen nods solemnly. “He did. But it’s been a while. I really can’t help you, I’m sorry.”

“But,” another says anxiously, an MU-bracelet visible through the sheer sleeve of his arm. “He’s alright, isn’t he? King Uther hasn’t-” He looks around wildly, then lowers his voice into a frantic hush. “Done anything to him, ri-ow! What did you do that for?!”

His friend looks to have rather good elbow-aim. Merlin is supremely empathetic for the poor boy’s ribs.

“That’s treason,” the friend hisses. “You can’t just go around spouting nonsense about the King!”

“Why not, everyone else is saying it!”

“Yes, anonymously on the internet!”

The boy turns sheepish. “I meant no harm, I’m just worried!”

It’s sweet, really, Merlin thinks. He’s almost tempted to drop the spell and reassure them. Gwen, who must have switched on her sixth sense, sends him a quelling look.

“I can promise you, Merlin is fine,” she says kindly.

“It’s not true, is it?” a hitherto timid girl at the back asks quietly. “He and Prince Arthur haven’t broken up, have they?”

Gwen shoots him another fleeting look, this one full of sympathy.

“If there hasn’t been any official statements about it, I wouldn’t worry,” Gwen reassures. “Here, why don’t you have one of our jumbo cinnamon buns. It’s on the house.”

Merlin stares at his warped reflection in the spout, feeling as though the ground might as well swallow him whole. Suddenly, being invisible isn’t as comfortable as it was just a few moments ago.

#WeMissYouMerlin has been replaced by #WeSupportPrinceArthur and, as trending hashtags go, Merlin much prefers this one. Finally, there’s something more groundbreaking to take the edge off of his and Arthur’s relationship. Here’s to hoping that rumours of his death and or his career as a secret agent due to his ‘special powers’ will also die down at last.

From the moment Merlin reads the headline and sees Arthur posing with Iseldir, hands clasped in a firm handshake, he can’t stop smiling. 

Arthur looks good, better. Colour has returned to his cheeks and his lips have the faintest, matte shine Merlin knows is a result of his favourite lip balm. His shirt is casually unbuttoned, if not quite as far as on more informal outings, the effect made slightly less indecently sexy by his jacket. It’s one of those many-belted monstrosities Arthur’s so fond of.

 It’s all deliberate, of course, with the intention of sticking out and having m-graphs taken. Even Iseldir, who’s known for his rather drab choice in mage robes, has put on a grey-blue set with pretty, silver trimming.

And, when Merlin zooms in and squints, he’s almost certain he spots the tip of a small, white tail flashing in and out of view from one of Arthur’s breast pockets.

For the first time in weeks, the tears that sting his eyes aren’t rooted in sadness.

Merlin finally gives in and looks up a series of spells that might help enlarge his bed. It almost doesn’t survive him actually trying said spells and the results are…definitely interesting. The bedframe itself only lasts three tries before it collapses for good under the overzealous application to widen the mattress.

Merlin gives it up as a lost cause and instead focuses on getting the mattress right. He tries to make it higher as well as wider and ends up with something that looks more like the bottom of a bouncy castle than anything else. Still, when he tries it out - along with Kilgharrah - they find out that it’s actually incredibly comfortable, moulding to their bodies in a strange kind of cross between water and sand.

“Is he just going to keep growing?” Gwen asks later at the shop, nodding at Kilgharrah, who now no longer fits onto the shelf they’d cleared for him and is unable to stretch his wings without knocking something over.

“Honestly, I haven’t the foggiest,” he says with a sigh. “But if he keeps it up we’ll definitely have to move.”

Both ignore the obvious implication that if Merlin were still at the Palace, Kilgharrah would have all the room he could want and then some. Provided he actually does stop growing at some point.

Slumped over half-asleep in his kitchenette at almost two in the morning, Merlin has his head propped up on one hand while the other shovels overcooked rice and vegetables into his mouth. He thinks blearily that getting a chair and table might make things like this a little more comfortable. 

His single fold-out table and chair had been a casualty of the burglary, but every time he thinks about replacing any of the furniture, or making this shithole ‘more homey’, he simply balks.

Even before everything, Merlin had been desperate to move, and after coming back this place has never felt less like home. The thought of trying to improve this dump would just make him feel as though he’s doomed to be stuck here for another indeterminate stretch of time. It would also, in a weird, twisted way, feel as though he’s admitting defeat for good. And though Merlin isn’t feeling particularly cheerful or positive these days, there is a tiny spark of hope somewhere deep inside him that has yet to be smothered.

So he grabs his chipped bowl, turns around, and sinks to the floor, finally giving his legs a chance to rest after a whole day on his feet at the Grind. Back aching, Merlin presses back against the sticky cabinets, the doors creaking ominously at the strain.

Chewing slowly, Merlin wonders what Arthur is doing right now. Is he asleep? Still up, working at his desk?

Tilting back his head, Merlin closes his eyes and focuses on the thin, thrumming thread that is his connection to Aithusa. He can sense her deep contentment, can tell from the evenness of her emotions that she’s most likely asleep, or at the very least, resting.

He wonders if Arthur is there with her and if looking at her makes him think of Merlin. If he thinks of Merlin, full stop. If he misses him at all, even if only a tiny fraction of how much Merlin misses him. A tiny fraction is all Merlin needs.

Arthur doesn’t need to love him, he just needs to want him, just a little bit. 

Just enough to let Merlin return to his side.

Every time Merlin answers one of Will’s unsubtle messages, he thinks about giving in and telling him to come stay with him for a bit. Or maybe visit him in Cornwall, or go home to Ealdor to see his mum, let her feed him and spoil him a bit.

But the thought of leaving Arthur at a time like this, when tensions are on the rise and he’s apparently decided to give his rebel-affiliated sister another chance, has coils of unease twist sharply inside him. No, he can’t go. Even if he can’t be with Arthur the way he wants right now, he’s still close enough to come to his aid should he need it. Aithusa would call him the instant Arthur’s in danger.

So he answers Will and his mum, telling them that everything is fine, then sends a row of happy emojis in reply to Freya, who sent him an m-graph of herself with Daegal and Sefa on some tropical beach. Merlin doesn’t remember where she said they’re going on holiday. He’s been doing a good job so far of dodging her, but of course she knows exactly what’s going on.

No doubt her and Gwaine have already put together at least a dozen plans for an intervention. Merlin suspects that it’s only Gwen’s calming influence that is keeping them in check. Merlin is planning to get her something special for Yule to properly show his gratitude.

Letting his eyes skim back over Morgana’s interview, Merlin idly wonders how many ulcers Sophia has developed by now, and if Catrina has driven everyone round the bend yet. It’s strange, because Merlin wouldn’t want to be caught dead between them, and yet he finds being an outsider looking in even more unbearable.

Dear Mr Emrys,

We are pleased to inform you that there’s been an amendment to the Magical Use and Regulation Act. Please contact your registered CMU to schedule an appointment for the recalibration of your bracelet.

The complete and revised legislation has been attached for your convenience.

Best wishes,

Department of Magical Persons and Artefacts

Merlin stares at the words, reading and re-reading them. 

“Kilgharrah,” he says hoarsely. “Kilgharrah, look at this.”

Kilgharrah - now the size of an Irish Wolfhound - trots over on clawed feet, barely even having to crane his long neck to look at the comm in Merlin’s hand. 

While Merlin watches him read, he rubs absently at his scar. Clearly, the system hasn’t been updated since he got his new bracelet. Or maybe, Merlin thinks, the lack of update had been deliberate so as not to draw attention to him.

Kilgharrah raises his head, looking pleased.

“Young Pendragon is certainly doing well for himself,” he says, and if dragons could smile, Merlin is sure he’d be doing it right now. “He will make a fine King yet.”

Yes, Merlin thinks fiercely. He will.

Merlin is spaced out for most of the morning.

All he can think of is that email and Arthur, golden and triumphant, beneath the article that detailed exactly how many clever loopholes he and Iseldir found to make such an amendment. Mainly that apparently making small adjustments within a single law, provided it stays in a certain margin, only requires 40% of the Council to agree, instead of the usual 65%.

As Crown Prince, Arthur holds 35% all on his own, making it an easy feat to fill the remaining 5% with the single seat Iseldir has been clinging to as his party’s representative. Not even the King could’ve contested this completely legal venture. 

He must also, Merlin thinks gleefully, be seething.

Gwen, who had of course seen the articles, hugs him in congratulations and wordlessly takes over the till, leaving Merlin to auto-pilot through a series of boring orders that thankfully don’t require any particular attention. Most of the customers look to be early-riser students, simply enjoying the fact that it’s the holidays and that the city has been half-emptied people either going home to other parts of Albion or having left the country for more appealing destinations.

“Gingerbread cappuccino, extra froth,” Merlin says absently, sliding the drink over the counter.

A slender hand with short, dark-purple nails wraps around it, but doesn’t lift it away.

“Thank you, Merlin.”

Merlin’s head snaps up and he freezes in recognition.

“Surely I’m not that frightening a sight,” Nimueh says mock-put-out, even as her plum-coloured lips lift in a slow, lopsided smirk.

Merlin instinctively looks around, but of course no one is paying them any attention. He pins Nimueh with a glare, heart hammering unpleasantly against his ribs.

“What do you want?”

Nimueh lifts a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Now, now, is that any way to greet an old friend? I was upset that we didn’t get to say hello last time.”

“We have very different definitions of the word ‘friend’,” Merlin says, low and angry. He glances at Gwen, then the almost deserted shop. “I’m taking five, Gwen.”

Gwen smiles at him, shooting a discreet, slightly puzzled look at Nimueh. “Of course, Merlin.”

Merlin yanks at his apron, already moving from behind the counter. “Come with me.”

Surprisingly, Nimueh follows without protest, taking small, careful sips from her steaming drink. Merlin blindly throws his apron into the staff room as he passes, and Kilgharrah rises from where he’s been napping on the table. He follows Merlin as he takes a sharp right, leading the way to the emergency exit, which opens soundlessly at a wave of his bracelet.

They emerge into the back alley, still damp from last night’s rain. A good 10 feet away, just past the bins, a holo belonging to the restaurant next door is enthusiastically posing with a steaming pizza carton, the flashing letters around it promising a genuine, stone-baked experience - No food packages or artificial flavours! Grab it while it’s hot!

Behind him, Kilgharrah slips through the door just as it swishes shut. Spreading his wings, he takes a graceful run-leap and lands on the crumbling remains of an old brick wall.

Merlin finally rounds on Nimueh, the shock of her appearance steadily turning into a mix of confusion and white-hot fury.

“Talk,” he orders, channeling Arthur’s best commanding tone.

Nimueh smirks. “So demanding. You really have changed an awful lot, Merlin. Where has that sweet, impressionable country boy gone?”

“He learnt not to buy your bullshit,” Merlin grits out. 

Nimueh presses a mocking hand to her chest. “There’s no need to be uncivil, is there? After all, I’m here to check on you, see how you’re holding up.”

Merlin folds his arms, fingers digging in hard. “And why would you care?”

“Now, Merlin, the least you could do is be a little thankful,” Nimueh chides, voice saccharine. “After all, I saved your life.”

Her eyes drop pointedly to Merlin’s scar. Merlin forces himself not to hide it.

“After you almost barbecued us,” he snaps.

Nimueh waves a hand. “You can thank Mordred for that. He got a little carried away, and then Morgana almost ruined everything with her sudden surge of sororal affection.” She sighs. “It was hard enough to convince her of the initial plan, so I should’ve seen it coming, really.”

“You mean the Sentes Amor,” Merlin says flatly.

Nimueh smirks, looking pleased.

“If you want it done right and all that.” She wriggles her fingers. “I have to admit, it worked even better than expected. That was some rather good headlines this morning, don’t you think?”

“That was your plan?” Merlin asks, incredulous. “Drug Arthur and make me his stabiliser to, what? Warm his heart to the MUs’ plight?”

Nimueh throws him an annoyed look, as though he’s a child who’s just brought home a bad grade.

“I told you, years ago, that you have an important task to fulfil, but you turned your back on us.”

Merlin’s magic surges with alarming force and he has to clamp down resolutely to keep it inside, even though he has the very real urge to simply let it free. Nimueh would deserve it, that much is sure.

“I don’t care what your excuses are, Arthur could’ve-” He swallows. “He could’ve died! On both counts! What if I hadn’t been able to save him?”

Nimueh sighs, exasperated.

“It’s not his destiny to die at my hand.” She fixes him with an intense stare, almost mad in its fervour. “It is, however, your destiny to be at his side and protect him. If you hadn’t run off and cut all contact, we could’ve taught you about the prophecy, guided you in your task. With my help, Arthur will become King-”

“I don’t want your help,” Merlin hisses, magic rattling his bones as he tries to keep it all inside. “I didn’t want it then, and I don’t want it now. And neither does Arthur! And I certainly don’t need a prophecy to bind me to him, I’ve already chosen him.”

Nimueh folds her arms, her empty coffee cup dangling from her fingers.

“If I hadn’t stepped in you’d still be serving him coffee and wearing Uther’s shackle.”

“If we really have this great destiny that you believe we do then we would’ve found our way to each other with or without your meddling!”

“You are as ungrateful as you are short-sighted,” Nimueh hisses venomously, apparently at the end of her patience. “It’s unfortunate that the Triple Goddess has chosen someone like you and that foolish Prince for such an important task. But the day will come when you’ll seek my help and I’ll enjoy making you beg for it.”

Merlin pushes aside the strange feeling of foreboding taking seed somewhere deep inside him, and tilts his chin up in determination.

“That will never happen.”

Election frenzy sweeps across Albion like never before, each constituency making their affiliation known, for better or worse. There’s no denying the Druids’ high chances of gaining additional seats on the Council, something which is only overshadowed by the fact that the King and Crown Heir are not in agreement over their final votes for the first time in over a century. And while the King still has final say over hard legislation, minor law amendments have become fair play, as they say - which Arthur had already proven with his little stunt concerning the MU-bracelets.

There have been some weak attempts - no doubt driven by Sophia - to stress the unity of the Crown despite recent political rifts. Nevertheless, banners have started popping up, declaring either support for Arthur or King Uther. The Grind with it’s well-known and profited-on connection to Merlin and Arthur, was one of the first establishments to declare its support for the Prince. Gwaine passed it off as merely another business decision, but Merlin knows that when it comes down to it, Gwaine wouldn’t be caught dead supporting something he doesn’t believe in.

Seven weeks had merely been an estimate, Merlin knows that. But he’s been counting all the same and when the day finally comes, he can’t help but whip his head around every time the door swishes open.

Other than that, however, he doesn’t have too much time to dwell. He’s stuck with a bumbling young bloke called Gilli, who spends more time complaining than working, and when he does work, it’s with the speed and dexterity of a snail.

The shop isn’t busy exactly, but after having to intervene for the tenth time in almost as many minutes, Merlin shoos Gilli over to the drinks machine and takes his place at the till. Hopefully pressing the correct button and wiping down spouts lies within Gilli’s apparently limited capabilities.

Misdirection spell firmly in place, none of the customers are any the wiser who is actually serving them. Unfortunately, this also means that Gilli has no idea who he’s working with and makes no secret how he really feels about the monarchy in general, and Arthur and the King in particular. He seems to have a special bee in his bonnet about Arthur, which Merlin finds especially annoying, since he’s the half of the Crown who’s actually trying to help them.

“What good does a greater allowance for spells do,” Gilli grumbles after Merlin tightly informed him of the recent progress. “I never used up my weeks’ allotment, anyway. Also, no offence, mate, but what would you know about it anyway? Not like it affects you.”

Merlin bites down on his tongue, hard. It’s not often that he regrets not being able to reveal himself, but this is definitely one of them. But of course, Gilli, having seen Merlin’s regular ID-bracelet, thinks he’s just some clueless non-MU.

After that, Merlin decides his best bet is to simply ignore him.

Unfortunately, that proves rather difficult when they’re nearly flattened by an unexpected surge in the late afternoon when two tired tourist groups of what must be at least 20 people each stumble into the Grind. The shop isn’t small exactly, but it certainly isn’t equipped for 40 people sprawling out over every available piece of furniture and then deciding this is the right place to have a long rest before dinner.

And to top it all off, the second it hits five o’clock, Gilli puts aside the half-finished Vanilla Chai Latte he was in the process of making, and starts loosening his apron.

Merlin stares at him. “What are you doing?”

Gilli blinks at him. “My shift is over.”

Merlin only barely keeps his jaw from falling open in incredulity. 

“You’re going to leave me-” He gestures at the packed shop, the cluster of happily chatting tourists waiting to be served. “With this?!”

Gilli shrugs, now free of his apron, having the decency to at least pretend to be apologetic.

“Sorry, mate, but I’m done for the day. So, not my problem.” He throws the apron over his shoulder as he makes for the staff room, clapping Merlin on the back as he goes. “Good luck!”

And then he’s gone.

He tries to call in someone to help, but Gwaine’s on an overnight trip in Nemeth, Gwen is babysitting her cousin’s two kids, and everyone else is out of the country.

To the tourists’ credit, they’re all incredibly nice about it, waiting patiently for Merlin to scramble everything together. Without his magic, he doesn’t think he would’ve been able to handle it, even if he only allows himself small, inconspicuous use of it.

He almost weeps with relief when Gwaine messages to tell him that he can close up as soon as the two groups are gone. Then again when he finally activates the lock from inside and gives the command for the windows to turn opaque, ‘closed’ appearing in neatly spaced intervals, surrounded by tiny dancing coffees and cupcakes. He still has a lot of cleaning to do, but at least he’ll be able to do it in peace.

It’s only when he goes into the stock room to replenish the take-away cups that Merlin remembers what day it is. Slumping against the nearest shelf, Merlin rubs both hands through his hair. He’s not going to have another bloody cry in here, though being tired and miserable certainly doesn’t help his resolve.

Sighing, he’s just about to reach into one of the boxes, when he can hear the distinct sound of the scanner disengaging the lock to the front door. Frowning, Merlin straightens. Maybe Gwen got away after all and decided to come help?

“Hello?” he calls as he makes his way back towards the main room of the shop. “Gwen is that-”

He breaks off. It’s not Gwen.

“Arthur.”

It comes out choked, heavy with disbelief despite the evidence in front of him. 

“Hello, Merlin.”

He looks so calm, voice crisp and incredibly posh, and if Merlin didn’t know him he’d buy it in a second. But Merlin’s had more than enough practice to recognise his royal facade when he sees it. It’s the fact that he has absolutely no idea what’s lurking underneath that worries him.

“How did you get in?” Merlin asks dumbly.

“Police override.” Arthur says, and finally there’s a small crack in the form of a tiny, almost sheepish smile. “I’m not supposed to use it, so…”

“I won’t tell,” Merlin says automatically, still too stunned to really form any sort of coherent thought.

Arthur’s smile tugs up a little further on one side. He’s still lingering by the door, as if held by a gravitational field, looking incredibly formal in his impeccably pressed clothes and styled hair. It only serves to make Merlin want to dishevel him.

“Much appreciated,” Arthur says, voice low and amused, before sobering slightly once more. “I hope you don’t mind…? I thought it was easier than knocking on the windows. And less conspicuous.”

A small, huffy laugh dislodges from Merlin’s too-tight throat.

“Yeah, that probably would’ve raised questions.” There’s a small, awkward pause after that, before Merlin blurts out, “Do you want to, um, sit? Have something to drink?”

Arthur finally peels himself away from the door, and Merlin notices that the lock is once more engaged. They won’t be disturbed.

Chest tight, Merlin makes his way back behind the counter. It’s a mess back there, but he finds two clean cups and a couple teabags, dousing them with boiling water as he tries his best to keep his heart from beating its way through his ribs.

Arthur has sat down in one of the booths in the back, the one sporting the most comfortable bench. Merlin longingly eyes the space next to him, but fears he might actually end up climbing into Arthur’s lap if he’s that close to him. So Merlin chooses the far less comfortable faux-wooden chair opposite him, sliding one of the steaming cups across the tiny table.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Merlin blurts out abruptly.

Arthur raises his brows, eyes dark and serious. “I promised I would.”

Merlin lets out a breath. 

“I know, but-” He swallows down the half-formed words grappling on his tongue, clutching tightly to his hot cup to stop himself from reaching for Arthur’s hand. “How are you feeling? Was it- I mean, I saw the m-graphs you looked…very ill.”

Malady or heartbreak, Merlin thinks sardonically, fingers curling in tighter, painting half-moons under his nails.

“Well, I’d rather not repeat the experience, that’s for sure,” Arthur says dryly. “But I’m no longer vomiting, so that’s definitely an improvement.”

By the gods he’s such a posh prat and Merlin is so fucking in love with him he wants to cry.

“Good, that’s…really good. I’m glad.” He sounds like an idiot, but there’s just…so much and he just doesn’t know what to do with himself. Unsure whether he can actually manage to lift his cup, or loosen his death grip enough to try, Merlin simply stares at it. He swallows dry, the next words scarping their way out of his throat, “Was it…very confusing?”

Arthur nods, slowly. “I was really out of it for a while. Took a few weeks to clear. But I’m alright now and…”

“And?”

Arthur takes a deep breath, looking far more nervous than Merlin has ever seen him. There’s a vulnerability clinging to him, not a single defence mechanism in place. It makes Merlin ache and want to protect him more than ever.

He looks at Merlin, gaze unwavering but eyelashes fluttering faintly with nerves.

“And I still miss you rather an awful amount,” he says finally, voice not quite steady around the edges, but pushing on like the brave, honourable soul he is. “So I’d quite like to have you back now. If you don’t have any objections.”

Merlin’s chest draws even tighter, strangling his poor heart and making it hard to breathe.

“You mean it?” Merlin asks, voice raw. “Please don’t do this if you don’t mean it.”

Arthur bites down on his lip, another brief, nervous gesture, but his eyes don’t leave Merlin’s own when he murmurs, “I’ve always meant it, Merlin.”

Merlin doesn’t remember getting up, or knocking over their tea, or even if the chair remained upright behind him. All he knows is that Arthur is there, arms outstretched to welcome him as Merlin all but leaps on him. He catches Merlin easily, drags him closer when Merlin crawls artlessly into his lap, bearing him back against the backrest with a little more force than can strictly be comfortable.

But Merlin presses forward, buries his face into Arthur’s neck, his familiar scent filling his nose as he nuzzles even deeper. He feels Arthur’s broad, strong hand reclaiming its rightful place at the back of Merlin’s neck, using his grip to mould them more closely together, while his other hand takes a well-known path along Merlin’s spine.

“I can’t believe you’re really here.” Merlin barely gets the words past his clogged throat, then pulls back abruptly, suddenly needing to see Arthur’s face, his eyes. He searches them for any hint of the dreaded hazy fever-brightness, but Arthur’s gaze is clear and undiluted. Even so, Merlin can’t help but urge, “You’re sure? Truly?”

Arthur takes Merlin’s hand and presses it against his chest.

“You can check,” he offers quietly. “Like the first time.”

Merlin doesn’t need to ask what Arthur means. He thinks back to that night in the dirty alley, half-hidden in shadows and Arthur shuddering as Merlin gently searched him with careful tendrils.

He does it again now, letting his magic rise, giving in to the magnetic pull that is Arthur, feeling as it spills over to wrap around him, cradle him gently. It’s not simple tendrils this time, but a whole wave of love and longing, unrestrained and inevitable.

Beneath him, Arthur shivers, fingers digging in tightly as they clutch Merlin close, closer. Their breath mingles, foreheads touching as Merlin gently seeks out any remnants of the horrible, sticky-sweet enchantment. But all he finds is Arthur, open and trusting in his hands, welcoming Merlin’s magic, letting it seep into his bones and flood them both to overflowing.

“I love it when you do that,” Arthur murmurs, cupping Merlin’s face, thumbs gentle-rough on his cheekbones.

“What?” Merlin asks, dazed, lips practically stinging with the need to claim Arthur’s mouth.

“Your eyes,” Arthur says, gaze dark and hungry. He leans in to brush their noses together. “They’re beautiful.”

Merlin wraps his arms around Arthur’s shoulders, clinging on and not caring one whit how desperate it is.

“You really want me,” Merlin says, still not believing it.

“More than anything.”

“But how can you, with the enchantment-” Merlin breaks off, not sure if he wants to hear the answer, still terrified he’s going to find something he or Gaius have overlooked, something that will turn it all around again and make Arthur realise that it’s all been a terrible mistake.

Arthur sighs, sitting back a little, his palms running soothing lines over Merlin’s sides, the splay of his thighs across his lap.

“It’s hard to explain. I still remember everything.” He looks at Merlin, hands stilling and touch firming. “I still remember you. Even if some of it is a little hazy or distorted, I still remember you. Us. Besides-” He gives Merlin a small smile. “I already liked you, you know. Well before the potion. Why do you think I came here so often?”

Merlin stares at him, helpless as the world around him realigns itself.

“Gwaine tried telling me-” He rubs at his hair, no doubt making even more of a mess of it, and groans. “Gods he’ll be insufferable when he finds out. I just didn’t think-”

Arthur catches his hands, no doubt to prevent further abuse, and tugs him in once more.

“Because you’re an idiot,” he says, but there’s so much affection in it, it makes Merlin’s heart flutter like a hummingbird.

His fingers curl around the edges of Arthur’s open collar, tugging a little in exasperation.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

Arthur gives him an incredulous look.

“Like what? I thought you hated my guts.”

“I didn’t hate you,” Merlin says. Arthur gives him a look. Merlin frowns at him. “I didn’t! You were annoying, yes, but in a…hot way.” Arthur snorts. Merlin smacks him gently. “Piss off, I didn’t even think you remembered my name.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows, his lips drawing into that smug smirk of his that always makes Merlin want to snog him stupid. 

“Well, you didn’t even remember my order.”

Merlin huffs a laugh, feeling a little sheepish. “Actually, I did.”

“What!”

“I just pretended not to - I didn’t think your ego needed inflating, your head already barely fits through the door.”

Arthur looks downright scandalised. “I’ll show you a big head!”

Merlin’s eyebrows shoot up, another laugh bubbling in his throat. “Oh, yeah?”

Arthur flushes a sudden, adorable red, defiant glare never faltering.

“Shut up.”

Merlin leans in, voice low as he traces a single fingertip along the gaping fabric of Arthur’s shirt. “Make me.”

Arthur’s hand closes strong and possessive around the nape of Merlin’s neck and drags their mouths together, lips already parted. Merlin moans, shuddering at the feel of Arthur’s tongue, slow but insistent against his own. Heat pools low and sharp in Merlin’s gut, breath stuttering as their heads tilt, mouths aligning with no effort at all, making everything suddenly deeper and wetter and so fucking good Merlin thinks he might die from it.

He pushes closer, pinning Arthur against the backrest, swallowing Arthur’s throaty sound, feeling him pliant and eager beneath Merlin’s desperate touch. He burns with the need to feel Arthur, every inch of him, the force of his desire making his head spin and his dick weep, wetness already dampening his pants.

His thighs clench tightly around Arthur’s own, fingers sliding into the silky gold of Arthur’s hair, gripping, holding him in place as he grinds down, slow and dirty. Arthur arches, hips jerking to meet Merlin’s own, one of his hands clamping down on Merlin’s hip to drag him into another grind, his dick hard and unmistakable where it presses against Merlin’s arse through far too many annoying layers.

“Fuck,” Merlin groans. “Arthur, fuck, we should-”

Arthur kisses him again, and Merlin can’t help but lean into it, their hips moving in small, but increasingly desperate circles. The friction is rough, almost a little too much so, but also too good to stop.

But Merlin also remembers that this is Arthur’s first time doing anything like this, and he deserves better than a fumbled dry-humping session after closing in the Grind.

Cupping the strong curve of Arthur’s jaw, Merlin pulls back slightly, their panting breaths loud in the otherwise deserted shop. Looking down, Merlin finds Arthur flushed, eyes dark with want.

Mesmerised, Merlin runs a thumb along Arthur’s plush bottom lip, wet from Merlin’s mouth. Holding fast to his gaze, Arthur’s tongue flicks out against his skin and then his thumb is suddenly surrounded by heat, sucked hot and slow into Arthur’s irresistible and downright sinful fucking mouth.

Merlin groans, helpless. “You’re going to kill me.”

He leans in to replace his thumb with his tongue, wet and messy and hot enough to make his toes curl.

“It’ll be a joint effort,” Arthur murmurs, before latching onto Merlin’s bottom lip in a hard, teeth-edged suck.

“Mh,” Merlin whines. “Arthur, hang on, just-” He pushes down again, making them both gasp. “We shouldn’t do this here.” 

Their lips meet again, the next words almost getting lost in a hungry kiss.

“Yes,” Arthur murmurs, but whether in assent or because of Merlin’s questing fingers, Merlin isn’t sure.

Delving lower, Merlin feels the seams of Arthur’s shirt strain just as he finds a pebbled nipple, thumb still damp from Arthur’s mouth as he drags it around and across, making Arthur shudder and buck beneath him. Merlin rides the restless jerk of his hips, helplessly seduced by the now hardened nub and the throaty, bitten off sounds Arthur is trying to hide around a bite to Merlin’s clothed shoulder. But even muffled, each of them is like a direct line to his dick, leaving it throbbing and aching.

Arthur’s teeth leave his shoulder, his lips instead latching onto Merlin’s throat, unerringly finding the most sensitive spot and setting every inch of his skin alight. It almost makes him miss the first, tentative touch of Arthur’s fingers to the hard line of Merlin’s dick, which is pressing mournfully against the fly of his jeans.

Merlin leans his head against Arthur’s, arms sliding around his neck as he lets him explore the shape of him. He gasps when Arthur presses gently against the base, then has to bite his lip around a moan when Arthur’s fingers start drawing small circles all the way to the tip. Arthur presses there too, making Merlin tremble, pre-come soaking his pants and making them stick uncomfortably to his skin.

Arthur sucks another lingering kiss against Merlin’s neck, Merlin’s fingers slipping in golden hair as he cradles him close and rocks his hips into Arthur’s still maddening tease of a touch.

“I want to touch you,” Arthur murmurs into his skin.

Merlin hums out a breathy “Yes”, his hand tightening in Arthur’s hair to guide their panting mouths back together.

He kisses him deeply, then draws back with more restraint than he thought he has.

“You can have anything you want,” he promises softly. “Just- not here. I want you in a bed, where we can both be comfortable.”

Despite the maddening nature of it, Merlin still mourns the loss of Arthur’s hand on him as he instead wraps his arms around Merlin to give him a gentle squeeze.

“Probably for the best,” he says, kissing Merlin’s neck. “Your friend, Gwaine, would never let us live it down if we actually shagged in his shop. He’d probably advertise it out front and cordon off this booth.”

Laughter bubbles up and over, spilling past Merlin’s buzzing chest. He’s still so turned on he’s dizzy with it, but the most desperate edge is dulled beneath the helpless amusement at the mental picture.

“Gods, he’d so do it, too,” Merlin snickers, breathless. “There’d be another cupcake theme. And more flags.”

Arthur groans, forehead pressed to Merlin’s shoulder.

Merlin twines his fingers back into Arthur’s hair, gently this time, feeling his pleasant shiver as he cards through it.

“We can go to mine? It’s closer,” he says, and Arthur pulls back to look at him. Realising how that came out, Merlin rushes to add, “Not to- I mean, we don’t actually have to do anything, just-” 

Arthur kisses him.

“Yes,” he murmurs, sounding amused. “My car is outside.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Of course it is. Good thing I can use magic this time, or we’d have to abandon it again.”

“Aithusa is guarding it right now.”

Merlin draws back. “You brought her along?”

Arthur snorts. 

“She doesn’t do well with being left behind. You should see her little tantrums.” He fixes Merlin with a flat look. “I wonder who she gets it from.”

Merlin brushes down the hair he’s mussed up and smacks an affectionate kiss to Arthur’s forehead, before getting up on wobbly legs.

“We wouldn’t have to do it if you weren’t such a trouble magnet.”

Arthur, now also on his feet, almost destroys all of Merlin’s hard-won restraint, by pulling him close again.

“Well, good thing I have you back, isn’t it?” he says with a playful nudge of his nose to Merlin’s cheek.

Merlin smiles. 

“See, now you’re getting it.”

To say Aithusa is excited to see him as she shoots out of the car the moment the door opens, would be an understatement. As would be to say Arthur’s jaw doesn’t hit the floor when he first catches sight of Kilgharrah.

“Where in all the gods’ names have you been hiding him?”

Merlin, who’s trying to fish an ecstatic Aithusa from his hair, gives a pained smile.

“I’ve been casting a misdirection spell on both of us. How else do you think I was able to go back to work?”

Arthur grimaces. “I’m sorry to have dragged you into this whole mess.”

Handing Aithusa off to now bestow her attentions upon a grumpy-but-obviously-secretly-pleased Kilgharrah, Merlin turns to Arthur and wraps him in a loose embrace. Arthur drags him closer by the hips, making Merlin’s smile widen.

“It comes with plenty of perks,” Merlin says and Arthur’s slow, adoring smile is enough to make his heart stutter.

“Just be sure to keep track,” Arthur says, smile sharpening into something more mischievous. “And to make frequent and extensive use of them.”

“Oh I assure you,” Merlin murmurs, lips almost touching. “I absolutely fucking will.”

It takes them a rather embarrassing amount of time to stop snogging against Arthur’s car. Long enough, in fact, for Kilgharrah and Aithusa to have taken off with a cagey promise to find their way to Merlin’s flat at some point. Not to mention long enough for both Merlin and Arthur to end up as hard and desperate as they’d been inside the Grind, and as much as Merlin trusts his spell, he was trying to get them somewhere more private, not explore an exhibitionism kink.

“So, you and your sister,” Merlin says once they’re on their way, partly to keep himself from reaching out to Arthur, and partly because he’s genuinely curious - not to mention concerned.

Merlin has no reason to trust Morgana and, frankly, he doesn’t see why he should. She turned her back on Arthur, then stood by as he was drugged with a dangerous potion, and waited until the last minute to step up and ‘show sororal concern’ as Nimueh had put it. Not exactly what Merlin would call a bleeding heart.

Arthur sighs, eyes fixed on the hover-track in front of them, despite it really not needing that much attention. He’s likely trying to stop himself from being all over Merlin as much as Merlin is. The thought is extremely satisfying. Merlin can’t wait to have him on his weird, oversized magic mattress. 

“She…regrets what happened,” Arthur says eventually. He doesn’t quite sound unsure about it, but certainly tentative. Merlin isn’t surprised, considering the amount of hurt that’s buried there. “She cut ties with the rebels.”

Or so she says, Merlin thinks bitterly, wondering exactly when he’d become so jaded.

But he knows Nimueh, and he knows how the rebels work. There’s no telling what kind of connections Princess Morgana has formed in her dealings with them.

“So she’s back at the Palace?” Merlin asks, not exactly thrilled at the idea despite the size of the thing.

Arthur shakes his head. 

“She refuses to see Father.” He throws Merlin a rueful smile. “I told you they’re as bad as each other.” He sobers and the next sigh is even heavier than the last. “Mostly she’s just…dealing with stuff. We agreed that playing up our reunion for the press would make the most sense, but she’s not nearly so amenable in private. Never has been, so that part isn’t really a surprise.”

Merlin frowns. “She wants her seat on the Council back.”

Arthur nods. “Not the easiest feat if she plans to keep up the cold shoulder towards Father - not that I blame her, but…”

He trails off, but Merlin has no trouble filling in all the things unsaid. Arthur is, once more, caught in the middle of two unmovable forces, trying his best to keep them contained and prevent an explosion of epic proportions.

He reaches for Arthur’s hand, their fingers twining with easy familiarity. He doesn’t want to give Arthur empty platitudes, so he says the only thing he can.

“Give it some time. It’s early days yet.”

And I’ll keep an eye on her, Merlin promises quietly to himself.

Despite Merlin’s best efforts to dishevel him, Arthur still looks remarkably put together by the time they step into Merlin’s flat. That fact only seems to highlight the utter dreariness of the place, making Arthur stick out like a golden beacon amidst a pile of rubbish.

Arthur blinks at the tiny and decidedly empty expanse of the living room/kitchen, the only thing in sight this morning’s abandoned cereal bowl on the counter.

“Don’t you have any furniture?” Arthur asks, incredulous.

Merlin shrugs, not quite able to meet Arthur’s eyes.

“I was burgled and I just…never bothered to replace it. I’m not much at home, these days.”

Arthur turns to him. “Tell me there’s a bed, at least.”

Merlin grins weakly. “Close enough.”

He holds out his hand, which Arthur takes, still looking a little dubious. Merlin leads him into the bedroom, cramped to the brim since the enlarging of the mattress. He really should’ve moved the rickety set of drawers out into the other room to make more space.

“Charming,” Arthur says drily, but he’s smiling warmly at Merlin and it instantly loosens the knot that has been forming in his chest ever since they stepped into his shithole of a flat.

He fidgets a bit, then blurts, “I’m-um, going to have a shower. Would you like one as well?”

Merlin would love to offer for Arthur to come along, but despite having lived together for some time, the prospect seems a little daunting. Also, he has a fair suspicion that if they enter his - far too small for two people - shower stall, they won’t be able to restrain themselves and either break the shower, or themselves, or both.

“If it’s no trouble,” Arthur says formally, the edges of his accent sharpening in a way they only ever do from nerves.

It’s incredibly cute and Merlin can barely contain the tide of affection swamping his insides. He steps closer, and slides his arms around Arthur’s slightly stiff shoulders.

“It’s okay to be nervous,” Merlin says softly. “But it’s just me. And we won’t do anything you don’t want.”

“I’m not nervous,” Arthur protests. “And I know that, I trust you.”

 But, close as they are, Merlin can feel the wild beat of his heart, the fine tremor of his hands, see that slight flutter of his eyelashes.

Merlin kisses him, soft and lingering, brushing back golden fringe, before pulling back a little once more.

“Do you want to go first?”

But Arthur, the chivalrous idiot, just shakes his head. 

“You go on. Just…have you something I can wear?”

Merlin smiles and kisses him again, brief and sweet, before detangling himself and going on the hunt for some loose loungewear Arthur can wear to sleep. He also fishes out a towel and a spare toothbrush while he’s at it, handing the bundle off to Arthur.

“Here. I’ll only be a minute. Just make yourself comfortable.” Merlin smiles sheepishly. “The mattress is actually really nice.”

Arthur looks unconvinced, but Merlin isn’t worried. He’ll find out soon enough, when Merlin pins him down on it and-

Okay, not helping.

Calling his mind to heel, Merlin makes quick work of collecting some clothes of his own and squeezing into the tiny shower. Yeah, they definitely would’ve had trouble fitting in here. Not that Merlin isn’t willing to make an effort, but he doubts Arthur would appreciate it very much. And considering the kind of bathroom he’s used to, Merlin can’t even blame him.

He does his best to avoid his still extremely excited dick, scrubbing himself briskly in order to get back to Arthur as quickly as possible. Afterwards, he brushes his teeth and quickly checks his jaw for stubble, but his regular shaving spell is still holding strong.

“You were right,” Arthur says, lying at the foot of the bed stripped of his pretentious jacket and shiny shoes. “This thing is practically sinful. Whatever you’ve done to it, you’ll repeat it on our bed at the Palace. That’s a royal decree, by the way.”

Merlin tries his best not to melt into formless goo at the casual reference to ‘our bed’, despite the fact that Merlin hasn’t spent a single moment in it in almost two months.

“Of course, Your High and Mightiness,” Merlin says, reusing an old favourite, and whacking Arthur’s jean-clad thigh with his towel. “Your turn. It’s much easier to appreciate the mattress when you’re lying on it properly. And with less clothing.”

The flush is almost instantaneous, but there’s nothing bashful in the way Arthur pins him with a hungry stare. Merlin has to force himself to step away, the temptation to simply climb on top of Arthur right this second too much to bear.

Biting his lip, Merlin hastily turns his back and busies himself with hanging up the damp towel. Behind him, Arthur clears his throat and Merlin hears him getting up and moving across the room with a mumbled assurance.

Left alone, Merlin takes a moment to gather his wits. He rubs a hand through his still wet hair, then decides fuck it and flops down onto the mattress. With Kilgharrah absent, Merlin takes advantage and starfishes himself across it, his shirt riding up in a messy tangle as he wriggles around to get more comfortable.

He tries to adjust his hard-on, both for comfort as well as not to poke Arthur’s eye out the second he comes out of the bathroom. It’s not being particularly cooperative, but there’s little else Merlin can do about it.

Arthur emerges smelling, instead of his posh shampoo, of the herbal concoctions Gaius always foists on him. Somehow even that manages to smell better on him than Merlin ever thought possible.

Dropping the bunched-up towel like the spoiled brat he is, Arthur does something similar with his no doubt ridiculously expensive clothes, before striding to the bed as though he’s about to ride off to war. Merlin smiles up at him, collecting some of his limbs and patting the space at his side.

Arthur follows the invitation and there’s no hesitation in the way he tugs Merlin close to him. Merlin folds himself around him easily, sliding one of his legs around Arthur to better slot them together, thigh hitched to Arthur’s hip.

“Hey,” Merlin murmurs, smiling what has to be the most besotted smile.

But Arthur returns it with a dopey one of his own and it instantly makes Merlin feel less dumb, warmth tangling with the golden coils of his magic as both unfold within his chest. A few brave ones reach towards Arthur, buzzing with the need to curl around him. Gods, his magic is a horny tentacle monster.

“I can feel it,” Arthur says softly, sounding awed. “Your magic. It’s reaching out to me. Does that…does that happen with everyone?”

Merlin laughs a little, not at Arthur’s question, but the incredulity of it all.

“Definitely not,” he says. “It’s never done this before, actually. And when I do this-” Merlin directs one of the tendrils into a more deliberate movement, ghosting along Arthur’s side and making him shiver. “You shouldn’t even be able to feel it.”

Arthur frowns. “Why’s that?”

“Because only MUs can feel magical energy like this.”

The silence that follows is strangely heavy. Merlin carefully studies Arthur’s face, waiting him out.

“You don’t think,” Arthur finally says, hesitant. “That I’m like Morgana, do you?”

Merlin lets out a breath and shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

Stroking Merlin’s thigh absently, Arthur looks lost in his head for a moment. But Merlin is in no hurry, taking instead full advantage of having Arthur so close, running his fingers over the muscles in his arm, a palm across his chest, feeling warm skin beneath the thin fabric of the t-shirt.

It’s all very soothing, almost hypnotic, and Merlin has largely lost the strand of their conversation by the time Arthur speaks again.

“When you told me about Nimueh, you mentioned prophecies.” He looks at Merlin, hand stilling, eyes strangely intent. “Morgana told me something similar. About me and you. Do you think it’s true?”

Merlin curls his fingers into Arthur’s shirt, not particularly thrilled about the topic, but knowing they must discuss it at some point. He thinks darkly of his last encounter with Nimueh, her ominous parting words.

“I don’t know,” he says eventually, picking his words with care. “But destinies can be troublesome things. They can make you feel trapped, like your whole life is being planned out for you and you've got no control over anything, and sometimes you don't even know if what destiny decided is really the best thing at all.”

Arthur gives him a strange look, somewhere between awed and puzzled.

“Sometimes I do wonder about you, Merlin.”

Merlin grins. “Good. Wouldn’t do for you to get bored.”

“I don’t think we’re in any danger of that,” Arthur says drily, then sobers. “So you think we should…ignore it?”

“Not ignore it, per se, just not-” Merlin licks his lips, casting around for the right words. “Let it get to us. You know?”

He brushes back Arthur’s fringe, then traces the bridge of his nose all the way to his lips. Arthur kisses his fingertip, making Merlin smile and stupidly squirmy inside.

“Clearly you’re the expert here.” Arthur’s tone is mocking, but his smile is bright as he gently tackles Merlin onto his back on the mattress. Merlin laughs, wrapping arms and legs around him and pulling him close. “So I’ll have to defer to your judgement.”

And then Arthur is kissing him and the sassy reply Merlin prepared turns into a breathless moan, Arthur’s tongue sliding into his mouth and making him forget everything else. 

Merlin drags him deeper into it, swallowing Arthur’s hungry little sound. Time stretches and warps around them and suddenly it’s as if the long wait between their heated humping at the Grind never even happened, the returning wave of arousal crashing over Merlin with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs.

Latching onto Arthur’s lower lip, Merlin sucks hungrily, even as his fingers scrabble for the hem of Arthur’s shirt, desperate to finally feel his skin. It’s hot and impossibly soft, but there’s no feverish burn this time, no reason why Merlin should stop his hands from greedily running over every inch of Arthur’s broad back, feeling muscles shift and tremble beneath his touch.

“I want-” Merlin mumbles into Arthur’s mouth, tugging sharply at his shirt. “Can we- Off?”

Arthur’s lips drop to Merlin’s neck, the teeth-edged suck of his mouth making Merlin arch and his dick jerk and weep with renewed fervour. Months-long frustration rises, unleashed, giving everything an almost painful edge.

Their hips meet, jerky and rhythmless but so fucking good it makes Merlin’s vision blur. He whimpers, spreads his thighs wider, grabbing onto the meat of Arthur’s arse to drag him down sharply, feels the magically moulding bed fit to his body, the curve of his back.

Arthur reclaims his mouth messily, their lips clinging to each other even as Merlin tries to tell him again, “Arthur, the shir-ah fuck.”

“Fuck,” Arthur echoes, his fingers now following the shape of Merlin’s hard dick, thumbing at the head and smearing even more wetness into the fabric. “I can feel how wet you are.” 

Merlin moans and it seems to bring Arthur back from his daze, because he suddenly hesitates, murmuring, “Sorry, is this- Can I-?”

Merlin pushes against his hand, trying his best to convey that fuckyespleasemore.

“Yes,” he gasps, the hem of Arthur’s shirt straining at his rough tug. “But, please, your skin- Want to feel your-”

Arthur pulls away, wrenching off his shirt, before coming back to yank at Merlin’s own.

“You too.”

Merlin complies and together they strip it off him. Unable to wait just a moment longer, Merlin launches himself into Arthur’s waiting arms, toppling them into the sheets upside down and not giving a single toss.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he moans, rubbing against Arthur and doing his best to put his mouth everywhere at once. He buries his face in Arthur’s sweaty neck, finding his scent under the herby smell of his own soap. “Missed you so much.”

Arthur holds him tightly, tight enough to make Merlin’s ribs protest, but Merlin only wishes they could be closer. That only if they held on tightly enough, they could transcend the pesky barrier of skin and sinew and meld together for good. Merlin’s magic, free from such mortal restrictions, dives in with vibrating fervour, making Arthur shudder and gasp as it coils tight and loving somewhere deep and fundamental.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Merlin says, a little dazed and overwhelmed by the intensity. “I didn’t mean to-”

“No,” Arthur murmurs, and drags him in for a deep, reassuring kiss. “I mean, it’s good. It…feels like you.”

Merlin cups his jaw, looking down into passion-darkened, but clear eyes. “It is me.”

“Then I want it,” Arthur says quietly. “Just like every other part of you.”

Eyes burning stupidly, Merlin kisses him, kisses his next words right into Arthur’s welcoming mouth, “It’s yours, all of it, everything.” 

The familiar feel of Arthur’s hand, loving and possessive, helps to ground Merlin in the moment, even as his magic flares anew, wriggling even deeper, coiling tighter. They rub against each other with escalating desperation, Arthur’s free hand sliding up Merlin’s thigh, boldly reaching past the loose hem of his boxers to get to undiscovered skin.

It makes them pull tight around his achingly hard dick, creating a strange pleasure-pain as the seam cuts into him. Arthur tugs on the fabric. Merlin moans.

“Off.” This time it’s Arthur who demands it. “Want you naked.” He sucks at Merlin’s earlobe, breath coming in hot bursts as he confesses, “It’s all I could think about when you were in my bed each night.”

“You’re one to talk,” Merlin pants, even as he obediently tries to struggle free of his sticky boxers. “With your plunging necklines and your perfect nipples showing through that fucking white shirt of yours.”

Arthur laughs, the edges of it caught on a moan, as Merlin finally frees himself and presses, fully naked, against him.

“Perfect nipples?” he rasps, still laughing a little incredulously.

“Shut up, they are,” Merlin insists, into Arthur’s skin, trailing his lips down to one of said perfect nipples, pressing a little kiss to it and feeling Arthur shiver. “Look at them, they’re so cute, and pink, and-”

He interrupts his own rhapsodising by closing his lips over the tiny nub, no longer able to resist.

“You are,” Arthur moans as Merlin tongues it into delicious stiffness. “So bloody weird- fu-ahck, do that again.”

Merlin does it again, breathless and loopy from how much this is turning him on, his dripping dick smearing pre-come against Arthur’s thigh as they rock together.

Arthur writhes, back bowing as he pushes into Merlin’s mouth, fingers digging in sharply as he stutters out another gasping moan. Merlin pulls off with a wet sound, only to move to the other one, this time latching on with a tight suck just as his thumb slides in the wetness left behind from his mouth on the abandoned nipple.

Arthur jerks under him, his bitten off keen the hottest fucking thing Merlin has ever heard.

“Merlin,” Arthur rasps, fingers tightening on the nape of Merlin’s neck, urging him further up his body. “Please.”

Merlin follows the quiet urging, nipping at Arthur’s shoulder and pressing a lingering kiss to his neck, asking, “Please, what?”

“Want to touch you before I come,” Arthur murmurs, colour high on his cheeks.

Merlin surges up to kiss him, fingers hooking into the only remaining barrier between them, but doesn’t yet tug, taking the time to pull back enough to look into Arthur’s eyes.

“Is it okay to take these off?”

And it’s not like Merlin has ever been completely naked with another person before - well, except Will when they were five, but that certainly doesn’t count. But at least he’s had more exposure than Arthur, and though he’s never noticed him being particularly shy with his body, it’s a little different exposing yourself when you’re vulnerable.

But Arthur’s nod is unhesitant, and when Merlin gives the first gentle tug, exposing an inch of new skin, Arthur arches his hips so Merlin can help him wriggle out of the offending garment.

Arthur’s cock is painfully hard, foreskin all the way retracted around the angrily flushed tip, a sheen of pre-come clinging to his slit. Merlin doesn’t quite recognise the sound that leaves him as he thinks about how much he wants to touch it, put his mouth on it, ride it - fucking anything, everything.

He touches him gently, the skin soft and impossibly hot, delicately tracing the tight ring of Arthur’s foreskin. Arthur shudder, letting out a bitten back moan even as he pushes up into Merlin’s touch.

“You’re so beautiful,” Merlin says, hushed, and watches Arthur’s flush deepen.

Arthur catches his hand and pulls him back in, thighs falling open wider to settle Merlin between his legs. He’s still unprepared for how fucking amazing it feels when their hard dicks meet, the copious wetness of Merlin’s own turning their involuntary jerk of hips into a hot, slick grind that has them both forgetting about any possible plans for a moment.

Leaning down for a series of messy kisses, full of moans and tongue, Merlin can’t help circling his hips a few times, managing to get the angle to be fuck yes just like this and seriously considering if he should just keep rubbing himself off into a no doubt earth shattering orgasm on Arthur’s gorgeous dick.

But Arthur said he wants to touch him, and Merlin wants to give him everything, so if that’s what Arthur wants, Merlin is going to give it to him. 

Dipping his tongue into Arthur’s mouth for a last, drugging caress, Merlin pulls back enough to say, “You can touch me, if you want.”

Arthur blinks up hazily for a moment, then licks his lips and nods.

Merlin smiles, trailing his fingers along Arthur’s heaving chest, dick throbbing at the sight of Arthur’s nipples hardening without even a direct touch. It takes everything he has not to bend his mouth to them once again.

Whether unconsciously or not, Arthur mirrors the touch on Merlin’s chest, running the back of his knuckles slowly down from his breastbone all the way to his navel, leaving a trail of tingling sparks which sets each of Merlin’s nerve endings alight.

Turning his hand, Arthur is careful to avoid where Merlin’s straining dick is pressed up against his stomach. Instead, he uses his forefinger, sliding it through the wet mess of pre-come left behind, then gently rims Merlin’s navel. Merlin bites back a breathy moan, watching Arthur’s eyes flickering between Merlin’s face and where his fingers are now lingering hesitantly.

Leaning in, Merlin nuzzles Arthur’s temple, kissing his cheek, the corner of his mouth, tongue only barely tasting. Arthur sighs, lips parting and Merlin follows them with his own, tongue flicking out against the seam, before Arthur tilts his head and slots them properly together with a small, hungry noise.

Merlin kisses him slowly, free hand reaching down to caress the fingers now drawing small, hesitant circles just where skin turns to trimmed hair. Never breaking the kiss, Merlin guides him gently, both their moans muffled between clinging lips at Arthur’s first, delicate touch to Merlin’s achingly hard dick.

“Okay?” Merlin murmurs, biting back a gasp as Arthur’s fingers twitch and finally, curiously, wrap around him in a careful hold.

Arthur pulls back slightly. “Shouldn’t I be asking that?”

Merlin grins, turning to nip gently at Arthur’s jaw and giving a gentle thrust into Arthur’s grip, feeling it tighten instinctively. He buries his moan in Arthur’s neck.

“Believe me,” Merlin gasps, thrusting again, Arthur’s palm growing slick with the almost indecent amount of wetness welling up. “It’s- fuck- a lot better than okay-mh, yes like that.”

Arthur obediently repeats the firm stroke from root to tip, squeezing gently at the base, angle slightly awkward and unpracticed. It’s still one of the best things Merlin’s ever felt, simply for the fact that it’s Arthur. He could probably poke him and call him animal names and Merlin would still love it.

It makes Merlin snicker stupidly, breath stuttering weirdly around a moan when Arthur, growing increasingly more confident, slightly speeds up his strokes.

“What’s so funny?” Arthur murmurs, sounding a little affronted.

Merlin props himself up on his arms, still laughing breathlessly, while his hips, which clearly have a mind of their own, keep pushing greedily into Arthur’s touch.

“Sorry,” Merlin gasp-laughs. “I just thought of you calling me animal names.”

Arthur’s hand stops, eyebrows shooting up. “Is that…a kink I should know about?”

Which, of course, makes Merlin only lose it more.

“I don’t think so,” he giggles. “Not yet, anyway.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I really don’t know what I expected with you.”

Merlin sobers a little, a sudden, spiky ball of anxiety landing in his gut.

“Is that a bad thing?”

Arthur’s whole face softens and he lets go of Merlin, only to wrap him tightly into his arms, leaving a series of tender kisses on Merlin’s neck and shoulder.

“Of course not,” he says softly. “Never bored, remember?”

Merlin draws back, then kisses him properly, getting a little lost in the soft heat of his mouth.

“If not animal names,” Arthur murmurs eventually. “Then is there anything else you’d like?”

Merlin huffs another laugh, kissing Arthur again, then says, “Are you asking me about my fantasies?”

“If I ask, will you tell me?”

“Mh,” Merlin hums, nuzzling back into Arthur’s neck, their bodies slotting easily together. “There is one thing.”

It’s a little frightening, how comfortable they are with each other, despite the fleeting bits of awkwardness here and there. It’s as though they’ve already done this a million times, seamlessly going from intense arousal, to gentle passion, to silliness. It’s strange and chaotic and his dick might actually fall off with how often it’s been driven to the brink of release tonight - not to mention the countless months of frustration - but Merlin can’t bring himself to think of it as anything else than perfect.

“What is it?” Arthur prompts, dragging Merlin out of his head.

Leaving a cluster of uncoordinated kisses along Arthur’s jaw and neck, Merlin says, “It’s from when I was wanking myself stupid in your bathroom, actually.”

“Oh?” Arthur asks, clearly intrigued.

They’ve picked up their slow, intent grind from before, hard cocks flush as they rub together with renewed heat. This time, Merlin knows there’ll be no stopping, can feel it in the way his magic is strung taut, the way Arthur’s kisses have turned hungrier and more often edged with a hint of teeth.

“I’d just left your bed,” Merlin murmurs, grinding down. “You were pretending to be asleep, but I knew you were faking it, because you were pushing this-” He lets his free hand slide up Arthur’s thigh until he finds the delicious curve of his arse, squeezing firmly and making Arthur writhe. “Into my very hard dick and severely testing my resolve.”

Arthur’s own hands slide down, grabbing firmly onto Merlin’s arsecheeks and pulling him deeper into the next thrust, the movement forcing Merlin’s cheeks to part in a shockingly filthy and unexpected way, pulling faintly at his rim and exposing him to the cooling night air.

“Fuck,” he moans, magic surging and pinning Arthur to the bed as he ruts against him, mouths clashing as Arthur arches and pulls him close, closer, fingers slipping deeper, straying dangerously close to Merlin’s suddenly very interested hole. 

If they hadn’t already been messing about for an unbearable amount of time, Merlin would show Arthur the spell he’d perfected when he’d been a horny, bored adolescent in Ealdor. Something to make you wet and pliant and ready to be stuffed full. Just the thought of having Arthur’s fingers makes him go a little unhinged with want.

“What then?” Arthur asks, voice gravelly and teeth sharp and brief on Merlin’s jaw.

“I imagined us just like this,” Merlin pants, everything growing slicker and hotter and slicker and hotter with every greedy thrust of their hips. “And then, you- fuck- you said-”

But the thought stutters and fizzles at the feeling of the head of Arthur’s dick catching against his own yes just so and the sight of his wet, open mouth making the most beautiful, wanton sounds. Merlin echoes a moan, then dips down to draw that red, shiny bottom lip between his teeth, Arthur’s teeth answering in kind, before the bite turns into slick tongues and greedy mouths vibrating with hungry moans.

“C’mon,” Arthur murmurs around another deep groan, fingers digging bruise-deep into Merlin’s arse as he bucks wildly to meet him, desperation permeating the air around them like the static buzz of a coming storm. “Fuck, Merlin, c’mon, want to feel it all over me-” 

They both moan, Merlin barely able to survive his fantasy come to life.  

“Fuck, Arthur yes, fuck,” he whines senselessly, balls drawing tight and slick spreading between them as though he’s already come, but he hasn’t, he’s so fucking close, yes, just a little- just-

“Now, Merlin,” Arthur orders, posh and wrecked all at the same time, one hand releasing Merlin’s arse to curl hot and possessive around the nape of Merlin’s neck, gripping tightly and bringing him down far enough for Arthur’s murmured words to rush over him and sink straight into his bones. “Come for me.”

And Merlin does, hips jerking and wail only barely muffled in Arthur’s neck as magic explodes from his very core. In the distance, something shatters and breaks, lights flickering wildly for a moment, before plunging them into darkness, but Merlin doesn’t care, barely even notices, not when Arthur is biting at his shoulder, and flying apart in his arms, swept along by magic and the feeling of hot come turning everything even slicker and better between them.

Merlin finds his mouth blindly, both of them still shuddering, cocks still jerking, hunger barely even blunted.

It’s the magic, Merlin thinks wildly, just as another wave hits, sending his orgasm into another soul-shattering round and dragging Arthur along, moaning and writhing, clutching at Merlin almost tight enough to hurt.

He’d be worried, but just then he hears Arthur’s breathless fuck yes in his ear and relinquishes the last shred of control to the golden tide, come to sweep them both away.

“So, just so I know,” Arthur’s muffled mumble comes from where his head is half-buried under Merlin’s chest. “Is this going to happen every time? Because I’m not sure I’ll survive.”

Merlin would move, but his bones have melted and his muscles are still trembling too much to do anything. So after making sure he’s not suffocating Arthur, his shaky arm flops down over Arthur’s shoulders, fingers weakly curling into the ends of Arthur’s still sweat-damp hair.

“I think there might’ve been some pent-up frustration,” Merlin slurs, the act of forming words a chore strenuous enough to rival digging in the mines for coal.

“You think?” Arthur shoots back dryly, voice hoarse and exhausted. There’s a small, tired brush of fingers along Merlin’s spine. “Does that mean we have to do it more often in order for it to not kill us?”

Merlin hums absently, nuzzling the golden silk at his nose that turns out to be the top of Arthur’s head.

“Better had.” He’d be smiling but even that is too much effort. “Just to make sure, of course. As a matter of national security.”

Arthur lets out a tired, raspy chuckle and Merlin finds the energy to curl closer, even as his eyes drift shut and his mind pulls at him, demanding sleep.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks, dragging Merlin from the edge of oblivion.

“Mh?” Merlin mumbles.

“I know everything’s a little messy now,” Arthur says, sounding far too awake and too grave considering the earlier atmosphere. “And there’s not that much I can do just yet, but I’d like to keep trying. Do you think-” He clears his throat. “I mean, will you help me?”

It takes rather an embarrassing amount of time for it to click. Arthur is talking about politics, about curbing his father’s relentless thirst to oppress all things magic.

Merlin’s heart swells, magic pulsing and latching onto Arthur gently.

“Arthur, you don’t have to ask,” he says, absolute certainty fortifying his voice. “No matter what happens, I’m going to be at your side, like I always am. Protecting you.”

And even as he says it, Merlin knows that this, more than anything, is his oath; to his King, but, most importantly of all, to Arthur.

Because fate apparently loves irony, two weeks later find Merlin more or less where everything had started - at that stupidly posh club from his very first official outing as Arthur’s fake boyfriend. Fortunately, this time there’s nothing fake about his status and he’s learned some time ago not to freeze up in the face of flashes and excited waving and cheering. 

It’s rather frightening how quickly he’s become used to it, how little his time away matters, how easy it is to paste on a smile and raise his hand as he steps aside to make room for Freya, Will and Gwen to scramble out of the limo behind him.

Mithian, Elena and Gwaine emerge from a second car, and the Knights have already fanned out, though with each of them laughing and chatting as part of the bigger group, their entrance is looking a lot less official than usual.

Upon catching sight of each other, Freya and Gwaine instantly throw themselves into each other’s arms like long-lost siblings. 

They perform their usual, complicated handshake sequence, ending in a loud bellow of, “Slags unite!” that has Merlin hide his face in Arthur’s shoulder and groan.

“I don’t know them.”

Arthur throws his head back and laughs, then wraps an arm around him.

Unlike last time, Arthur doesn’t instantly march them straight towards the entrance, instead taking the time to bully Merlin into posing for a few m-graphs and selfies. 

Once inside, it quickly becomes obvious that they’ll definitely need all of the space this time. The force field around the booth helps create a somewhat raucous bubble where everyone is constantly changing seats (or laps) and shouting over each other. Pools of spilled drink are forming more and more little lakes on the table as glasses keep getting knocked by flailing limbs.

At the far end, a space has been cleared for Elena and Percy, who are on their third round of arm wrestling amid wild cheering and cursing as bets are won and lost.

Merlin, who got sucked in despite his better judgement, has just finished reluctantly transferring Gwen the credits he lost, when Arthur’s arm snakes around him from behind, his chin finding a place on Merlin’s shoulder.

“When you’re done betting the shirt off your back, come dance with me?”

Merlin puts away his comm and turns, pressing a quick kiss to Arthur’s lips, before grabbing his hand.

“Lead the way.”

Which of course ends up with half the table suddenly wanting to join them. Freya and Gwaine are already heatedly discussing amorous partners, while Will is being dragged along by an already shimmying Elyan. Elena and Percy, who seem to have abandoned their wrestling efforts due to their decline in audience, are the last to follow.

Soon, however, he and Arthur are lost in the crowd, hips following the beat of the music in a slow grind. It doesn’t take long for it to get a little out of control, Merlin’s hands buried under Arthur’s fancy shirt to feel naked skin, and Arthur’s palm firm at the nape of Merlin’s neck as they angle their heads to exchange increasingly heated kisses.

When Merlin’s fingers graze Arthur’s nipples, Arthur shudders and draws back, eyes dark even in the flashing lights around them.

“Please don’t make me come on the dance floor,” he rumbles into Merlin’s ear, even as he rides Merlin’s thigh for more friction.

“Mh, I don’t know,” Merlin hums, kissing a soft earlobe. “The headlines would be hilarious. Crown Prince comes to club with Country Consort.”

He snickers at his own joke, while his thumb does admittedly rather indecent things to Arthur’s right nipple. Arthur shudders and Merlin can practically feel his dick jerking against his thigh.

“It’s going to be Crown Prince Covers Country Consort in Come if you don’t stop that, ” Arthur warns, breathless.

Merlin grins and pulls him closer. “Is that supposed to deter me?”

Arthur bites his neck, clearly meant as a reprimand, but his aim is off and instead it ends up only turning Merlin on more. Making Arthur come on the dance floor seems suddenly very appealing.

“You do realise you’re still in public, right?” Will asks suddenly from somewhere far too close for comfort.

Merlin draws back and scowls at him. Next to him, Freya delivers a healthy punch to Will’s arm.

“Ow!” he cries dramatically. “What the fuck, Freya!”

Freya looks not the least bit repentant.

“You deserved it, you muppet! I was enjoying the show!”

Will glares at her. “Well I could do without seeing my best friend defiling the Crown Prince before my eyes!”

Merlin snorts. “You’re one to bloody talk. I still remember when I walked in on you and whatsherface hanging upside down, roleplaying as-”

Will clamps a hand over Merlin’s mouth.

“I’m fucking disowning you,” he hisses.

Merlin grabs his wrist and twists free of his sweaty grip, giving him a shove as he wipes his mouth.

“And how is that going to work, exactly? If I remember correctly I’m the one who made you rich.”

He gives a meaningful nod at his feet, ratty canvas high-tops now replaced by a pair from Will’s special edition ones, hues of purple and blue accompanied by a burst of stars. On the sides above the ankle, a big, sparkly ‘M’ stands out in relief against the fabric. Will calls them his Magic Merlin series; limited edition of course.

The fact that Merlin actually wears Will’s stupid models makes them one of the most-bought and sought-after fashion items ‘this season’. Merlin has no doubt that Will will go on to dazzle the public for many more ‘seasons’ and dreads what he’ll cook up next.

“Fuck you, you tosser,” Will grouses, ever the grateful one.

Merlin rolls his eyes, then smirks.

“No thanks, the position is already taken.”

And, of course, Will doesn’t disappoint, instantly putting on some kind of flail-armed, dramatic shudder spectacle.

“Ew!” he wails, loud enough to pierce the deafening music all around them. “I fucking hate you!”

Merlin cackles and wraps himself around Arthur once more, feeling him shake with laughter.

He’s still chortling some moments later, when he leans in to speak against Merlin’s ear.

“Merlin?”

Merlin brushes back his slightly sweaty fringe and raises his eyebrows in askance.

“Mh?”

Arthur looks conflicted for a moment, then, grimacing, asks, “I know I’m going to regret this, but what were whatsherface and Will roleplaying as?”

A slow, wide smirk pulls at his lips and, tasting sweet revenge, Merlin tugs Arthur close, puts his mouth to his ear, and tells him.

“Have you seen my jacket?”

Merlin watches, amused, as Arthur turns in a circle, like a dog chasing its tail. He’s dishevelled in that subtle, poised way he gets when he’s stressed. Merlin takes pity on him after a moment, picking up the jacket in question from where Arthur had flung it before.

“It’s here.”

Merlin holds it out for him. Arthur looks up, tight jaw relaxing slightly with relief. He crosses the room, looking grateful as he slips his arms into the sleeves. That done he turns back around and Merlin reaches up to smooth his palms across his shoulders, then tugs the collar into place, pretentious thing that it is.

Arthur gives himself a critical look.

“How do I look?” he asks, fiddling with the sleeves and yanking at the hem, making golden buckles clink in protest.

Merlin pretends to give this some thought.

“Like a prat,” he says finally, then grins and draws Arthur close, planting a quick kiss on his scowling mouth. “My prat, though.”

Arthur sighs, forehead coming to rest on Merlin’s only slightly less pretentious looking coat-robes-thing. The Royal Tailor apparently had had a vision, letting his creativity run wild by ‘marrying royal dress with formal mage robes’.

Merlin almost sinks his fingers into Arthur’s hair, then remembers it’s already been styled and sprayed and the Royal Stylist would have his head. He settles for cupping Arthur’s jaw instead, thumb rubbing soothing lines along his cheek.

“It’s going to be fine,” Merlin says softly. “I promise to keep us cool this time. Maybe I’ll even get to test that watersports kink of yours, though if my bladder bursts I’ll blame you.”

Arthur huffs a laugh and draws back. “Sometimes I get a little concerned about you.”

Merlin shrugs, grinning. “Still not bored, though.”

Arthur snorts, then leans in for a quick kiss.

“Impossible,” he says, then steps back. “C’mon, it’s time for the annual circus.”

Merlin raises his hands in loose fists and gives a mock-cheery wave.

“Yay,” he deadpans.

Arthur laughs and Merlin is pleased to see that he looks slightly more relaxed now.

They leave the sanctuary of their room, dodging harried servants and other officially hired staff bustling about with last-minute preparations. Hot summer air hits them in the face the moment they leave the perfectly environmentally-controlled Palace. 

Merlin grimaces. He has a feeling it’ll be even hotter this year. At least this time there’s no restriction to his cooling spells.

Almost immediately, Aithusa barrels into them from their left, nearly mowing them both over. She hasn’t quite grasped the concept yet that being the size of a pony means she can’t simply climb all over them anymore.

“Whoa!” Arthur exclaims, stumbling back.

Merlin’s magic catches him, keeping him upright, even as Aithusa stands up on hindlegs and sticks her snout into his face. Arthur rears back, laughing, and doing his best to both pet and bat her away at the same time.

“Yes, hello,” he says drily. “Not like you didn’t just see us half an hour ago.”

Aithusa chirps, deeper now, but still surprisingly high-pitched for her size.

“Playing favourites again,” Merlin says, mock-offended, folding his arms.

Aithusa makes an outraged little noise, then launches herself at Merlin, clearly determined to show that there’s no favourites here - even though Merlin knows very well that Arthur is, in fact, exactly that.

Merlin pats her head, chuckling, letting his gaze wander as he takes in this year’s spectacle.

The hover-platform is already there, has been since yesterday in order to put the decorations in place. On the platform, a scowling Catrina is watching on as Morgana bosses around a gaggle of servants, who are currently arranging long-stemmed gladioli in an eclectic array of colours.

“Fuck, I told her no bloody flowers!” Arthur grouses at his side.

Merlin tilts his head in contemplation. 

“At least there’s no peacocks?”

Arthur groans.

King Uther, easily recognisable by wearing by far the most pretentious set of clothing as well as his ceremonial crown, looks to be making his usual attempts to engage Morgana in smalltalk. But, while now on speaking terms, Morgana has been consistent in her cold shoulder. Not that Merlin blames her, of course.

No, his bitterness rather lies in the fact that the King is bending over backwards to welcome back his rebellious, MU daughter, while Arthur has been set as Enemy Number One, despite all attempts to accommodate his father.

But in King Uther’s eyes, his son has, for all ends and purposes, gelded him, and while no one dare say so, everyone knows it. He is King in name only, the majority of the ruling power now resting in Arthur’s hands. Despite letting not a single opportunity pass to stress his unshakable anti-magic stance, he knows as well as anyone that if he tried to interfere with the ever-lightening laws around MUs, Merlin would set his bed on fire.

Speaking of fires.

Merlin looks up at the bright, summer sky, shielding his eyes as he scans past the turrets of the Palace. As if on cue, he spots the unmistakable movement of flapping wings, a great shape making a tight, neat circle above them, before adjusting its path and drawing closer. Gliding past the empty space above the Palace, the wings start batting faster as strong, clawed hindlegs push forward in anticipation of a smooth landing.

All around them, people less familiar with the general goings-on at the Palace, scatter in alarm, some letting out little squeaks of terror.

Kilgharrah, now bigger than even the golden holo-dragon used to be, folds his wings and snorts, smoke curling artfully from his nostrils. Still the same diva.

“Right on time,” Merlin says, grinning, just as Aithusa throws herself herself at her new victim.

It’s always funny to see the exasperated but secretly pleased expression on Kilgharrah’s face when Aithusa starts to flap at and climb on him.

“Hello, Kilgharrah,” Arthur says absently, attention trained on his comm, where Merlin can see a flood of unmistakably George-shaped messages rapidly filling the screen.

“Young Pendragon,” Kilgharrah greets in his usual, solemn way.

Merlin pokes at one huge, scaly leg. 

“Thought I might have to drag you here by the tail.”

Kilgharrah makes an affronted sound and Arthur snorts a laugh.

“Now that would’ve made for a spectacle, alright,” he says, putting away his comm. “Is everyone ready? George informed me we’re due for take-off.”

Merlin, as always, laughs at the expression, somehow unable to stop imagining the stupid, pompous platform being rocket-launched into space. He certainly wouldn’t miss it. And neither would Arthur, he knows.

Kilgharrah lets out another long-suffering sigh.

“If we must,” he says mournfully.

“Believe me, I’m about as excited as you are,” Merlin says.

“Come along, then, little one,” Kilgharrah says to Aithusa.

She stills in her enthusiastic acrobatics and looks from Merlin to Arthur.

“Go on,” Arthur says with an encouraging smile. “You can come join us on the platform if you get tired.”

Aithusa chirps, then swoops down for a final round of affectionate, if bone-rattling, headbutts, before using Kilgharrah as a springboard to take off. Kilgharrah scowls, unfolding his own wings.

“Keep an eye out, yeah?” Merlin says softly, unbidden worry gnawing at him despite everything.

Kilgharrah nods, as good a promise as any, waiting for Merlin and Arthur to retreat a few steps before launching himself into the air.

They’d taken all the possible precautions to prevent what happened last year from happening again. But despite all that, and the fact that Merlin is now unrestrained and more powerful than ever, he can’t help remembering the all-encompassing terror of almost losing Arthur a year ago today.

Mordred and Nimueh are still out there, still unsatisfied despite the positive changes. By all reports, the rebels are losing support and Merlin can’t imagine either of them being happy about it. It must not sit well with them to see their chances of taking control dwindling in front of their eyes, especially now that they know for sure they won’t be able to lure Merlin back onto their side.

“Do you think she’ll grow as big as Kilgharrah?” Arthur asks, breaking into his thoughts.

Merlin follows his gaze, seeing that both dragons have fallen into a loose formation.

He shakes his head. “Who knows. Only time will tell.” 

They watch them for another moment, before Merlin tears away to himself to glance at Arthur, leaning to nudge their shoulders together.

“C’mon,” he says. “We’ll be late. I can already see your father’s eyes bugging out as he tries not to go off on me.”

Arthur wrinkles his brow. “My father’s eyes do not bug.”

Merlin laughs. “Oh, yeah they do. He’s secretly terrified Kilgharrah will roast him on the spot if he disagrees too much with me. It’s rather satisfying.”

Arthur sighs, falling into step with him. “Do try to show at least a little respect. He is still the King.”

Merlin shakes his head, catching Arthur’s gaze and holding it firmly.

“He was never my King,” he says, voice low and heavy with intent. “That position is already taken. Permanently.”

And when a slow, awed smile pulls at Arthur’s lips, it puts the sun above them to shame.

Returning it with a beaming one of his own, Merlin reaches for Arthur’s hand just as they reach the stairs. Arthur squeezes back tightly, callouses rough and familiar, his grip unfaltering.

And then they take the climb, heads high and fingers twined.

Together.