Archive of Our Own ^beta

It wasn’t often that Camelot held a ball. Feasts were plentiful, celebrations never-ending, it sometimes felt, but there was never usually… dancing. But tonight was special, and Arthur had apparently felt there should be dancing—though he himself was not very well-educated in the matter (a fact which he was loath to admit). 

He spent the night with Gwen, her skirt sweeping the floor, her smile encouraging a responsive one from him in turn, and Merlin spent the night on the sidelines, watching the dances transpire, a pitcher held in his hands at the ready. Nobody had much use for a drink while they were on the dance floor, though, and Merlin remained stationary until the nobles took a break and proclaimed how parched they had become. 

Arthur didn’t take a break. He was focused on his feet, on the steps he had to take, his grip on Gwen almost half-hearted in his concentration the longer they stayed at it. 

Merlin watched. Studied him, as if he wasn’t already memorized. Nights like tonight were painful—his arms wrapped around her waist, his chest nearly pressing against hers, some sort of practiced intimacy, a dance all of its own that Merlin had never experienced. He didn’t really want to, if it couldn’t be Arthur with whom he learned. 

The night seemed to carry on for ages. Arthur had told Merlin his feet were aching, but he wanted to give Gwen the night to dance as long as she wanted—and she wanted to dance as long as possible. That’s what she told him, anyway. Merlin heard her say it. Merlin saw Arthur nod and laugh and lead her to the floor. Merlin watched them, attached at the hip as the many hours crawled by.

People began to leave, trailing out the doors one-by-one, thanking Arthur, who had finally stopped waltzing, bidding farewell to his guests instead. Merlin was still standing by the wall, observing—only observing. 

Only servants were left after a while, and Gwen kissed Arthur on the cheek and told him she’s going straight to bed after such a long night. But, Thank you, Arthur—it was lovely. She left. Merlin was standing by the wall, as if his heart wasn't pounding, as if his heart wasn't breaking. 

Arthur noticed him. Something in his expression changed, though Merlin couldn’t put a finger on what it was, exactly. Arthur told the servants to leave him for the time being, and they scampered away through their many passages. Merlin was standing by the wall, waiting. 

“Was there something you needed, Sire?” Merlin asked, words clipped in an effort to sound natural. 

Arthur looked tired, and wary, and a little bit lost, in Merlin’s opinion. He wondered what Arthur was thinking of him.

Arthur took a breath in.

“Is it… normal… to wish you could do things entirely differently?” Arthur wondered, wandering closer and resting his back against the wall where Merlin also sagged. It was so quiet now.

“I think you’re supposed to. It’s human nature to wonder what if.”

Arthur’s mouth opened again, but no sound came out. He apparently didn’t want to say it, whatever it was. 

“Is something on your mind?” Merlin prompted gently. 

“You know I love Guenivere,” Arthur began. Merlin faltered, so he simply nodded in response. “But I’m beginning to wonder if I love her… in the right way.”

“What do you mean?”

“How do you know if you’re in love?” Arthur asked abruptly. 

Merlin hummed, pretending to be unbothered. “Hard to say. Being in love is messy, for sure. It feels as though you would give anything to make someone happy—give anything to be happy with them, together. To want to share things, to want to…” Merlin trailed off, unsure as to where he was trying to go with his speech. 

“That doesn’t really clear things up,” Arthur said bluntly. Merlin sighed. 

“Well, why all the questions?”

“I don’t think I’m in love with Gwen. I think I might be in love with somebody else.”

Merlin snuck a glance at Arthur, who was staring straight back at him, chewing on his lower lip.

“And who might that be?”

But Arthur seemed to be done talking for the moment, and made no move to reply. He pushed himself off the wall and wandered a few steps away, seemingly lost in thought.

“Arthur?” Merlin tried again, desperate. “Who is it?”

“Doesn’t matter now. Do you dance?”

“No,” Merlin said, his voice strained. “Never learned.”

But Arthur was holding out a hand, almost as if he were inviting Merlin onto the floor, almost as if he wanted to dance, and Merlin knew he shouldn’t take it, shouldn’t think that this meant anything, shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t—

Merlin took Arthur’s outstretched hand and let himself be drawn in, and that was that. He felt Arthur’s arm slink around his waist, just as he had seen him do with Gwen, and he inhaled sharply, their shirts brushing against each other, such a thin layer of armor between bare skin. 

Neither of them really knew how to dance. Neither of them wanted to say out loud that it was a bad idea, even though it was. Because it was so much more than a dance—it was a confession. And sometimes, confessions are better left unconfessed. 

Nevertheless, they held each other as close as they could, and they tried to put these matters out of their minds, and they wished that things were different, and they wondered what if. 

What if, what if, what if…

And when, so many years later, Merlin was left alone, standing by the lakeside, he was wondering; what if, what if, what if…