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This isn’t how Arthur had planned to tell Merlin about the circumstances of his birth, but things being what they are—namely, that they’re both marooned on a narrow slice of land in the middle of the ocean with the sun beating on their skin and no fresh water in sight—and considering the approaching boat full of British naval officers coming to their rescue, Arthur frankly thinks Merlin is overreacting a bit to his rushed confession.
"Merlin, is the gun really necessary?"
Merlin’s fingers tightens over his pistol and he levels it to Arthur’s forehead. “Yes, it bloody is! I’ve a mind to shoot you now and take my chances with the British. They’ll probably kill me, but at least I’ll get the pleasure of shooting you myself, you filthy liar.”
"Your gun is still probably too wet for—"
"I’m willing to give it a go," Merlin grits through his teeth.
Arthur sighs. He knows he’s hurt Merlin, even if Merlin would never admit it, they’ve been together long enough for him to know. Arthur has loved Merlin’s face and body for even longer, he knows where to look to see the pain etched under the anger. The betrayal.
It’s true Arthur could have been a bit more honest, a bit sooner. There’d been dozens of occasions, stolen moments in taverns and seedy brothels, quiet nights alone of the ship deck, any moment where Merlin had curled himself around Arthur, where Arthur could have just told him, just pushed his confession into Merlin’s warm skin in a way that would have made him understand. He just—he’d needed time to figure it out, to make sure that Merlin wouldn’t run, would stay here, with him, with Arthur. Where he belonged.
"Merlin," he says, low. He can feel the fragility of the moment under his skin, and the low thrumming of fear in the pit of his stomach. Arthur almost wants to laugh. He can face battles and storms where the odds seem deeply against him, but he can’t face the idea of losing Merlin. Not like that time where he almost bled to death while trying to save Arthur, and certainly not like right now, just because Arthur was a coward, was too afraid.
He wraps his fingers around the barrel of Merlin’s gun and gently tugs it aside so that it’s not pointed at his head anymore and he can take a small step toward Merlin. Merlin resists for a moment, his eyes cold on Arthur, his mouth a grim line, nostrils flaring, and Arthur knows, even if they’re rushed with time, that he needs to make it right.
"I swear I would have told you. I wanted to. So many times." Merlin scoffs. "I wanted to. I just—I don’t know. I was scared, okay?” Merlin’s eyebrows raise in surprise and his face softens a little with it, so Arthur pushes, tries to make Merlin understand before he can talk himself into being angry again. “I never wanted to be that person, Merlin. I wanted Arthur Pendragon to stay dead. I don’t want to be him and everything that comes with it. I want—” Arthur took a deep breath. “I didn’t want to lose you,” he says, rushed, and he tries not to flinch as it sounds a bit pleading even to his ears. “Fuck, I can’t—You know that, right? You know that I need—That you’re—You know, right?”
He raises his head to look at Merlin. He’s still stiff, and his face is still lined with anger and hurt, but his gun is completely lowered, and Arthur takes it as a small victory that Merlin’s impulse to shoot Arthur has passed at least. Merlin searches Arthur’s eyes for something and Arthur lets him look, tries to silently convey how sorry he is. His skin itches with his own vulnerability and he hates it, he hates how raw he’s leaving himself right now, how easy it would be for Merlin to wound him, but he needs Merlin to see, to understand.
Merlin always needs to be handled with care, not because he’s fragile, but because he’s explosive. He’d rather punch Arthur on the jaw then talk with him, and he’d sooner walk away after shooting Arthur in the leg than admit that he’s hurt. So Arthur doesn’t push. He doesn’t have the time anyway.
“But no one needs to die here today, don’t you see?” he says, not getting closer to Merlin even though he really wants to. “I’ll tell them who I am. They’ll know about me. You can do whatever you want after. Just let me do this. We’re not going to die today, Merlin. Not like this.”
Merlin doesn’t say anything. His jaw works back and forth like he’s chewing and swallowing words he doesn’t want Arthur to hear. Arthur tries not to look at the horizon, at how close the boat coming towards them must be. This is more important.
"You could be lying,” Merlin says, and Arthur’s stomach drops to his feet. “How would they know? You could just be pretending to be Arthur Pendragon, beloved lost son to the Governor of Port Royal."
The last words are full of disdain, said in the same tone he always uses to mock all the rich, pompous arseholes prancing around the ports. The one Arthur’s used a dozen times with him, pretending like he had never been one of them. He’d never wanted to be one of them, though, but Arthur doubts Merlin would believe right now if he told him. Maybe later. If he’s lucky and Merlin hasn’t left him completely. Just the thought of it breaks something inside of him.
"They won’t take any chances. If anything, they’ll have to take me to my father. To make sure."
"They think you’re dead."
"Exactly. Why would I pretend to be a dead man?"
“Because you’re a goddamn idiot?”
Arthur can’t stop the soft laugh that escapes his lips, and he pinches them together as soon as it does, warily looking at Merlin. Relief floods him when Merlin just rolls his eyes at him, but Arthur knows the softening line of his neck, the way his shoulder relax infinitesimally.
Merlin tucks his pistol at his waist again. Arthur can’t help giving him a small smile and Merlin glares at him, but it lacks the heat, the fury of his earlier anger. He looks to the side and bites his lip, and says ”You should have told me,” sounding tired and bruised.
"I’m sorry." Arthur takes another step until he’s almost chest to chest with Merlin. He reaches out and carefully curls his fingers around Merlin’s forearm, rubbing the warm, sun-dry skin of it with his thumb "I really am. I’ll tell you everything once we’re in the clear, I swear. Absolutely everything. I’ll answer all your questions." Merlin doesn’t say anything, but leans a bit forward until Arthur can feel his breath across his collarbone. "I’ll even let you punch me a few times for good measure?"
Merlin snorts. “I don’t need your permission for that, your majesty,” he says, but he leans forward slightly and smiles.
"Good god, you’re going to be insufferable, aren’t you?"
"You deserve it."
“You can fuck me however you want then. Whatever you want. Anything you want, Merlin, please just—
“Yeah, alright, you dick.” He kicks Arthur lightly. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Arthur licks his lips. “Looking forward to it.”
“You say that now…”
Merlin looks at the ocean and Arthur follows his gaze. The boat’s much closer now.
“They’ll think we’re pirates,” Merlin says. “Only pirates get marooned like we are.”
“Well, they wouldn’t be wrong.” Arthur takes a quick step backwards to avoid Merlin’s punch, laughing, before straightening himself. “Even better, actually,” he says. “If I can’t convince them of who I am and they take us in as pirates, they’ll have to take us back to Port Royal so we can be tried and hung.”
“Ah, yes. Much better. What a wonderful plan.”
“Shut up. If they do, my father will be there. He’ll see me. I haven’t changed that much since he last saw me.”
Together they look at the boat getting closer and closer. The sun is high and the sea a brilliant turquoise shimmering under the cloudless skies. There’s a twinge in Arthur’s heart at the thought that he might never sail on it the way he used to. He can already feel himself be encaged by the close prospect of seeing his father again, of donning once more the skin of the man he left behind years before, the boy he used to be with a family name, and the duties and expectations attached to it. All of it sticks somewhere in his chest and makes it hard to breathe.
He looks sideways at Merlin, to his skin, tanned and cracking, his dark hair shining under the bright sun, to the strong slope of his nose and his full parted lips that he knows would taste vaguely like salt and sea and everything Arthur loves, and he promises himself that he’ll never go back. He’ll find a way to get them both out. He still has a ship, he still has money in his name somewhere. He’ll take it all, all of it, everything until it’s only him, the ocean, and Merlin.
"Who am I suppose to be then?" Merlin asks.
“Um?”
“Well, if you’re the lost son thought long dead, then who am I suppose to be?”
Arthur knocks Merlin’s shoulder with his and leans in to whisper in his ear, "why, my servant, of course,” before running down the short beach toward the boat, smiling at the sound of footsteps following him.
"I’m going to fucking kill you, Arthur.”