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It had been the worst of the worst of the worst days. The council had been on his ass about finding a bride, Mordred [who he’d appointed ambassador between Camelot and Druids] had been nagging him about hosting a festival for the upcoming harvest, Morgana had been Morgana, the knights had been utter children during training, and his Court Sorcerer had been nowhere to be found—useless as he was as a servant.
Needless to say, he was damn near seething by the time he got to his chambers that evening after supper. Ready to rip someone’s head off for even looking at him the wrong way. The guards, sensing his ire, stepped away from the doors they guarded at his approach. He couldn’t help but feel a flare of both pride and shame at the caution.
Arthur threw open his doors and stormed inside, wanting nothing more to grab the nearest breakable and slam it into the wall, before freezing at the sight he found before him.
Something hot thrummed in his veins and his nostrils flared with outrage and—maybe something else he couldn’t name. Or wouldn’t.
“Take that off.” The words came out strained and rough, through grit teeth and a clenched jaw. The power in his voice unmistakable, yet simultaneously muddied by a sort of weakness, though he wouldn’t admit it. Arthur’s fists were closed tight at his sides—too tight, but the familiar sting of nails digging into his palms barely registered.
A startled noise echoed through the room as Merlin spun around, wide eyed when he came to face Arthur standing across the room from him. He dropped the blade in his hand, and it went to show how far gone Arthur was that he didn’t even wince.
“What?” Merlin asked, though the word came out more like a laugh—confused and taken aback. It was like he hadn’t expected to be caught. Like his own chambers would be the last place Arthur would go.
The day had worn Arthur down further and further, though, and his patience was gone. Merlin’s usually endearing ignorance served as nothing but fuel to the livid fire in his belly.
“You heard me!” Arthur stormed across the room, face hot with rage, and grasped clumsily at the strap of the pauldron on Merlin’s shoulder. He tugged at it harsh and rough, his fingers slipping as he failed to pull the damn thing off. Finally, he shoved at Merlin’s shoulder before dropping his hands with a frustrated shout. “Take. It. Off!”
Merlin’s eyes went wide as the fullest moon, and he must have realised Arthur was not in the mood for teasing or screwing around, because he nodded fast and hastily began taking off the armour he’d donned himself with.
All of it.
He’d put all of it on. Arthur clenched his jaw so tight his teeth ground together as he processed the sight before him. It sent something familiar but at the same time unrecognisable sparking down his spine, and he found himself wanting to yell and scream and break things.
After he got Merlin out of that damned armour.
It was all that he could think about. Getting him out of it.
His breath came fast as Merlin gently set the last plate of armour on the table beside himself and made to remove the mail that he wore under it all. Something in Arthur’s chest jumped, though, and he shot out a hand—grabbing Merlin’s wrist.
“Wait,” he ordered, voice thick and low, “leave it on.”
The heat in his veins started to feel less like anger and more like something else, as Merlin faltered and looked at him. Deep eyes meeting light ones, confused but curious.
“Arthur?” Merlin asked, wary.
It wasn’t a tone Arthur found he liked directed at himself. Maybe now, though, it was earned. Maybe, Arthur thought as he tightened his grip on Merlin’s wrist and dragged him across the room until they reached a wall.
No, not earned.
It was deserved, he decided when he shoved Merlin back against the wall—relishing in the sharp gasp the action pulled from his lips.
Even all bulked up as he was, Arthur could still manhandle him into whatever place he wanted. And now, that was pressed between his body and the wall, chainmail rough rubbing against his front through his tunic, as he crashed his lips against a startled Merlin’s. His grip still tight on Merlin’s wrist as he pinned him to the wall.
The kiss was rough and violent and bruising—it was angry and biting. And Merlin fell into it within seconds, pressing forward into Arthur as he gasped against his lips. He was giving as good as he got, kissing Arthur as harsh as Arthur kissed him. Until he wasn’t. Until he was wrenching himself from Arthur’s grasp and spinning them around, pinning Arthur to the wall instead—who opened his eyes in shock just soon enough to see the gold fading from them. A giveaway Merlin had cheated in his manoeuvre.
Arthur moved to tug him into another kiss—thoughts hazy and blood hot—only to be stopped by a hand gripping his jaw tight.
Merlin’s eyes swirled with a wild mix of emotions, and his breath came audibly heavy. “Arthur. Arthur, what are you doing? What are we doing?”
And the words shouldn’t have hit them as hard as they did.
But they did.
They knocked the air from his lungs. Pierced his chest like a spear. And he found himself at a loss.
“I don’t know,” he confessed, voice breaking slightly as he tried to keep the power from before in it and failed. A raw vulnerability slipping through the cracks.
It was true, though.
He didn’t know. He didn’t understand. He’d been so…so angry. He didn’t know what had happened, didn’t know what he was doing. All he knew was one moment he was ready to rip someone’s head off, and the next he was kissing Merlin so hard he feared he would make his lips bleed.
The only thing he knew was something had changed.
Merlin, dressed in his armour, donning his chainmail—it snapped something in him.
Arthur needed him.
Needed to feel him.
Every part of him.
His lips, and his hands, and his body. Everything. His touch, his kiss, his heart, his everything.
And maybe the anger pounding in his blood brought it out easier, or maybe it was the feeling he recognised now as dread when he saw Merlin dressed for battle with a blade in hand that did it. Whatever it was, something had broken. Something had shifted. And Arthur needed him.
“I don’t ever want to see you in this again.” The words left him before he could stop them before he could know what he was saying. And for a moment, Merlin looked like he didn’t understand. Until he followed Arthur’s gaze down to the chains on his chest and recognition dawned.
“Is that what this is about?” he gasped, almost sounding amused.
Amused. Of all things. Amused.
The light heat of humiliation brightened Arthur’s cheeks and he shoved Merlin back roughly. Anger flaring up again. Merlin stumbled, almost tripped, and Arthur snaked an arm around his waist just in time to catch him. He let Merlin steady himself just long enough to wrestle the chainmail off his body and drop it carelessly aside—ignoring Merlin’s wince as it hit the floor—before pushing him again. Further and further and further, across the room until Merlin’s knees hit the edge of his bed and he shoved his warlock down hard.
The grunt that left Merlin’s lips only fuelled Arthur as he climbed on after him—straddling his hips. He leaned down and pressed his lips against Merlin’s again, gentler than the first time but still rough.
Almost willing Merlin to understand through his actions rather than his words. His actions had been unclear thus far, though, and his messages were mixed. He didn’t know how he felt, and Merlin wouldn’t know how he felt. His lips could convey it best, though, his body spoke better than his brain.
And when Merlin sighed against his lips—when he reached up and wound his arms around Arthur’s neck—Arthur crumbled. The kiss turned soft, desperate, and pleading, and his arms trembled where they held him propped up by his hands on either side of Merlin’s head. His eyes burned, even closed tight as they were, with his brows knit together close.
Until he was pulling away with a gasp, lungs begging for air, and he let his face drop to Merlin’s neck. The anger and rage leaving his body in a rush as his nose pressed against Merlin’s cold skin. Something raw and vulnerable taking its place.
Merlin’s hands ran up and down his back as he embraced his King. He didn’t speak a word, and Arthur didn’t know if it was relieving or terrifying.
Lightly, almost subconsciously, he nuzzled against Merlin’s neck, inhaled deeply, and breathed in his scent [like leather and herbs and something he couldn’t name]. Pressed his parted lips to the curve of his skin where his neck and jaw met. Kissed apologetically. Conveying silently what even a thousand words could never say. Gentle nips and wet kisses pressed over his pulse. Feeling the gentle but fast beating of his heart. Relishing in it. Listening to it. Reminding himself it would be there beating for years to come.
Silently promising the gods who watched above that if it weren’t, he would burn the world to the ground in search for retribution. That if it stopped too soon, he would fight them himself—only a sword in his hands. And he would die fighting, or he would bring him back.
And it hit him.
Not like bolt, or a stampeding group of stags, but like a breeze. Slow but clear and strong enough to send a shiver through his spine. His mouth stilled on Merlin’s pulse—the gentle beat of his heart thumping against his smile-curved lips. The frustrations of the day seeming a thousand summers in the past.
“Arthur?” Merlin asked, voice soft and wondering. Breathless.
Pressing a single, final kiss to his neck, Arthur lifted himself up and peered down at Merlin. Looked at him with a clarity he didn’t have before. His heart stuttered. His stomach lurched. And instead of a fire in his belly, a gentle warmth across his chest spread.
“I think I love you.” Merely a whisper, the words had an unimaginable effect on Merlin. His eyes turned glossy—ever so slightly—and his lips parted as he stared up at Arthur with something like awe. Then, Arthur shook his head and tried again, “no… No, that’s wrong. I do—I do love you. I’m in love with you. I think I have been for years.”
“And…me…wearing your armour…made you realise this?” Merlin asked, blinking slowly. That same almost-awed look still in his eyes. Like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Arthur averted his gaze, distantly wondering if the flush rising to his face once again would become a permanent fixture on his features. He wouldn’t let Merlin know the whole truth behind his reaction. Not just yet. Not when the moment was so perfect. “Merlin, do you reciprocate, or not? Because if you let me make a fool of myself about this, I can promise you I will—”
“I do,” Merlin cut him off quickly, urgently, and Arthur let out a breath of relief. “Of course, I do, you prat. Why else would I have put up with you for so long?” He played with the hem of the back of Arthur’s tunic absentmindedly. “I love you—I don’t know what I would be without you. You’re…my other half.”
“Alright—let’s not…get too sappy, here.”
“I think we’re long past too sappy, Arthur.”
“Merlin.”
Arthur looked back to see a cheeky grin spread across his sorcerer’s face. He dropped his forehead down gently to rest against Merlin’s, biting back a chuckle. Amazed at how easily Merlin had eased his mood.
“Shut up?” whispered Merlin, a teasing lilt to his voice. And Arthur couldn’t bite back the laugh this time. It bubbled up and pulled out of his throat before he could stop it, his eyes crinkling at the sides, a sense of contentedness in him that he’d not experienced in a long time. He ducked down and let his lips ghost Merlin’s, steadfastly refusing to let them really touch as he quietly murmured back,
“Precisely.”