Work Text:
‘Baaaa,’ says Merlin.
‘That’s a sheep,’ says Arthur.
Merlin turns to glare at him; the antlers Arthur whittled the night before wobble precariously on his head. Then he tries again, only marginally closer to a proper bellow.
It’s quite possibly the funniest thing Arthur has ever seen.
‘Come on, then, Merlin. I expect you to attract at least half the deer you’ve ever chased off.’
Merlin’s neck is flushed with annoyance. His back feels hot where Arthur’s leaning over it, keeping Merlin in place, crossbow hanging half-forgotten by Arthur’s side. The next cry could come from a particularly irritated donkey; it echoes through Arthur’s own chest, and when he says, mocking, ‘I’m making this our new secret signal,’ perhaps his voice comes out a little too fond.
*
As it turns out, they don’t need a secret signal at Camlann, or ever again.
*
He slips in and out of sleep, of pain; dreams of a stag with awkward, too pale antlers on the other side of his crossbow, his fingers shaking on the trigger.
He dreams of lowering the crossbow, while the stag bellows above him.
He wakes up.
*
There’s an odd stone structure in the middle of the island that Arthur can only guess is related to magic-worship, but there’s no one here to ask except the endless mists. He didn’t even see the lake until he accidentally stepped in it, then hit an invisible wall.
He’s trapped, panicked; searches wildly for prey, doesn’t find any.
Then he discovers you don’t get hungry when you’re dead.
*
He feels numb; sleeps for days, years. Tries not to lose his mind. But then, he already has.
*
He thinks he hears the cry of a stag once, sharp, from across the water; sits up at the sound of something in a sea of eternal nothing.
He’s never realised how much it sounds like someone in pain. He hears it again the next time he’s awake.
*
The dreams come back, only now his arms close around the stag’s neck. It’s a little rough, and so warm. Arthur might not get hungry for food, but he aches to capture the creature just the same, his fingers digging into the fur, clinging. He’s curled around it on the ground, its chest rising under his palm, alive. The antlers feel smooth under his fingers. The stag’s rapid heartbeat echoes in his own chest as it twists around to nose eagerly at Arthur’s throat; it licks his face, and he laughs. Licks back.
It’s a dream, after all.
Its fur is pricklysoft against his thighs, and when he buries his nose in it, it smells oddly familiar, like home. He feels a want so sharp he’s rolling his hips before he can think about it. The fur is rough against his cock, too, better than it has any right to be, and hot, hot – and then he’s kissing a mouth, incongruously. He’s pushed onto his back, and Merlin climbs him, bites Arthur’s lip; licks the tip of his nose again, clumsy, desperate. Looks at him for too long and with too much sadness, like he’s still on the other side of the lake.
Merlin’s mouth is as hungry as Arthur’s fingers, like he can make Arthur stay if he sucks his skin hard enough, kisses it with enough reverence, everywhere. Merlin’s hair is pricklysoft between his fingers where Arthur holds on to it when Merlin sucks him down. He doesn’t remember pleasure; doesn’t remember it feeling this good. He curls his palm around Merlin’s neck where it’s flushed with desire when he comes, holds on. Holds on.
He wakes up with bruises on the soft insides of his thighs, where his fingers must have dug in, and come all over his stomach.
*
He sleeps; counts every bruise when he wakes up, even when they’re down his back.
*
A piece of driftwood floats ashore. Arthur blinks. Finds it’s a tiny wooden boat.
The ‘Sorry’ carved into its side feels rough beneath his fingers.
His heart can’t beat too loud, but it can hope for too much.
*
The next one says ‘Baa’.
The one after that says ‘Rise and shine!’, the carving wobbly.
*
His fingers hurt from days of working with a sharp rock when he pushes his own tiny boat out.
It keeps drifting back.
*
On his ninety-second try, slim, unfamiliar fingers creep out of the water, curve over the rim; guide his boat through the barrier.
(‘I’m coming’, it says.)
*
A stag bellows joyfully, and he steps into the water. Swims.