doubt||merthur

chapter 6

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Doubt comes in with fickle tongues

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Even as they stand there, Merlin’s not sure which steps or what conversation – if there was one – brought them to the foot of the bed. He can’t remember Arthur saying it, let’s give up, this is useless, just a blizzard blowing up around them and rendering looking for anything more distant than their noses impossible. He has a vague recollection of the king: how hard is it to find one girl? You slayed a dragon, Arthur, and yet this you cannot do? Get out of my sight. It feels like a dream, the weighty kind that lingers, even though it’s oblique.

Merlin fingers the edge of the bedpost. His bones ache with shivering and the distant heat of the fire almost hurts on his frigid skin. The day – all the days – squash down and prickle along his arms. His damp clothes cloy to him, and inside his hairs stand up, each of them alert. He should be in bed, curled into all the blankets he can find, warming his hands on soup. Or he should be filling the bath for Arthur or – something. He’s not. He’s not sure why, only that the fractures he can feel everywhere are his and he has no idea how to fix them. There’s no potion or spell for this, and Arthur stands there too, just as desperate, because there’s nothing for him to fight. The only certainty Merlin can find is that Arthur’s hair is damp and he’s never, ever, looked more defeated. They probably look the same. Maybe that’s what they’re doing here, trapped in startled and unspoken similarity.

‘You do know he’s wrong. You’ve done everything anyone could. More.’

Merlin’s voice echoes, even though he doesn’t remember thinking to speak. Arthur’s smile is miniscule, the tiniest tug on the corner of his mouth.

‘If that were true, Merlin, right now we’d be at a feast, and Morgana would be there, drinking and laughing and flirting with everyone.’

Arthur sighs. His eyes close, and Merlin knows there aren’t any words for it. He swallows – fingers flexing in a falter – then reaches out. The first bit of Arthur his hand finds is his forearm, rigid with the clench of his fist. He touches it lightly, just skimming the material like he’s tracing the creases. It doesn’t seem enough, and his breathing turns hard with frustration. What he wants is to fold Arthur up into himself, to take his guilt and sate his own. He wants to tell him stories until he’s free of the failings in his head, to cover every inch of his body with gestures of comfort until it’s all he can feel. He takes a shuffling step closer, and Arthur opens his eyes. It seems to take him an age to look up, but when he does his gaze is pleading but steady and not really surprised. Merlin moves his hand to his stomach. He has no idea what he’s doing, really, so he leaves it there not quite touching more than the drape of his shirt. Arthur shifts into him – into his touch – and the material tickles as it’s trapped between his palm and Arthur’s body.

Slowly – so slowly that Merlin thinks he may have stilled time – Arthur leans in. His breath flutters against Merlin’s cheek, faster than it usually is, replaces itself with a kiss. Beneath its warmth Merlin tenses. His whole body tries to cling to the moment, from the scrunch of his toes to the twitch of his fingers into a ball against Arthur’s shirt. Arthur draws back, meets his eye. Merlin tries to see the consequences, spiralling out from here. Their gazes hold, and Arthur touches his own cheek lightly with the tip of his finger and lifts his eyebrow in suggestion. Or maybe question, because Merlin can feel his uncertainty, brittle in the air. He can’t map the spirals but inches forward anyway, brushes his lips over the place where Arthur’s finger was. His breath tightens at the soft noise his lips make on Arthur’s skin. He moves away, and Arthur smiles then tilts his head, offering his neck. Merlin watches the muscles tauten, fascinated, and Arthur’s fingers tap an invitation just above his collarbone. Merlin leans in again, steadying himself on the solidness of Arthur’s chest, fancying he can feel his heart quicken. He nudges the collar of his shirt aside, kisses the soft spot he’s uncovered, just parts his lips and lets his breath brush and his tongue taste. He watches Arthur’s throat bob and his flesh goosebump, and they both take a shaky, shallow lungful of air. Arthur’s fingers start towards his lips, but Merlin sees it coming and beats them there. He captures Arthur’s mouth and presses into him, revelling in the sudden flood of warmth as their lips fasten. It dislodges some of the ice in his stomach, and Merlin kisses him hard, fingers on the back of his neck, tongue braver than he thought as it makes Arthur his.

A second later – like he’s started time again – Arthur’s lips and hands are everywhere, pushing at his clothes. His neckerchief is a wet pull around his throat and then gone, and Merlin snatches a breath as his coat slides from his shoulders. Arthur mouths his skin as he reveals it, shoving up his shirt and dragging it off, and Merlin lets his head fall back and stutters at the ceiling, clutching fistfuls of Arthur’s wet hair to keep upright. The greed of his own fingers once they’re there surprises him, and he rakes them over Arthur’s skull and down to his shoulders until he can focus enough to tug him out of his shirt too. He’s touched Arthur’s body before, tended and covered and undressed it, but it’s different now he’s invited to share it. The thought claws in his stomach like the most desperate and dangerous magic, and how much he wants it makes fear clamber up his spine in icy spikes. Still he edges them onto the bed, has no idea how it happens, how they get out of the rest of their damp clothes and under the covers. He thinks Arthur says the word shivering but other than that it’s a flicker and then Arthur’s lips are trailing on his throat and Merlin’s scrambling into his lap, a mess of compulsion and craving and not knowing what else there is to do. He kisses Arthur’s chilled skin until he’s breathless. He licks the dips and hollows of his hip and his stomach and even his wrist, soothing the scars with his mouth, as if he can ingest them and make them his instead. In his head it’s Arthur, this is for Arthur, this is what he needs, but it’s not really about Arthur at all.

They look at each other when Arthur’s inside him, mouths open against each other, both of them hollowed right down to their souls. Merlin’s hands shake a little, and he can’t tell at all if it’s cold or adrenaline or if he’s scared about how very much they need this. He closes his eyes, and everything is gone but the drag of Arthur’s fingernails down his back, leaving little trails of fire where they’ve been.