Merlin walked straight into Arthur chambers without stopping to knock, which was, perhaps, a mistake.
Arthur had stripped off his chainmail and was standing, bare chested, in the centre of the room. "Get out."
"No."
"Merlin," Arthur's voice was steely, "I said get out."
Doing the exact opposite, Merlin stepped further into the room and pushed the door shut behind him. "Not until you tell me what's been bothering you."
"Merlin—"
"I'm serious," Merlin warned, "you haven't properly spoken to me in days, you barely even look at me, so come on — out with it! Why are you being even more of a prat than usual?"
Arthur stilled. His eyes were fixated on Merlin. And then, very slowly, he turned his back and picked up a shirt from the bed. "You lied to me," he said softly, tugging the shirt over his head, "I know what you are."
Merlin tried to think of something to say, but there was something dangerous about the quiet of Arthur's voice. It held all the stillness of a hunter stalking its prey. Watching. Waiting for the moment to strike.
Arthur's jaw was clenched. "Well? Aren't you going to defend yourself?"
"How can I?" Merlin blurted out, "I don't even know what you're accusing me of!"
"Oh for gods' sake Merlin, I know you have magic!"
Merlin froze. He hadn't expected Arthur to yell. And he definitely hadn't expected him to say that. There was no way, he thought, there was no way Arthur could know. It was just an accusation. It didn't mean anything. He had no proof. A small, frightened smile flickered across his lips. "No," Merlin whispered.
"Don't lie to me!" There was a venom in Arthur's voice that, for a moment, came as a surprise even to him.
Merlin shook his head and desperately, desperately, tried to think of an excuse to leave. He started to shuffle backwards towards the door, but his legs didn't seem to want to support his weight. He felt numb. The air was being sucked from his lungs and it almost hurt to breathe; his side, already bruised, seared as he dragged in another breath. He had to get out of this room. He had to leave before Arthur called the guards. He had to—
Merlin winced as he bashed into the side of the table.
And for some reason, that was all it took. The cold vanished from Arthur's stare. In front of him was no longer a warlock — at least not in the way Arthur had been taught to view them, because what was in front of him was not dangerous, and it certainly wasn't evil. In front of him was Merlin. An idiotic manservant who was incapable of leaving a room without injuring himself. And that was all he was: Merlin. His Merlin. His friend.
"Merlin," Arthur whispered.
Tears had started to prick his eyes. He couldn't move. His body felt like it was shutting down. Nothing was working. His legs would not move—
Arthur's fingertips curled around Merlin's sleeve as he whispered "it's okay," and "I don't mind," and "I'm sorry," all at once. And then, finally, "come here" as he tugged Merlin closer.
And Merlin, who was too shaken to properly stand, fell into Arthur's arms and cried softly into his shirt. "Don't you hate me?" he whispered.
"Never."
Merlin's shoulders relaxed and he cried even harder. The terror of discovery had mixed with the thrill of finally being seen, and all the fear and relief and tension seemed to pour out of his body through his eyes: draining him.
It only made Arthur hold him tighter. And then, slowly, he reached a hand up and began to gently stroke Merlin's hair. He swirled patterns through the mess of brown locks as he whispered "I'm sorry" over and over again, his lips still tracing the words long after the sound had died away.
He could still feel Merlin's heart racing.
Carefully, Arthur lossened his grip on Merlin's back and allowed the brunet to lean into his shoulder. Arthur placed an arm around his waist to steady him. "Here," he soothed, "sit."
Merlin allowed himself to be guided to the bed. His brain still felt clouded, but the feeling was slowly coming back to his body; the warmth of Arthur's touch seemed to be waking him as if from a dream. A smile ghosted his lips, and then promptly vanished. "You know," he looked up as the Prince sat down beside him, "magic is illegal."
"I'm aware."
"And I lied to you. You were right, I lied to you. For years."
"Merlin—"
"I'm a liar, and a criminal, and a traitor. I have magic, Arthur. I was born with it. Why haven't you turned me in?"
"I seriously considered it. In fact, I almost did. My Father's always taught me that magic is the source of all evil. That it is to be feared, and that it is our duty to destroy it wherever we find it." Arthur sighed, shaking the hair from his face and keeping his eyes fixed to the floor. "And my whole life, I've never questioned him. I've never questioned whether sorcerers were a threat to Camelot. I've seen some of the evil magic can bring but—"
Merlin's heart hitched. "But?"
"But I don't believe that magic in itself is evil. At least, I don't think I do. How can I? If you have magic Merlin, then my Father can't be right. I mean, you're you." Arthur let out a shaky breath. "Oh gods Merlin, I'm an idiot. I nearly turned you in. And they'd have thrown you in prison and then— oh god I can't believe I would have let them do that to you, that I would do that to you."
"But you didn't."
Arthur shook his head. "No wonder you lied to me."
"It's not like that. I wanted to say something, to tell you, but I wasn't sure how you'd react. You'd have to make a choice. And I didn't want to put you in that position."
"That's what worried you?" Arthur studied Merlin as though he were a painting. His face had been dirtied slightly from the forest, and some mud had even wound its way into his unruly hair. There was mud on his clothes, too, Arthur noticed, and the side of his jacket was frayed from where he'd fallen. Instinctively, he reached out, brushing the inside of the jacket with his fingertips. "Can I?"
The brunet's eyes were shining, still wet from tears that hadn't yet ceased their fall, but he held Arthur's gaze steadily. He nodded.
Slowly, Arthur lifted the hem of Merlin's shirt. The skin was livid red, reaching from his hip up to the top of his ribs. It was soft to the touch. And sore.
Merlin sucked in a sharp breath.
"Sorry," Arthur retracted his hand, "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"It's not your fault."
"I didn't mean your fall — though that'll leave one hell of a bruise — I meant how I behaved. I should have helped you up. But I froze. I mean, you have magic, actual magic, and I panicked, and—"
"I know," Merlin soothed, "I get it. You've always been taught the magic was evil. But it's a lie. Magic has no morals. It is only as good or evil as those who wield it."
"I never thought of it like that before, but I think you're right."
Merlin nudged Arthur's shoulder. "So, you don't think I'm evil then?"
"I'm pretty sure you're too stupid to be evil even if you tried."
"Hey," Merlin hiccuped a laugh, "don't be a prat."
Arthur smiled. "Well, I think I'm entitled. Look what you did to my shirt!" He pulled at the hem in an attempt to straighten out the rumpled and tear-stained fabric. "You'll have to wash it."
"Wash it yourself."
"Merlin."
"Dollophead."
"That's not a word."
"It is."
"It's not," Arthur protested.
Merlin laughed. Gods, he'd missed this. He'd missed having someone to talk to. He'd missed being able to joke around. He'd missed Arthur, even if he was an absolute ass sometimes.
"Merlin?"
"Yes?"
"You're smiling again."
"And you're talking to me again."
"So we're okay then?"
"Yeah," Merlin grinned, "we're okay."