fic: they'll name a city after us
title: they'll name a city after us
characters/pairings: merlin/arthur
rating: pg-13
spoilers/warnings: none; ridiculous amounts of sap?
words: ~1900
summary: Even kings are not above fear and regret but Arthur Pendragon is resurfacing.
notes: future-fic; written for the m/a kissing meme here; slightly polished version of what was supposed to be tiny comment-fic but got out of hand. title + cut text from regina spektor's us, and some inspiration borrowed from here ♥
*
He sits in his chambers, new king of an old land, and looks up above at the canopy of his bed. Merlin's fingers are working at the clasp of his cloak, briskly tugging at fabric, beginning to undress him as he has done countless times before.
He's still a new enough king that he lets his mind wander sometimes, a luxury he only allows himself at this hour and in this space. It always comes back to the same things, how he should have known it then, the inevitability of it all, should have listened less and spoken more. He might have understood better, earlier, might have changed something, if not everything, from Morgana to his father, the magic, the people. There had always been so much on all their minds and so little of it was said. It had seemed easier that way and it never helped that it was the only way his father had ever done things.
And now his father was dead and here was Arthur, thrown into a whirlwind of people and council meetings and funeral arrangements. These were closely followed by a coronation and appeals of old laws and reinstatements of even older ones because some debts were long overdue and Arthur Pendragon could no longer afford to waste more time where they were concerned.
Through it all, he'd never had the time to mourn properly. At times, he thinks himself all the better for it. Better not to start, he tells himself, not to stray too close to the past. Sometimes, he cannot help but try it. In moments when he is mostly alone in his head, he tries to hold the image of the old king in place, tries to visualize a man of great power. Instead, what comes to mind is the single decree, the law the man lived and died trying to uphold, the first one that Arthur had overturned himself. Even clearer is the sound of silence as it was that day, and the memory of Merlin's eyes, alight with so much more than Arthur could have taken in. It makes the rest all the more difficult to place, hazy in his memory and--
Somewhere along the way, he finds his eyes on Merlin, at the furrow in his brow and his mouth slightly open in all this almost laughable concentration. The room is so quiet, so still, that it takes very little effort to focus on the gentle swish of cloth, of Merlin's breathing, and then his own.
He almost misses it when Merlin speaks, a soft murmur of his name. Something about dusk turns all his Sires into Arthurs, always a little more urgent at this hour, a hitch of a breath in it or maybe it's all in Arthur's head, products of fatigue and imagination. The sound of it combined with all this removal of clothing has never not done something to Arthur's spine.
He'd be lying to himself if he said he'd never thought about it. Arthur's lost count of how often he's thought about it but he never dares a word. Once, he had promised himself to wait until Merlin's secret was no longer secret but it's been that way for some weeks now, nearing a month, and still, he can't bring himself to--
"Arthur, move," and Merlin's frustration is hardly convincing. The quirk of his lips gives him away far too easily. "By the time we get you to bed, someone will have already overthrown you."
And Arthur should shift, should let Merlin pull the fabric from around him, below him. Instead, he swallows hard, reaching up to take hold of Merlin's arm, a fistful of the embroidered green silk where the sleeve of his ratty jacket used to be, and Merlin freezes mid-motion and meets his eyes. He's been hovering near the side of the bed but he takes a seat next to Arthur now, and he looks as if he's about to either speak or make an exit, leaving Arthur here once again with the possibilities in his head and--
He thinks of the passage of time, of years, centuries, dynasties, thinks of his father, his family, of how, in time, everyone left or died or went and did both. Even if he managed to continue cheating time and death, elude it as he has been doing, and remain miles ahead (which is largely, as he has come to learn, because of this man before him), in his head, he always finds himself at the start. He has learned the hard way that even kings are not above fear and regret, or perhaps, the worst of them all, the fear of regret itself.
Arthur lets his hand brush against the silk until it reaches the curve of Merlin's neck, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of it. He should say something because words could be useful right now, certainly preferable to assumptions that could lead to Merlin shoving him off and leaving in a huff. As far as fears go, it's rather pathetic. He's put Merlin through so much worse, and time and time again, Merlin has scowled and snarled and called him names but leaving was something he did not do.
Arthur thinks that it may be better to stop before he starts because it is very likely that he is not thinking this one through. Whatever he may feel, he may be, king or not, Merlin is under no obligation to do or be anything more for him than he already is. It is, in its own way, more than enough (except for when it's late and Arthur is left alone with his thoughts, something like fear and longing stretching him thin, and then it's not).
He thinks it shouldn't be such a surprise to see Merlin lean into the touch. Of the fact that Merlin loves him, stupidly, hopelessly, he's never had a doubt (and if Merlin hadn't figured out by now that it worked in reverse as well than he really was much dimmer than he looked). It was the doing something about it that Arthur had never quite known how to go about, the part where he had to deal with all that it would come to mean for him and all the odds against him, against them, and this is what he catches in Merlin's eyes now.
"Arthur," he says at length, but it comes out a sharp breath, a question, what are we doing, and all that lies between the lines: you can't undo this and, if Arthur looks deeper, be careful with your heart.
You idiot, thinks Arthur, you should be careful with your own. He says as much with his eyes and the corners of his mouth and all their years spent in each other's orbits haven't been for nothing. When the softest of smiles graces Merlin's lips, reaches high into his eyes, there's something of a fondness in it, something of that was a lost cause long ago.
And it's not so much the constriction in Arthur's chest as it is the swell of something else, so suddenly overpowering that he can't help but choke out a laugh.
(And if there's one thing that terrifies him, it's time slipping through his fingers, leaving him at the end and feeling like he's at the start, left empty-handed again and again until it runs out. There are always consequences and he knows this. He's the king now and he should be able to say, the odds be damned, but it's never been that simple, not when this is the one person, the one thing he cannot afford to--)
He draws Merlin in with an arm, brings him closer in a fluid motion until he's sprawled equally on Arthur's lap and the bed, and once the firelight is reflected clear in his eyes, it's easy from there.
It's easier with Merlin's laughter breathless against his temple, much like the, "Finally," that's chased with a kiss to the spot.
And Arthur thinks, you have no idea, but can't be bothered with words. He buries his face in the crook of Merlin's neck and breathes in deeply, taking in the scent of soap and sweat, salt and skin, and grins against his collarbone before parting his lips. He's cataloguing the feel and touch, the scent and taste of this, everything from the sound of Merlin's breath as it catches, so close to his ear, to the heat of his skin below Arthur's mouth and the colour of it when he finally pulls away.
And Merlin, like this, is magic at its rawest and purest; he is everything of the word. Arthur can swear that it runs from his fingers and seeps through Arthur's skin, lighting a fire in his bones all the way down to his toes. And Arthur lets himself move like clay in Merlin's hands, gives easily when Merlin pushes him on his back. He curls fingers in Arthur's hair, pulling his head back by it fractionally to bring his mouth along the line of Arthur's jaw. And he seems to say all the words for both of them when he whispers of destinies, of halves and wholes and all these things that Arthur has always known even if they have never been spoken of aloud.
When he runs his hands down Merlin's sides, under his tunic, pulling up at the fabric slowly and revelling in the novelty of it, he tells himself this is not an exception, not a one-time concession. There is no reason for it to be when, together, they're a force to be reckoned with. (It might be an excuse. He doesn't care. He's ready and willing to make hundreds more.) It's somewhere near the last thing on his mind when their movements are blurring all too easily with the kisses Merlin presses to his face, cheek to eyelid to forehead to lips. He breathes words like spells all the while, words that get half-swallowed in the press of lips to skin and skin to skin. Slowly still, Arthur is learning to make some sense of them. He catches the always and thought you'd never and ridiculous and forever. There are others, words that he's quite certain are strung together to form actual spells; they must be because there's a flicker of gold, the soft glow of it visible even through Merlin's closed eyelids. Arthur has seen it many times before but in the here and now and so, so close, it takes his breath away a little.
(Later, when the dawn breaks, for protection, Merlin will mumble, in between tangled limbs and sleepy kisses, and Arthur will tighten his hold on him and beg whoever is listening to please, please, please let Merlin have the same.)
For now, Arthur opens his mouth and lets the warmth of shared breath and the taste of Merlin's ancient words linger on his tongue.
He will let himself forget about time and loss, the new crown and the old land, and all the time that they have probably wasted before this.
With every breath and kiss something like new air and affirmation, he swears that he will make up for it in all the time they have left.
characters/pairings: merlin/arthur
rating: pg-13
spoilers/warnings: none; ridiculous amounts of sap?
words: ~1900
summary: Even kings are not above fear and regret but Arthur Pendragon is resurfacing.
notes: future-fic; written for the m/a kissing meme here; slightly polished version of what was supposed to be tiny comment-fic but got out of hand. title + cut text from regina spektor's us, and some inspiration borrowed from here ♥
*
He sits in his chambers, new king of an old land, and looks up above at the canopy of his bed. Merlin's fingers are working at the clasp of his cloak, briskly tugging at fabric, beginning to undress him as he has done countless times before.
He's still a new enough king that he lets his mind wander sometimes, a luxury he only allows himself at this hour and in this space. It always comes back to the same things, how he should have known it then, the inevitability of it all, should have listened less and spoken more. He might have understood better, earlier, might have changed something, if not everything, from Morgana to his father, the magic, the people. There had always been so much on all their minds and so little of it was said. It had seemed easier that way and it never helped that it was the only way his father had ever done things.
And now his father was dead and here was Arthur, thrown into a whirlwind of people and council meetings and funeral arrangements. These were closely followed by a coronation and appeals of old laws and reinstatements of even older ones because some debts were long overdue and Arthur Pendragon could no longer afford to waste more time where they were concerned.
Through it all, he'd never had the time to mourn properly. At times, he thinks himself all the better for it. Better not to start, he tells himself, not to stray too close to the past. Sometimes, he cannot help but try it. In moments when he is mostly alone in his head, he tries to hold the image of the old king in place, tries to visualize a man of great power. Instead, what comes to mind is the single decree, the law the man lived and died trying to uphold, the first one that Arthur had overturned himself. Even clearer is the sound of silence as it was that day, and the memory of Merlin's eyes, alight with so much more than Arthur could have taken in. It makes the rest all the more difficult to place, hazy in his memory and--
Somewhere along the way, he finds his eyes on Merlin, at the furrow in his brow and his mouth slightly open in all this almost laughable concentration. The room is so quiet, so still, that it takes very little effort to focus on the gentle swish of cloth, of Merlin's breathing, and then his own.
He almost misses it when Merlin speaks, a soft murmur of his name. Something about dusk turns all his Sires into Arthurs, always a little more urgent at this hour, a hitch of a breath in it or maybe it's all in Arthur's head, products of fatigue and imagination. The sound of it combined with all this removal of clothing has never not done something to Arthur's spine.
He'd be lying to himself if he said he'd never thought about it. Arthur's lost count of how often he's thought about it but he never dares a word. Once, he had promised himself to wait until Merlin's secret was no longer secret but it's been that way for some weeks now, nearing a month, and still, he can't bring himself to--
"Arthur, move," and Merlin's frustration is hardly convincing. The quirk of his lips gives him away far too easily. "By the time we get you to bed, someone will have already overthrown you."
And Arthur should shift, should let Merlin pull the fabric from around him, below him. Instead, he swallows hard, reaching up to take hold of Merlin's arm, a fistful of the embroidered green silk where the sleeve of his ratty jacket used to be, and Merlin freezes mid-motion and meets his eyes. He's been hovering near the side of the bed but he takes a seat next to Arthur now, and he looks as if he's about to either speak or make an exit, leaving Arthur here once again with the possibilities in his head and--
He thinks of the passage of time, of years, centuries, dynasties, thinks of his father, his family, of how, in time, everyone left or died or went and did both. Even if he managed to continue cheating time and death, elude it as he has been doing, and remain miles ahead (which is largely, as he has come to learn, because of this man before him), in his head, he always finds himself at the start. He has learned the hard way that even kings are not above fear and regret, or perhaps, the worst of them all, the fear of regret itself.
Arthur lets his hand brush against the silk until it reaches the curve of Merlin's neck, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of it. He should say something because words could be useful right now, certainly preferable to assumptions that could lead to Merlin shoving him off and leaving in a huff. As far as fears go, it's rather pathetic. He's put Merlin through so much worse, and time and time again, Merlin has scowled and snarled and called him names but leaving was something he did not do.
Arthur thinks that it may be better to stop before he starts because it is very likely that he is not thinking this one through. Whatever he may feel, he may be, king or not, Merlin is under no obligation to do or be anything more for him than he already is. It is, in its own way, more than enough (except for when it's late and Arthur is left alone with his thoughts, something like fear and longing stretching him thin, and then it's not).
He thinks it shouldn't be such a surprise to see Merlin lean into the touch. Of the fact that Merlin loves him, stupidly, hopelessly, he's never had a doubt (and if Merlin hadn't figured out by now that it worked in reverse as well than he really was much dimmer than he looked). It was the doing something about it that Arthur had never quite known how to go about, the part where he had to deal with all that it would come to mean for him and all the odds against him, against them, and this is what he catches in Merlin's eyes now.
"Arthur," he says at length, but it comes out a sharp breath, a question, what are we doing, and all that lies between the lines: you can't undo this and, if Arthur looks deeper, be careful with your heart.
You idiot, thinks Arthur, you should be careful with your own. He says as much with his eyes and the corners of his mouth and all their years spent in each other's orbits haven't been for nothing. When the softest of smiles graces Merlin's lips, reaches high into his eyes, there's something of a fondness in it, something of that was a lost cause long ago.
And it's not so much the constriction in Arthur's chest as it is the swell of something else, so suddenly overpowering that he can't help but choke out a laugh.
(And if there's one thing that terrifies him, it's time slipping through his fingers, leaving him at the end and feeling like he's at the start, left empty-handed again and again until it runs out. There are always consequences and he knows this. He's the king now and he should be able to say, the odds be damned, but it's never been that simple, not when this is the one person, the one thing he cannot afford to--)
He draws Merlin in with an arm, brings him closer in a fluid motion until he's sprawled equally on Arthur's lap and the bed, and once the firelight is reflected clear in his eyes, it's easy from there.
It's easier with Merlin's laughter breathless against his temple, much like the, "Finally," that's chased with a kiss to the spot.
And Arthur thinks, you have no idea, but can't be bothered with words. He buries his face in the crook of Merlin's neck and breathes in deeply, taking in the scent of soap and sweat, salt and skin, and grins against his collarbone before parting his lips. He's cataloguing the feel and touch, the scent and taste of this, everything from the sound of Merlin's breath as it catches, so close to his ear, to the heat of his skin below Arthur's mouth and the colour of it when he finally pulls away.
And Merlin, like this, is magic at its rawest and purest; he is everything of the word. Arthur can swear that it runs from his fingers and seeps through Arthur's skin, lighting a fire in his bones all the way down to his toes. And Arthur lets himself move like clay in Merlin's hands, gives easily when Merlin pushes him on his back. He curls fingers in Arthur's hair, pulling his head back by it fractionally to bring his mouth along the line of Arthur's jaw. And he seems to say all the words for both of them when he whispers of destinies, of halves and wholes and all these things that Arthur has always known even if they have never been spoken of aloud.
When he runs his hands down Merlin's sides, under his tunic, pulling up at the fabric slowly and revelling in the novelty of it, he tells himself this is not an exception, not a one-time concession. There is no reason for it to be when, together, they're a force to be reckoned with. (It might be an excuse. He doesn't care. He's ready and willing to make hundreds more.) It's somewhere near the last thing on his mind when their movements are blurring all too easily with the kisses Merlin presses to his face, cheek to eyelid to forehead to lips. He breathes words like spells all the while, words that get half-swallowed in the press of lips to skin and skin to skin. Slowly still, Arthur is learning to make some sense of them. He catches the always and thought you'd never and ridiculous and forever. There are others, words that he's quite certain are strung together to form actual spells; they must be because there's a flicker of gold, the soft glow of it visible even through Merlin's closed eyelids. Arthur has seen it many times before but in the here and now and so, so close, it takes his breath away a little.
(Later, when the dawn breaks, for protection, Merlin will mumble, in between tangled limbs and sleepy kisses, and Arthur will tighten his hold on him and beg whoever is listening to please, please, please let Merlin have the same.)
For now, Arthur opens his mouth and lets the warmth of shared breath and the taste of Merlin's ancient words linger on his tongue.
He will let himself forget about time and loss, the new crown and the old land, and all the time that they have probably wasted before this.
With every breath and kiss something like new air and affirmation, he swears that he will make up for it in all the time they have left.