Fic: Merlin; G/PG; Almost
Title: Almost
Rating: G/PG
Spoilers: None, really.
Author’s Note: Also for the merlin_the_elf secret santa fic exchange for andthedescent. This time just for the prompt ‘Body heat’… and it’s G/PG…
Thanks to wrennette for the beta work, which was rather in the eleventh hour.
Summary: It's about the times they almost touch.
Almost
It is not about touch.
In all the routines and strictures of the court there is no chance of that.
In every touch there is the memory of a dozen others. A familiar, methodical rhythm lies beneath the touches that can no longer make him pause.
Merlin’s hands could be anyone’s hands as they buckle on his armour. Merlin’s fingers slide between skin and cloth and metal, but they could be anyone’s fingers.
His mind is elsewhere in these moments: caught up in the battle that would come, looking over memories of those that had come before. His mind pays no heed to cool fingers at his throat, nor arms slipping around his waist to attach his sword belt. These touches have no meaning. They are as common and as ordinary as breathing.
It is about the times they almost touch.
At the feasts, when Merlin comes to fill his goblet and leans across, his chest is a hair’s breadth away from Arthur’s shoulder. Through the cloth and the air, the Prince can feel the heat reflected between them, and it increases every second. The wine trickles into the cup and his breath catches imperceptibly.
When he returns from the duel or the threat of the week, it is in the way Merlin’s hands dart towards his injuries but don’t quite dare to touch and soothe them. Still the heat alleviates the worst of the pain.
The heat rises again in almost glances and almost smiles, forever dancing around the subject like a candle flame as they pass each other by and never quite brush against each other.
It is about the hand that hovers an inch from Merlin’s face when Arthur comes back to find him asleep in his chambers, half cleaned boots collapsed at his feet; and the way Merlin smiles without waking up and moves his face infinitesimally closer.
There is no contact; there are no words. It is all about what is not there.
He does not brush the hair from Merlin’s forehead, and Merlin does not touch his arm as he leans forward. Their eyes do not quite meet across the throne room and, when Merlin stands behind his shoulder - a constant warm presence - he does not lean back into the heat.
Every now and then they slip and Arthur catches Merlin’s eye as his gaze slides over his manservant’s smile. Or Merlin will not stop in time and he walks into Arthur’s back.
There is heat there too: in the way their eyes shift away from each other and Merlin’s hasty step backwards. Their cheeks heat up with almost flushes for something that has not happened - yet.
In every almost touch of hands there is a caress. In every time they stand inches apart, a desperate embrace. Every time their bodies get just that close together - close enough to feel the heat shared between them and hear the almost words of each other’s breath in their ears - Arthur can feel the almost collision.
Teeth and tongues and lips are in that moment. He can feel hands grasping and pulling, skin on skin. So much more is promised in these almost touches.
Sometimes, when the heat is growing unbearable and he wants to bridge that gap, he looks up and he thinks he can almost see the heat glowing in Merlin’s eyes.
…they are almost there.
Rating: G/PG
Spoilers: None, really.
Author’s Note: Also for the merlin_the_elf secret santa fic exchange for andthedescent. This time just for the prompt ‘Body heat’… and it’s G/PG…
Thanks to wrennette for the beta work, which was rather in the eleventh hour.
Summary: It's about the times they almost touch.
Almost
It is not about touch.
In all the routines and strictures of the court there is no chance of that.
In every touch there is the memory of a dozen others. A familiar, methodical rhythm lies beneath the touches that can no longer make him pause.
Merlin’s hands could be anyone’s hands as they buckle on his armour. Merlin’s fingers slide between skin and cloth and metal, but they could be anyone’s fingers.
His mind is elsewhere in these moments: caught up in the battle that would come, looking over memories of those that had come before. His mind pays no heed to cool fingers at his throat, nor arms slipping around his waist to attach his sword belt. These touches have no meaning. They are as common and as ordinary as breathing.
It is about the times they almost touch.
At the feasts, when Merlin comes to fill his goblet and leans across, his chest is a hair’s breadth away from Arthur’s shoulder. Through the cloth and the air, the Prince can feel the heat reflected between them, and it increases every second. The wine trickles into the cup and his breath catches imperceptibly.
When he returns from the duel or the threat of the week, it is in the way Merlin’s hands dart towards his injuries but don’t quite dare to touch and soothe them. Still the heat alleviates the worst of the pain.
The heat rises again in almost glances and almost smiles, forever dancing around the subject like a candle flame as they pass each other by and never quite brush against each other.
It is about the hand that hovers an inch from Merlin’s face when Arthur comes back to find him asleep in his chambers, half cleaned boots collapsed at his feet; and the way Merlin smiles without waking up and moves his face infinitesimally closer.
There is no contact; there are no words. It is all about what is not there.
He does not brush the hair from Merlin’s forehead, and Merlin does not touch his arm as he leans forward. Their eyes do not quite meet across the throne room and, when Merlin stands behind his shoulder - a constant warm presence - he does not lean back into the heat.
Every now and then they slip and Arthur catches Merlin’s eye as his gaze slides over his manservant’s smile. Or Merlin will not stop in time and he walks into Arthur’s back.
There is heat there too: in the way their eyes shift away from each other and Merlin’s hasty step backwards. Their cheeks heat up with almost flushes for something that has not happened - yet.
In every almost touch of hands there is a caress. In every time they stand inches apart, a desperate embrace. Every time their bodies get just that close together - close enough to feel the heat shared between them and hear the almost words of each other’s breath in their ears - Arthur can feel the almost collision.
Teeth and tongues and lips are in that moment. He can feel hands grasping and pulling, skin on skin. So much more is promised in these almost touches.
Sometimes, when the heat is growing unbearable and he wants to bridge that gap, he looks up and he thinks he can almost see the heat glowing in Merlin’s eyes.
…they are almost there.