Paperlegends: Stop my heart, Start your pulse (Part Three)

[ficbyjane]

Title: Stop My Heart, Start Your Pulse (Part 3 of 3)
Author: janesgravity
Artist: xsilverdreamsx
Pairings/characters: Percival/OMC (Owen) very background Merlin/Arthur; Lance/Gwen; Gwaine/various
Rating: NC-17  
Link to Masterpost



Percival pushes through the forest, using his size to force a path when there isn’t a clear one in front of him. He looks up periodically, to make sure the walls of Camelot are still where he expects them to be.

They seem impossibly far, but Percy just tightens his belt, securing his sword, and keeps running.

The sun is high and blazing yellow and pitiless in the sky by the time he reaches Camelot’s outer walls. His skin is slick with sweat and he has a raging thirst but he doesn’t dare stop.

He moves around the wall, looking for a small, unremarkable and ancient door - one of Merlin and Gwaine’s boltholes for getting in and out of Camelot quickly. For Percival it has the added benefit of being near enough to the brothel that he can - he hopes - slip through the streets to it unseen.

He makes it to the doors, standing wide open and welcoming to the busy noontime Camelot streets. Quietly he slips inside and stands for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the sudden dimness.

“Percival? What are you doing here?”

Percival’s hand goes to his sword as he turns to the sound of he voice. “Esther?”

“Yes, Percival what - why are you here?”

“I … I’m here about - Owen.” His voice stumbles over the name and he has to swallow hard against the sudden lump in his throat.

Esther glances around and wordlessly draws him further into the house, into the large downstairs room, curiously empty at such a quiet time of day.

“What is it, Esther, what’s going on?” he asks, suddenly confused.

“I’m hoping you can tell me,” Esther says, indicating that he should sit down.

“Gwaine came by last night and took Kay up to the castle - we haven’t seen either of them since. Agatha’s … well, she’s not pleased.”

Percival frowns in confusion but shakes his head. He can’t afford to be distracted right now.

“Esther … Owen is - he’s … “ Percival trails off, unable to finish, and unable to look Esther in the eye. He drops his head and stares at the floor, his hands curling unconsciously into fists.

“We know, Percival. Kay - he told us. He said he was with him until - “

Percival laughs, bitter and dry.

“They … left him on my bed, in my rooms. I - he looked … b-broken. I - I ran,” he says quietly, still staring at the floor. “I panicked, and I ran and I’ll never forgive myself for doing that - I-“

He jumps slightly when he feels hands on his shoulders.

“Percival. Percival, look at me.” They both wait for a long heartbeat until Percival raises his eyes to meet Esther’s.

“That’s why I came back,” he says quietly. “To find whoever it was, and - to take from them what they took from me.”

Esther just nods, her jaw set in a grim line. “Well, it shouldn’t be too hard to work out who it was. Kay and Owen were sent out together on a job … I - tried to get Kay to talk to me when he came back but he was so …”

Esther lifts her hands and makes a helpless, wide gesture.

Percival studies her for a moment before straightening, and standing. He rests one hand on his sword pommel and shifts his shoulders, relishing the feel of muscle moving under skin.

“I need to talk to Agatha,” he says.

The interview with Agatha is short, and ugly. Percival isn’t interested in hearing her excuses, or her sob story - as far as he’s concerned, she’d do better to throw her useless brother out with the slops - and once he has what he needs, he makes ready to leave.

Esther catches his arm on the way out. She studies his face and seems to find what she needs in his eyes. She straightens her shoulders and gives him a quick hug.

“For Owen,” she whispers in his ear, and it’s nearly his undoing, right there on the steps of the house. But. Yes. “For Owen,” he echoes. Whatever end he makes today, he will hold that in his heart.

Esther presses a quick kiss to his cheek, and then Percival slips out into Camelot, facing towards the slums with as much determination as he can muster.

It’s surprisingly easy, in the end. There are certain kinds of people who will betray their own mothers for a silver coin, and to find two such men who do nothing but wreak violence upon the lives of others, it doesn’t even take that long.

They’re lounging at a table in a dingy, mean tavern, the timbers being held together by little more than the fumes emanating out the open door. Percival doesn’t even hesitate.

He’s vaguely aware of others trying to stop him but he feels as though he’s been imbued with magic, or some kind of power beyond his knowledge. His blood is singing and he’s barely aware of the fact he’s roaring, his sword raised and already stained with blood.

There’s a fight, of a sort - a short, brutal battle that leaves both men unconscious on the floor of the tavern. Percival sheathes his sword and idly toes at one of the bodies.

“I need to take these two up to the castle,” he says to no one in particular. “Does anyone have a cart I might borrow?”

The innkeeper does, and Percival solemnly promises to return it when he’s “dumped the garbage”. The innkeeper just looks around the wreckage of his tavern in a resigned sort of way and nods, before picking up a mop and beginning the somewhat futile task of cleaning up.

Normally, Percival is the kind of person who would stop and help, but today … today he is a very different kind of man.

He takes up the handles of the cart - after unceremoniously dropping both still unconscious men into the back of it - and starts hauling it towards the castle.

He may not have the future he’d planned with Owen, had dreamed about on long stretches of patrol duty, but nor would Owen’s loss go unpunished. He’d never be able to live with himself if he let that happen.

He gets as far as the castle gates, his arms trembling with the effort of pushing the cart such a long way, stopping in front of the guards.

One raises a lazy eyebrow at him and says, “and what is your business here?”

Percival brushes his hand down over his torn and bloody shirt, wondering what kind of picture he’s making.

“I need to see …. “ Percival hesitates. Uther? No, not Uther.

“Need to see who, peasant? We don’t have all day.”

Percival sighs and rubs his hand over his face. New guards. Of course. He tilts his head back, staring at the sky for a moment wondering what he’s going to do now. Then he catches a flash of red above him, through one of the narrow windows. It’s followed by a familiar, curly mop of gingerish hair and Percival breathes again.

“Leon!” he shouts as loud as he can, making sure the man can hear him. Leon looks out, does a double take, and disappears immediately.

The guards look at him with slightly warier looks on their faces. Percival resists the urge to grin and resettles his grip on the handcart. He hears a booming noise on the other side, and Leon shouting “open the gates!”

The guards hasten to obey, swinging the broad wooden gates wide open. Leon strides out, glancing at the cart before pulling Percival into a strong embrace. “My friend,” he says, his voice muffled against Percival’s neck. “We thought - we thought you were gone for good.”

Percival pulls back, half-smiling. “I thought so too, at first. But I couldn’t let Owen’s … I couldn’t let …. “

Leon grips his arm, unable to stop grinning. “I’m glad you came back.”

Percival indicates the cart, where one of the men has started stirring, and groaning. “These … men are the ones who - who - “

Leon’s face hardens as he turns to the gate guards. “Take these men to the dungeons. When they wake up, make sure they know that they are under arrest, and will be tried for assault, at the very least.”

Leon waits, patiently while the guards push and pull the cart through the open gates heading for the dungeons. Percival watches and lets out a long breath. Before he can say anything, Leon grabs his arm again.

“Come with me. There’s someone you need to see.”

Before he can protest, Leon is dragging him down one of Camelot’s long corridors, heading towards Gaius and Merlin’s rooms as far as Percival can tell.

“But, Leon, I don’t - what’s going on?”

His question fades out as Leon pushes open Gaius’ door. Percival’s first, overall impression is of a crowd - so many people in such a small space. Gaius is there, of course, and Merlin. Arthur, for some reason with Gwaine and - Kay?

Percival blinks in surprise, but then his eyes zero in on the person sitting on the long bench at Gaius’ table. He’s aware - barely - of letting out a strangled sob before he crosses the room and falls to his knees, his legs unable to hold him up. It’s a dream. It has to be a dream. He’s still in the forest, and he’s dreaming

Just in case, just in case this is real and not some cruel, fevered imagining, Percival reaches out his hand - reaches up which is rare for him - and touches Owen’s face. He silently traces over the line of Owen’s cheekbone, over his mouth … he’s suddenly aware that the room has fallen silent behind him.

“You could hear a snowflake land in here right now,” Owen says softly, smiling down at Percival.

“You’re - are you - “

“I’m fine, Percy,” Owen says, reaching up to press Percy’s hand against his cheek. “See? Real. Very real. I’m fine.”

“You - I thought - I thought you were - d-dead.” Percival chokes on the last word, feeling the pressure of Owen’s fingers against his own. Everything else has faded out - the people, the room, and all Percy can see is Owen’s warm, brown eyes smiling down at him.

“No. Very much alive. A bit … sore, here and there, but alive. Gaius has been looking after me. And - the other knights.”

Percival bows his head, resting his forehead against Owen’s thigh, as gently as he can. “I - you’re alive. You’re - all right.”

“Mostly, yes” Owen says quietly, running his hand over Percival’s head. Percival smiles when he feels Owen’s fingers tracing over the bumps of his skull. With that small, familiar gesture, everything comes home to him.

He hasn’t lost everything. He still has Owen. Anything else he can cope with. Because his heart is safe.

He lifts his head and finds a laugh catching in his throat, nearly turning into a sob. It’s an odd, tense moment that’s broken when Gaius bustles forward, carrying a small leather satchel.

“Here you go, Percival. There’s teas in there, and salves, for Owen’s treatments. There’s not much too it - just keeping a close eye on the worst of the bruising, really.”

Percival stands up and takes the satchel, more out of an ingrained habit of obeying Gaius that they all have than anything else. “But I - I can’t - “

“Yes you can. Of course you can. Owen is young, and healthy which is half the battle. The rest, is up to you. Everything you need is in there, and quite frankly, you’re cluttering up my rooms right now.”

Percival clutches the satchel and shakes his head briefly, feeling as though he truly is waking up from a dream. “I - um. Thank you, Gaius.”

He turns and looks at Arthur, giving an awkward bow. “Your highness. I um … suppose I owe you some kind of explanation.”

Arthur folds his arms and gives Percival a long, stern look that Percival can’t fathom anything from. “Yes, Sir Percival, you do.” Arthur glances from Percival to Owen and back again, and Percival finds himself holding his breath, because Arthur’s next words will determine their future - in Camelot or out.

“However, it can wait until after training tomorrow. I trust you’ll be fit enough to join us?”

Percival studies Arthur for a moment, sees the lines of tension in his neck and in the way his arms are folded tight across his body, and wonders what this has cost him.

“Yes Sire,” is all he says out loud.

“Good. You’re dismissed until then, Sir Percival. I expect to see you bright and early tomorrow morning.”

Percival lets out another strangled, strange laugh and turns back to Owen, his expression immediately shifting to concern.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Percival reaches out a hand as Owen moves to stand up, so slowly that Percival has a sudden, irrational urge to go down to the dungeons and start hitting those damn thugs all over again.

“I’m fine, Percival, really. Just... sore. Everywhere.”

“Gaius?”

“He’s fine, Percival, there’s no need to hover. Moving around a bit will be good for him - he was unconscious until very late last night and his muscles need to feel the blood flowing. Take him down to your rooms, fill a tub if you can - warm the water first - and put some of the salve that smells like mint on the worst of the bruising. There’s also fresh bandages in the bag. You’ll be fine.”

Percival opens his mouth again, but gets distracted by Owen gripping his arm.

“I’ll be fine, Percival. Plus Gaius is nearby if I need anything … “

Percival looks down at Owen’s hand, where his fingers are curled around Percival’s upper arm and he feels like he’s going to fall to his knees again. He nods, not trusting his voice, and carefully leads Owen out of the room, down the corridors to his own chambers.

It’s a slow trip but Percival couldn’t care if it takes them all day - Owen is here and he’s alive. It’s all Percival can do not to run up to the very top of the castle and shout it to the four winds.

As they go, he tells Owen what he’d done that morning - finding the men who had hurt him, bringing them in to be arrested and tried. Owen has to stop then, swaying alarmingly.

He leans against the wall and takes in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, his eyes closed and his face unreadable. “I’m … I’m all right. You - you came back for me, even though you thought I was gone. You came back for me.”

Owen opens his eyes and studies Percival’s face, searching for something. He smiles eventually as some colour comes back to his cheeks and pushes himself carefully away from the wall.

He loops his arm through Percival’s and they carry on their slow, quiet way towards Percival’s chambers.

“I love you, you know,” Owen says quietly as they walk. “And when I’m fully recovered, I’m going to show you just how much.”

Percival glances down at him and smiles. He’s about to say something when Owen tugs on his arm and pulls them both into a shadowy alcove.

There’s a spare amount of light coming through a window on the other side of the corridor, and Percival can just see Owen’s face, his head tilted up. His mouth is curved up in a smile and Percival leans down, kissing Owen gently on the lips - a soft peck, nothing more. He rests his forehead against Owen’s and closes his eyes, letting the quiet of the moment, of everything, settle into his skin and his bones.

“I love you too,” he says quietly before kissing Owen again, firmer this time, with a promise behind it. Owen makes a small noise in the back of his throat and rests his hands on Percival’s hips.

They stay in the alcove for an unknown length of time, exchanging kisses and quiet words; fervent promises in the dark until Owen sags against Percival’s chest, sighing.

Percival’s immediately contrite and gently wraps his arms around Owen’s shoulders. “You’re exhausted, I should have thought …”

Owen shakes his head, but says nothing when Percival loops Gaius’ satchel over his shoulders, then picks him up gently, like he weighs nothing at all, and carries him all the way to the chamber.

Owen wraps his arms around Percival’s strong neck, wincing slightly, and lets his knight - his love and his very own champion - bear all of his weight.

Percival does it easily.



“Well done, Arthur.”

The voice is quiet, just behind him and Arthur doesn’t move to acknowledge it, but he feels something heavy loosen inside his chest. It’s worth it, he thinks, watching the way Percival and Owen interact, the obvious deep bond they share. It has to be worth it … his thoughts are interrupted by Leon, who says to him quietly, “Sire, Sir Percival brought the men he says are responsible for the attack on Owen to the castle - they were unconscious, but alive. I ordered them taken to the dungeons. They might be awake by now, if you wanted to question them yourself … “

Arthur frowns as he considers Leon’s words. A confession will clear Percival’s name once and for all. He looks at Leon, then happens to catch Gwaine’s gaze, who’s standing with the other, uh, boy from the brothel. Gwaine is absently stroking the pommel of his sword, closely following the exchange.

Arthur stretches his shoulders and swallows back a sigh. He wants it done, suddenly - wants to go back to things that he understands - training with his knights, clashing over policies with his father and advisers. Even going off on some crack-brained scheme of Merlin’s would feel more normal than this lunacy.

“Take Lance, and Elyan,” he says to Leon. “Go and question the prisoners, if they’re awake. Their options are to confess, and leave Camelot forever, or the executioner’s axe. I imagine you’ll be escorting them to the borders. And I’ll see you all at training tomorrow.”

Leon bows to Arthur before indicating for Lance and Elyan to follow him.

The silence left in the room is sudden and somehow shocking. Arthur sighs and pushes a hand through his hair.

“Well, there’s a council meeting soon that I’m sure father will expect to see me at.” Arthur glances out the window at the sky, a washed-clean blue that he knows will soon extend to the horizon. He forces his attention back to Merlin, who’s grinning at him like he’s Merlin’s favourite treat.

Arthur shakes his head at that. He must be more tired than he realised.

“Make yourself useful, Merlin. I’m sure Gaius can find plenty for you to do while we’re at the meeting. I’ll expect you in my room later to attend me.”

Merlin rolls his eyes and pulls a face, but says nothing beyond a mocking “Yes Sire.”

Arthur snorts at that, gives a small nod to Gaius, and mentally fortifies himself for the meeting ahead. Policies and boundary reports and grain figures … he finds himself almost looking forward to the droning predictability of it. At least it’s something tangible.

He waits while Gaius gives Merlin some quiet instructions and then they both leave for the meeting, Arthur having to resist the impulse to turn around to meet Merlin’s eyes one more time.

He talks idly to Gaius as they walk, quietly going over the events of the morning, and filling Gaius in on the details of the argument with his father the day before.

“I don’t like to oppose him, Gaius, but I just … felt very strongly that I needed to do what I did - not just for Sir Percival but for all of the Round Table - and for myself.” Arthur adds the last part quietly, frowning, like it’s a realisation he’s just come to.

“Well, Sire, you know I think you did the right thing. Sir Percival is a fine knight, and young Owen is as pleasant a young man you could wish to meet, his former occupation notwithstanding.”

They’re outside the council chambers door now, so Arthur has no time to reply beyond a nod to acknowledge Gaius’ words.

The meeting is tedious and long. Uther only references the dramas of the day before by asking Arthur if everything has been settled to his satisfaction, barely acknowledging his reply before turning his attention back to the map spread out on the table in front of him.

It’s a curious repeat of the evening before when he makes his way his way back to his chambers after quietly talking to Gaius before sending him back to his own rooms for supper. Arthur finds the presence of the old physician soothing after wrangling with his father and his father’s other advisers for the better part of the day.

Gaius leaves him with a pat on the arm and a quiet good night, leaving Arthur to enter his own rooms to find Merlin bustling about. The fire is lit, there’s food on the table that smells so very good, and a goblet of wine beside it.

Perfect.

Arthur’s starving, and he’s tired, but for a moment, he lets himself watch Merlin as he goes about straightening the bed covers, muttering to himself all the while. It’s soothing, and Merlin looks somehow … right in Arthur’s room. Arthur leans against the door, still quiet and lets that thought linger with him for a moment. With everything that’s happened over the past day or so Arthur hasn’t had time, really, to consider the fact that it’s made him start looking at Merlin … differently.

He frowns at that, his first instinct to push the thought - the well-worn, familiar thought if he’s honest - to the back of his mind. But then he thinks of Percival, thinks of the open expression of love and relief - how he couldn’t even keep his feet on the ground when he discovered Owen was still alive - and he allows himself to think - maybe.

Merlin looks up then, raising an eyebrow. “Are you going to hold up the door all night your highness? Because I’m pretty sure the door has these things called hinges that do it for you. Very little call for door-holder-uppers these days.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and bites back a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin. I’m just … tired. It was a long meeting. Nothing you would understand of course. I suppose you’ve been frolicking with deer or picking flowers, or whatever it is that you do when you’re not being the worst manservant in the world.”

Merlin grins at him, the bright, open grin that always makes Arthur want to smile back while simultaneously protecting Merlin from every bad thing in the world because someone who smiles at the world like that - so open and trusting - should never know about the dark .

He must be tired because that barely makes sense, and it’s - girlish nonsense -

“Yes, Arthur, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. Frolicking and er, picking flowers. And now I’ve also tidied your rooms, fetched your dinner, started your fire …”

Arthur holds up a hand, but he’s grinning. “Yes, yes, you work very hard, you’re an excellent servant …”

Merlin comes to stand in front of him, studying his eyes and frowning in confusion. “Did you hit your head on the way back from the council meeting? That almost sounded like a compliment!”

“I told, you, Merlin, I’m tired. Very tired, Practically delirious. I have no idea what I’m saying. Let’s um. Let’s eat, shall we before all the food goes cold?”

Merlin relents, standing back to let Arthur go to sit down at the table. Arthur indicates the chair beside him. He picks up his wine goblet and studies the red depths. “Sit down, Merlin, have something to eat. Give Gaius some peace from your prattle.”

Merlin snorts at that, but takes a seat anyway, reaching for the loaf of bread and breaking it in two, handing half back to Arthur. “So to save, Gaius, you’ll listen to my prattle? How noble, you should be a knight.”

They carry on like this, back and forth until the food is nearly gone and the wine half-drunk. Their talk flows from banter to discussion of the meeting, to the sudden return of Percival, and Arthur’s equally sudden acceptance of the revelation of Percival’s relationship with Owen.

Arthur turns the stem of his cup around, and around, staring at the remaining wine. “I don’t know why I did it,” he says of the argument with his father the day before. “I was set, of course, for the interview to be difficult, because I hadn’t managed to pick up his trail, but suddenly I found myself … defending him. Defending the Round Table.”

He picks up his goblet and heads to the fire, staring down into its flickering depths, feeling Merlin’s eyes on his back.

“It just … seemed very important, suddenly. Losing Percival would break the circle, break the bond. And if he proved to be innocent - which, of course, he did, then the bond would be irreparable.” He stops talking and frowns, laughing uncomfortably.

“Did you put some of Gaius’ special remedy in the wine, Merlin? I’m nearly as chatty as you are tonight.”

He means it to sound light and teasing but it comes out wavering and almost like a question which immediately makes Arthur straighten his shoulders and marshal his inner defences. He’s a prince - the prince and he really can’t go about prattling to manservants like this …

Merlin just smiles and stands up, picking up his own cup on the way. “It’s been a long, strange couple of days for everyone, Arthur. Relax. You don’t need to go all … princely. It’s just me. I’m not going to run around Camelot telling everyone you suddenly had an emotion.”

“Very funny, Merlin,” Arthur says, relaxing back into familiar banter. “Next time a troupe of travelling performers comes through, you should go on the road with them. I’m sure your act is a riot on stage.”

“Mmmmhmmm … I’ll be sure to do just that. Then you can get a competent manservant. I’m sure George would volunteer …”

Arthur shudders at the thought of the oh-so-precise and oh-so-dull George in his chambers every day. His rooms and his things would be immaculate, and he would want to throw himself out of the window through sheer boredom.

“Whatever your impulse was in defying your father for Percival’s sake, Arthur - it was … very well done. I know I said that earlier but I wanted to …” Merlin makes an awkward gesture, apparently forgetting about the cup in his hand, because he manages to slosh about half of it over his breeches and onto the floor.

Arthur starts laughing, and it feels so good, like a clear release after the past few days of tension, that he just gives himself over to the moment until he can feel tears on his cheeks and his breath is heaving.

Merlin grumbles through it, cleaning the wine off the floor and muttering about the state of his breeches and will you shut up Arthur, which simply serves to set him off again.

He finally calms down and is able to sit at the table, grinning widely and feeling far more relaxed than he can remember being lately.

Merlin joins him, muttering about his breeches.

“Oh, shut up about your trousers, Merlin. I’m sure they’ve had worse spilt on them than a little wine.”

The silence that follows is, at the very least … heavy. Arthur takes a sip from his cup and wills his ears not to go red, because that would just be ridiculous … he studies the remains of the chicken on his plate instead, intently tracing the shape of one of the bones.

Eventually, he hears Merlin give a soft sigh. “Arthur … is there - is there something else we need to talk about?”

Arthur closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. “No. No, Merlin - there’s nothing. It’s just. Been a long few days. You should. Um. Go and get some sleep and I’ll see you in the morning before training.”

Resolutely Arthur raises his eyes to meet Merlin’s, studying the depths of them for a long moment. At first Arthur thinks Merlin is going to say something, to push something, but in the end all Merlin says is, “All right. I’ll see you in the morning, then, Good night, Sire.”

It’s formal and stiff and Arthur wants to take back his words, to get their easy bantering tone back, but he feels stretched and nearly used up. He just nods to dismiss Merlin for the night and once he hears the door close, he tilts his head back to stare at the solid stone above his head, asking silent, unanswerable questions until his neck aches and he starts to become dizzy with the effort.



“You could stay with me, you know,” Gwaine says, his voice muffled against Kay’s neck. Gwaine had managed to persuade him - using considerable charm and deep pockets - to stay another night in the castle.

Kay laughs softly and nudges back against Gwaine’s fingers, three of which are inside him, fucking him open slowly. Kay half-closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy the sensation for a moment.

Being with Gwaine is always an indulgence, because Gwaine is determined that Kay should have as good a time as he’s having, and although ultimately it boils down to a base transaction, it’s nice to be with someone who wants to delight in his enjoyment.

“And do what,” he says idly, arching back against Gwaine’s solid chest as his fingers rub against the spot inside him that always makes Kay feel like he’s going to shake apart - just a little bit.

“Hmmm … I don’t know - bedwarmer?”

“You just want to get it for free,” Kay says, tilting his neck as Gwaine begins scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin, leaving behind tiny nips and bites.

“You wound me.”

“Gwaine. Shut up.”

Gwaine grumbles something into his neck, and Kay feels a moment of loss when he draws his fingers out, but groans softly as he feels the slick, blunt head of Gwaine’s cock, sliding in.

He closes his eyes, wraps a hand around his own prick and gives himself over to the moment.

They lie quiet for a while and Kay watches the last candle on Gwaine’s table gutter out to nothing, leaving only the moon to give light.

“You could. Stay here with me. I mean, I know it’s no great … love story like Percival and Owen but I would take care of you.”

Kay traces patterns over Gwaine’s broad chest where he’s resting his head and lets himself contemplate it for a moment; no more whoring, no more pretending to enjoy the attentions of sweaty, grunting men … he sighs.

“I won’t deny it’s … tempting. But - I can’t leave Esther.”

Kay bites his lip and moves to sit beside Gwaine, looking down at him from under his lashes.

Gwaine stares for a moment and finally laughs. “Gods, no wonder that look works so well on Percival. It’s fairly devastating.” Gwaine reaches up and touches Kay’s mouth with the pad of his thumb.

“You look serious, what is it?” Gwaine sits up then and Kay’s briefly distracted when the sheet slips down to pool around his thighs, but he blinks and makes himself focus.

“I, um, I need money,” he blurts out, then closes his eyes because this is not how this conversation is supposed to go. He and Esther had talked about it, and talked about it and rehearsed possible outcomes, but Kay naked in Gwaine’s bed and basically demanding money, wasn’t one of them.

He opens his eyes but Gwaine is just looking at him with a mild look of confusion on his face.

Kay takes a deep breath and lets it out, keeping his eyes on Gwaine’s face. “I mean - Esther and me … we … we have a plan.”

“A plan. For which you need money?”

Kay nods, now unable to meet Gwaine’s gaze at all. “Kay, look at me. Tell me.”

“We’re um. We’re going to - buy Agatha out. We’ve been talking about it for a while, and then this thing with Owen happened and we were sent to that house and I had to watch - “

“Hey, come here, it’s all right, Kay …”

Kay lets himself be pulled in to Gwaine’s embrace, and rests his head against the broad shoulder. He’s shaking and he can feel wetness on his face. Gwaine starts rubbing his back, talking to him in low tones, nonsense words that don’t add up to anything but comfort and soon Kay feels himself calming down, easing in the circle of Gwaine’s strong arms.

“Sorry, it’s just - it was only a few days ago and I was so scared, and I thought, we can’t wait any longer because Agatha’s never going to cut her brother loose, which means never getting rid of that blasted moneylender - “

Gwaine’s tactics are much more direct this time - he stops Kay’s words by kissing him hard on the mouth, and Kay responds with a kind of desperation that makes him feel like he may never be safe in the world again.

“Gwaine, please, please …” he breathes against Gwaine’s mouth, not even sure what he’s asking for.

“It’s all right, you’re all right, I’ve got you, don’t worry ..” Gwaine’s words are the same rambling, comforting nonsense, even as he pushes Kay down on his back on the mattress, kissing his face and his neck, murmuring in between until Kay can feel the tension leach out of him and he’s left exhausted and spent.

He breathes against Gwaine’s neck and runs his hands through the thick hair falling over Gwaine’s face. This kind of intimacy is usually something Kay doesn’t allow himself, but he knows Gwaine; knows that it will be taken and given in the spirit it’s intended - as two friends comforting each other in the aftermath of a terrible, strange event.

He moves his legs, bracketing Gwaine’s hips and offers up a cheeky grin. It feels weak and strange, and it doesn’t seem to fool Gwaine, who keeps touching him, soothing over his skin with his sword-calloused hands.

“So,” Gwaine says softly, even as he starts tracing a well-worn path over Kay’s chest and flat stomach with his tongue, “You and Esther need money to take over Agatha’s”

Kay groans and rolls his hips when Gwaine licks a long, lazy stripe up the length of his cock, which hardens under the knight’s expert attentions.

“And … to speed things along, you need a wealthy backer.”

Kay makes a strangled kind of groan of agreement as Gwaine slowly swallows his length, taking his time to taste every inch of skin, using his tongue and his mouth until Kay is bucking up into the wet, relentless heat and coming so hard everything goes gray for a moment.

Gwaine rests his head on Kay’s hip and grins up at him, a smug, lazy smile that’s so very Gwaine that Kay can’t help but laugh.

“What a coincidence,” Gwaine says idly, reaching for the half-empty vial of oil on the bed, pouring some on his fingers before teasing at Kay’s still-slick hole, “Because I happen to be a wealthy backer. “

And Kay can breathe properly again.



On impulse, after leaving Arthur’s chambers, Merlin heads for the stairs that lead to the battlements rather than to the rooms he shares with Gaius.

He feels the need for some solitude, and silence. He makes his way to the battlements slowly, letting the pacing of his steps provide a kind of peace of their own, until his mind is nearly empty of thought. He half-smiles when he thinks of Arthur pointing out that his head is nearly always empty of thought ….

Merlin sighs, pushes open the heavy door and goes to lean on the heavy, ancient stone, feeling his magic curling under his skin and responding to the weight of the centuries that they carry with them.

It’s grounding somehow and he digs his fingers in, feeling the pleasing scratch of rough stone against his skin.

It’s been such a flurry, the past few days, he thinks, gazing out at the star-thick sky, waiting for his thoughts to order themselves. He feels as though he’s barely had time to think, barely seen Arthur … he sighs.

He’d accepted, long ago, that his feelings for Arthur would be much like his magic: a secret kept, to save his sanity this time, if not his life. Arthur is … bright, and shining and will be king of Camelot one day. Merlin … he’s none of those things. He had managed - he thought - to keep his feelings in check, keep them at bay, but then this thing with Percival and Owen had happened and since then Merlin could swear he’s seen Arthur look at him with more behind his eyes than his usual exasperated affection.

Merlin pushes his hands through his hair and stares at the stars until they start looking like nothing at all.

He weighs and considers all his options, standing up on the battlements. He could tell Arthur how he feels … Merlin bites his lip and allows himself to indulge in a fantasy for a moment - of laying all of his secrets and his soul bare at Arthur’s feet … just giving up everything .

He closes his eyes and savours the lightness he feels just at the thought of it. At Arthur being accepting of his magic, and of wanting Merlin as much as Merlin wants him …

“Get your head out of the stars, Merlin,” he mutters to himself, blinking and rubbing his eyes, watering from staring at the stars without blinking for too long.

Reluctantly, he turns to go back down the stairs, to his own room, and to another night of restless, heated dreams. Even as he opens the heavy door again, he’s storing up all the little looks and gestures Arthur has given him over the past few days.

He always has been an optimistic sort of an idiot.



One month later

Percival rolls his shoulders and stretches out his arms, savouring the deep ache of a day well spent on the training field in his muscles. He grins at Gwaine, who’s trying to talk Lance into coming out to the tavern with him that night.

“No, Gwaine,” Lance says patiently, for at least the fourth or fifth time. “I intend to eat with my wife tonight, and draw water for her for a bath - she finds it eases the ache in her back.”

Percival smiles as Gwaine mutters at the soft expression on Lance’s face when he talks about Gwen and their baby to be.

Gwaine puffs out a sigh and pouts in Percival’s direction, raising his eyebrows hopefully.

“Percival …?”

“No, not me. I just got back yesterday from a week of border patrol with Leon. And - no offence Sir Leon, but I have a much more pleasant bed companion waiting for me. It looks like you might be on your own, Gwaine.”

Gwaine pouts at him again, and looks around. Arthur and Merlin are deep in conversation away from the others, their voices too low to be heard. Elyan is inspecting a bruise on his side, a blow struck by Leon during their training bout.

“Better go and see Gaius about that, Elyan. Get something to draw out any swelling.”

Elyan looks up at Lance and frowns down at the already-purpling bruise again.

“I don’t know, it might be all right …”

“May I?”

The knights all look up at Merlin and Arthur, now approaching. Elyan grumbles but lets Merlin probe the mark gently with his long fingers.

“Lance is right, Elyan. If you want to be training tomorrow, you had better get a poultice from Gaius.”

Elyan mutters, but hands his training gear off to Percival and Gwaine, wincing as he turns around.

Percival helps Gwaine put the swords away, half-listening to Merlin and Arthur’s banter in the background as Merlin helps Arthur out of his training armour.

Gwaine, the eternal optimist, keeps trying to talk Percival into going to the tavern with him. Percival just shakes his head and largely ignores him until he throws his hands up in mock-exasperation.

“Fine! I’m off to Esther’s then. Been a while since I checked on my investment.”

With a broad, cheeky wink at Merlin and Arthur, Gwaine is gone before Arthur can say anything about his inappropriate behaviour.

Percival manages to bite back a laugh and not to catch Merlin’s eye, who is suddenly very intent on examining the blade of Arthur’s sword.

“Right. Well … I’ll - “

“Bright and early tomorrow morning, Percival,” Arthur says, his stern tone belying the fact that the tops of his ears are burning red.

“Yes, sire, of course,” Percival replies, ducking his head quickly before escaping the armoury.

The sun is just setting, casting everything in a blaze of orange, and Percival pauses just for a moment before making his way to his own rooms, a smile playing about his lips.

He opens his door and contemplates the picture within. The room is awash with the light of the sunset, and a few flickering candles. There’s a generous meal laid out on his table and Owen is standing by the window, looking out at the fiery sky.

Percival sighs and rolls his shoulders again as he quietly closes the door behind him.

They’d got back late enough the night before from border duty that Owen had already been asleep, nearly lost in the massive bed, and Percival had had training this morning, so this is the first time they’ve really seen each other in just over a week.

A few quick strides brings Percival to Owen. He wraps his arms around him, still gentle even though Owen’s bruises and injuries are long faded thanks to Gaius and Percival’s close attention and to Owen’s own youth and health.

Owen smiles and leans back against Percival’s chest, resting his hands over the corded muscles of Percival’s arms. His gaze returns to the dying daylight as he starts running his hand over Percival’s skin, bringing up goosebumps and making Percival shiver.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Owen says, his voice dreamy and distant. Percival leans down and nips lightly at the skin just behind Owen’s ear, an action that never fails to elicit a reaction.

Owen starts slightly, as though he’s just realised that Percival is there, even though he’s tucked up against Percival’s broad chest.

“Yes, it’s beautiful,” Percival says as the sun goes down behind the horizon. “Now come and have something to eat before it all gets cold. I’ll not have my squire scolding me again for you being so skinny.”

Owen laughs at that and turns around in the circle of Percival’s arms, tilting his face up for a kiss. Percival obliges, kissing him at the corner of his mouth. Owen pouts at that but Percival merely nudges him towards the table.

“Your squire fusses too much,” Owen says, even as he sits down and reaches out for the loaf of bread, tearing it in two. He hands Percival the larger half and starts pulling out the soft inside, chewing on it slowly.

Percival shakes his head and pours two cups of wine before attending to his plate, the smell of the food making his stomach growl. Owen bursts out laughing at that, a light infectious noise that soon has Percival grinning.

Percival applies himself to his food and they talk quietly - Percival about training and how Elyan had managed to get hurt, and Owen about spending the day trailing around the market after Gwen, not realising that offering to help her would mean playing fetch-and-carry most of the day.

“I’m all right,” Owen assures Percival quickly when he sees a frown mar his forehead. “Gwen fussed over me as much as you and Geraint do. She ended up roping in one of the guards to help us when she thought I was carrying too much.”

Percival studies Owen’s face for a moment longer, but he doesn’t seem to be particularly tired, so he lets it go.

He reaches out his hand across the table and Owen takes it immediately, linking their fingers together.

“Do we fuss over you too much? Geraint and I? I told him, when you came here, to treat you like he would if … if you were my wife and - you’d tell us if it were too much wouldn’t you?”

Percival rubs his thumb over the back of Owen’s hand, over the bump of each knuckle, quietly enjoying the feeling of smooth skin and the warmth of the moment.

Owen lifts Percival’s hand to his mouth on impulse, turning it over and kissing the palm. “You do fuss. You and your evil squire, but … it’s … nice. It’s - home. I don’t know how else to explain it. I went from living with my mother, to nearly starving on the street to working at the brothel … and I had people who helped me when I needed it - I had Kay, and Esther, and Kay is like a brother to me but … “

Owen sighs and pushes his free hand through his hair. “I’m not saying this very well. What I’m trying to say is - you and Geraint and Gwen and all can fuss over me as much as you like. Because for the first time in a really long time, I feel like I’m home.”

The rest of dinner is abandoned, as Percival stands up, pulling Owen with him and they both somehow land on the bed, kissing now with deep intent, pulling at shirts and breeches and dragging at boots, until there’s nothing between them but skin and their own words and hearts.

Percival kisses Owen again, slow and deep, groaning as Owen’s mouth opens under his, turning the kiss heated and filthy and stock-full of promise.

Percival rolls his hips down, letting his already-hard cock press into Owen’s thigh, enjoying the friction. Owen groans into his mouth again, and pushes up against Percival’s movement until they find a rhythm together. Owen tilts his head back and Percival takes the silent invitation, kissing an invisible pattern over his neck, nipping at the parts he knows are more sensitive.

Owen grips at Percival’s shoulders with his fingers, digging in hard enough to leave bruises as Percival teases at his neck with his mouth and tongue, humming slightly at the addictive taste of Owen’s sweat and skin.

“Percy …” Owen’s voice is high and strained, and Percival can tell he’s at the outer limits of his control. He covers Owen’s mouth again with his own and wraps both their straining, leaking cocks in one large hand. It takes no more than a few strong pulls and he’s gasping nonsense words into Owen’s mouth as he comes, feeling Owen’s orgasm spill onto his hand a moment later.

They lie for a while as the room darkens and the candles gutter, exchanging quiet touches, kisses and soft words spoken against heated skin. Percival moves eventually, dragging himself off the bed long enough to find a basin of water left on top of the small bedside table with a square of rough linen beside it. He wets the fabric before returning to the bed, wiping down Owen’s chest and cleaning up his own.

He lies down and opens his arms for Owen who immediately tucks himself into Percival’s side, winding his arms and legs around him like a tangled tree root.

“I hate you going away,” Owen says quietly, stroking one hand down Percival’s broad chest and flat stomach. “But I do love it when you return.”

Percival pulls Owen up so he’s sprawled across his chest and kisses him, while reaching out to the table by the bed with one hand, groping for the vial of oil he knows is lying by the basin of water.

He finds it finally, handing it to Owen who pops the cork out and carefully pours some on to Percival’s fingers before rolling off and lying on his back on the bed.

Percival wastes no time, pressing one slick finger against Owen’s hole and pushing in slowly, all the while kissing the moans and words out of his mouth.

“More, Percy, more please - “ Owen is spread out on the tangled sheets like a shameless, obscene offering, his skin luminous in the strip of moonlight coming through the window. Percival is so hard he can’t think of anything but pushing another oil-slick finger in and seeking out the spot that will make Owen arch off the bed, crying out, his hand gripping Percival’s bicep so tight there are already red marks there.

Percival kisses him again, their mouths open against each other, wet and filthy and god, perfect.

He has three fingers buried deep in Owen and he aches. “Percy …” Owen mutters against his shoulder as he carefully draws his fingers out before pouring the last of the oil over the length of his cock and pressing in slowly and carefully, breathing into Owen’s neck as the tight clutch around him relaxes into a slick heat and they start moving together, faster and faster as their rhythm pulls them up and in towards the inevitable.

Percival comes first, feeling it everywhere as he empties deep inside Owen, hs hands tight on Owen’s hips.

Owen pants against Percival’s neck, hands still gripped tight on his arms, as he grinds up tight against Percival, suddenly coming everywhere, wet and slick between them.

He collapses back onto the bed, pulling Percival with him. Percival touches Owen’s stomach, spattered with white fluid, feeling suddenly a little overwhelmed. Owen opens his eyes and runs a hand along Percival’s jawline, pulling him down for a deep, long kiss.

Percival sinks into the moment, kissing Owen back as hard as he can while carefully pulling out. He looks down again, and offers a quick grin before lowering his head and licking at the spatters of come on Owen’s chest and stomach.

Owen groans softly but does nothing more than place a hand on Percival’s shoulder, stroking at the skin. Percival keeps going, cleaning with his tongue, until he reaches Owen’s thigh. He nips at it and moans softly when he sees Owen’s hole - red and swollen and leaking come and oil. He kisses it gently to gauge Owen’s reaction. “Is this … all right?” he asks softly, feeling Owen’s fingers squeeze his shoulder briefly.

“Y-yes, please - “

Owen’s voice fades to a groan as Percival flicks his tongue out, tentative at first, not sure of the taste, but soon he’s holding Owen’s legs open and pinned down with his hands, chasing the elusive musk behind the taste of his own come and slick of the oil, all but fucking Owen open again with his tongue.

Owen’s tight around him again, and hot and all Percival can do is groan as he licks every bit of come and oil into his mouth and moan against the taste of it. He’s hard again, impossibly so, and in his haze he watches as Owen pulls frantically at his own cock, coming all over his hand.

Percival rises to his knees, gripping his own cock tight in his hand, keeping his eyes on Owen, who watches him fall apart with wide dark eyes, his kiss-swollen mouth open. He licks his lips once in a while before moving swiftly, changing position so he can take Percival’s cock in his mouth, expertly swallowing the length right before Percival starts coming, one hand tangled in Owen’s hair as he shouts his release into the night.

Owen collapses back on the bed, his arms and legs a relaxed sprawl, his eyes already closing. Percival waits for a moment, breathing deep, until he’s sure he can support his weight. He gets off the bed and stumbles to the table in the middle of the room, draining off the last of the wine from their meal. He then grabs a square of rough cloth, dips it in the basin of water, and gently cleans off Owen’s stomach. Owen grumbles and turns onto his side, facing away from Percival.

Percival grins, drops the cloth and lies down, fitting his chest to Owen’s back and slinging an arm carefully around his waist. Owen winds their fingers together and yawns, suddenly.

Percival kisses the back of his neck and says softly, “Go to sleep. I love you.”

“Love you too,” Owen mutters, as his eyes slip closed and his breathing evens out.

Percival closes his own eyes, letting Owen’s warmth and the rhythm of his quiet breathing carry him over the edge into sleep.



Arthur sits at his table long after Merlin has left for the night. He sprawls careless in his chair, vaguely aware that he might have had a little bit too much of the excellent wine. He’s not drunk, exactly, but he’s very … relaxed.

He tips the cup he’s holding and drains the dregs, putting it back down on the table, slightly harder than he means to, and the sound echoes loudly in his empty room.

Arthur sits back again and stares at the flickering fire, chasing down why he should feel so content. His relationship with his father is still tense, even so long after Arthur had faced him down about the Round Table and Percival, and with no news of Morgana for so very long … Arthur sighs and shakes his head.

He rubs a hand over his face, pushing his fingers through his hair before standing up. He stays still for a moment, in case he’s drunker than he thinks he is, but his legs stay steady under him.

Despite the fact that he’s already gone for the night, and he’s been at Arthur’s side all day during training, there’s only one person Arthur wants to see right now.

He leaves his rooms, has a quiet word with the guards so they stay put, while he sets his course for Gaius’ chambers.

The old physician is asleep, if his rumbling snores are anything to go by. Arthur slips past as quietly as he can, and knocks on Merlin’s door.

“Merlin?” he says softly, frowning when there’s no response. He hadn’t left Arthur that long ago, surely he wasn’t asleep already …

Arthur pushes the door open and curses softly when he sees Merlin’s empty bed. He glances around the room just in case, and snorts to himself when he sees the messy state of it.

“Typical,” he mutters quietly to himself before moving quietly back past Gaius and out into the corridor again, slightly nonplussed. He frowns for a moment, mentally sorting out where Merlin could be. Not in his own room, clearly. Not in Arthur’s room … tavern? Arthur turns that idea over before dismissing it.

He’s sure Merlin has his fair share of debauched nights at the tavern with Gwaine, but he’s equally sure that tonight isn’t one of them. It’s very late for one thing - they had lingered in Arthur’s room, talking quietly long after the meal was finished, something that has become rather a habit of late - something that Arthur can admit he looks forward to.

He’d wanted to say that to Merlin, feeling vaguely like they’d left their conversation unfinished when Merlin had bid a somewhat awkward goodnight. He wants to say a lot of things to Merlin, but first he has to bloody find him … Arthur’s eyes fall on the staircase that leads up to the battlements and feels his face break out into a grin. Of course,

Merlin - who really is a giant girl, no matter what he says to the contrary - had told Arthur during one of their post-dinner conversations that he goes up to the battlements sometimes, when he needs to clear his head. Arthur grins again and heads up the staircase, keeping one hand on the wall all the way up. The wine is settled in his blood now, and he’s a little bit … unsteady.

The stair spiral up and up and Arthur’s grateful when the door appears on the shallow landing. He pushes it open and steps out onto the battlements, his eyes immediately going to Merlin, who’s leaning over one of the tall structures, gazing out into the night.

It’s late enough that the sky is still an inky black, a thick pattern of stars overlaying it like so many tiny, sparkling gems. Quietly Arthur goes to stand beside Merlin and for a while they both just stare out at the night. The forest is nothing but a black outline against a blacker sky. Arthur tilts his head up, trying to find familiar constellations, but giving up because there are just so many stars out.

“I used to come up here as a boy,” Arthur says eventually. “Never this late at night, but sometimes if I could get away from my father and my lessons, I’d hide up here.... I’d forgotten.”

Merlin says nothing as Arthur leans his arms on the thick stone wall in front of them. He shivers involuntarily as the stone is cold, any warmth from the day leached out of them when the sun went down. Merlin moves closer so they’re standing shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the night.

“Masters of all we survey,” Merlin says then, quietly, his voice full of laughter.

Arthur grins at the tone and falls easily into the banter. “I don’t know what you’re master of, Merlin but all I can see out there is a great bloody black lump.” Arthur waves an arm in the vague direction of the forest.

“And the stars, Arthur. Don’t forget the stars.”

“Master of the stars,” Arthur says, affecting his most grave voice. “That does have a nice ring to it...”

Merlin nudges against him then, his shoulders shaking. “Idiot.”

“I’m your prince Merlin, you can’t call me that.”

Arthur feels his words would be a lot more impressive if he didn’t sound like he was trying not to laugh through them.

Merlin turns his head and grins, wide and open like always. On impulse, Arthur reaches out and traces over Merlin’s bottom lip with his thumb. It’s a bare, light touch, hardly anything in the deep, dark night, but it feels like it has the weight of years, of the stones under their feet, pressing on it.

“Arthur …”

“I … um.” Arthur drops his hand and steps back, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. “I wanted to find you to say - I’ve really been enjoying spending time with you.” It’s awkward and hopeless and Arthur winces at himself. Right when he needs them, when he needs the inner confidence that being the Prince of Camelot gives him - they desert him and he’s left tripping and stumbling over his words.

“You see me every single day. I’m surprised you’re not sick of me yet.”

Arthur’s eyes have adjusted to the night and he can see the pale outline of Merlin’s face, the slight downturn of his generous mouth. Merlin’s tone is slightly off, almost shaky and Arthur silently curses himself. He’s come to realise over the past month just how deep Merlin’s feelings for him run, and it’s humbling in a way, and confusing and terrifying, and somewhat wonderful, though Arthur would rather throw himself off the battlement than admit that out loud to Merlin.

“I - um. I wanted to - “ Arthur stops again and pushes his hand through his hair.

“You’re really terrible at this, has anyone ever told you that? Will this help?”

Before Arthur can say anything else, or react, Merlin has leaned into his space, pressing a small kiss at the side of his mouth.

Merlin steps back, his expression nearly hidden in the night. “Your move, your highness.”

Arthur blinks in shock, and takes a breath, not trusting his voice momentarily.

“You know how I feel, I think, Arthur. I’ve … felt the same way about you for a long time. I will live and die for you, for Camelot, for Albion. You will be a great king. You will be my king, but I can’t carry this around any longer without some kind of … sign.”

Merlin stops and takes a deep breath, turning his head to look out at the night sky again.

“Merlin …” Arthur pauses then, sensing an important shift in their relationship about to happen. He has to choose his words very carefully.

“Merlin,” he says again, his voice gentler this time. “Look at me.” Arthur waits until Merlin turns his head, his eyes impossible to read.

“I … know. How you feel about me, I mean, of course I know, I’m not that much of an oblivious idiot - “

Merlin chokes out a small laugh then, and Arthur draws in and lets out a long breath.

“I’m not …” he pauses again, searching for the right words. “I’m not .. in the same place as you are. Not - not yet. You’re well ahead of me on this and I need to - to - “

“Catch up?” Merlin asks softly and somehow he’s inside Arthur’s personal space again, so close that Arthur can see his eyelashes, inky-black and impossibly long.

“I mean - if that’s what you meant. If you meant, catch up with me and not, you know, no Merlin, never in a million years and oh god please stop me talking because I’m just going to keep going - “

Arthur leans forward and kisses him, a fast, clumsy press of lips and nothing like he thinks a real first kiss should be, but it serves its purpose, cutting off Merlin’s babble. The silence is sudden and somehow shocking.

Arthur bites gently at Merlin’s bottom lip and draws back.

“That’s exactly what I meant, Merlin,” he says gently. “I just - I need time. A lot has happened, and I need. Time.”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere. Unless of course, you threaten to banish me again, and then I’ll just take Gwaine up on his offer to drown my sorrows down at the tavern and the last time that happened I lost my breeches and somehow ended up with a chicken. I set it free,” Merlin finishes solemnly, even as Arthur is torn between laughing as hard as he can and a jealous knot that Gwaine gets to be that free with Merlin.

He wavers, but laughter wins out because the picture that Merlin is painting is just so ridiculous.

“I. Um. I babble when I’m nervous?”

Arthur’s mouth twitches as he bites his lip to bring his laughter under control.

“Yes, Merlin, I had actually noticed that before tonight.”

“I mean it, Arthur. I don’t care how long it takes for you to … catch up. I’ll be here. Where I’m meant to be.”’

Arthur lets out another long breath and feels tension that had coiled in his shoulders and neck start to leach out of him at Merlin’s reassuring words.

They both move this time, standing just inside each other’s space.

“Is this all right?” Merlin asks, before kissing Arthur again, more lingering but still little more than a press of lips.

Arthur hums in agreement, low in his throat as he wraps his arms around Merlin’s waist, pulling him in even closer. He kisses him then, slowly and thoroughly, taking his time to memorise the contours of Merlin’s mouth against his own, the feel of Merlin’s smooth skin under his hands … he pulls back somewhat reluctantly, but he had meant what he said.
“I really do need to take this slowly, Merlin,” He sounds apologetic to his own ears, but Merlin just buries his head in Arthur’s neck and murmurs quietly against his skin, something that’s not quite words, but sounds reassuring anyway.

Merlin shivers suddenly and Arthur’s aware of a cold breeze springing up, whistling softly through and around the stones.

“Come on. You’re barely anything but skin and bones, you’ll catch your death out here.”

Arthur guides Merlin back down the stairs and to his own room, where the fire is just dying out to embers. He picks up the poker, indicating for Merlin to sit in one of the chairs set in front of the hearth. Arthur finds some dry wood and carefully builds the fire back up until it’s blazing and warm.

He watches Merlin sleeping for a moment, enjoying the hypnotic play of the firelight flickering over his skin, casting shadows and making his eyelashes look long and spiky. Arthur reaches out, pushing Merlin’s unruly hair back from his head.

“Good night, Merlin,” he says, softly as he can, before turning toward his own bed.

Whatever happens from now on, he has Merlin at his side - and soon, Arthur thinks - in his bed which makes him feel flush and hot all over for a moment, before stripping off his shirt and boots, and crawling under the covers.

He turns onto his side so he can see Merlin’s outline and he smiles into the dark and the night. He will be king, and he will have Merlin by his side.

Arthur lets his eyes drift closed on that thought, and he sleeps.