The Ship Of Dreams
Title: The Ship Of Dreams
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Arthur/Gwaine
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Character death, adult themes
Words: 900
Summary: The Ship of Dreams, they called it. And it was. Oh, it was.
A/N: I blame this one on giselleslash because she's the one who introduced me to this lovely pairing. If you haven't read her work yet, you should do this immediately. (If you have, do it again.)
Written for this prompt on KMM27.
~*~
The man was nuts, obviously so, but even idiots didn’t deserve to go overboard.
Gwaine told him he’d dive after him if he jumped. And the man didn’t jump. A honourable one, then, one who didn’t want to be responsible for other people’s deaths. That was kind of nice, Gwaine supposed, and kind of admirable as well. Mostly, though, he was just glad he’d been able to get through to the guy.
And then Gwaine met the man’s father. And was accused of assault. And invited to dinner.
All in all, it was an eventful evening.
~*~
On the evening Gwaine was invited to dine with the Pendragons, Sophia Sidhe elbowed him none too gently in the side, causing him to stumble into the dining room door.
Gwaine kept a neutral expression and studied Arthur. Arthur, who had a disapproving look on his face whenever he looked at Gwaine. Arthur, who, though his family members tried their best to prevent this from happening, shone like the brightest of stars from underneath his armour of sadness. Arthur, who had tried to kill himself. And now Gwaine knew why. He also knew it would happen again if Arthur was married off to this woman.
He made it through dinner, allowed his mind to be filled with Arthur’s angles.
His fingers were itching to draw.
~*~
Arthur liked his drawings. Was surprised by the quality of them.
Gwaine liked Arthur. Was intrigued by the man who wasn’t the man his father wanted him to be.
~*~
Gwaine always knew where the best parties were. He also knew they couldn’t be found on Arthur’s decks. Oh no. No, you had to go down to the cosy decks to feast properly, meet interesting people, have the time of your life.
He told Arthur this. Invited him over. And Arthur came, showed up at the big clock in the hall as requested, looking dashing and unsure and hopeful, and Gwaine could have kissed him right there and then. But he didn’t.
Waited.
~*~
Arthur liked to sing, he told Gwaine. Loved making music, which was fairly respectable in his father’s eyes, but only using instruments. Singing was not. Neither was liking controversial art. Did Arthur mention he liked art? The colourful, meaningful kind? The kind with feeling? Why couldn’t he stop talking when he was around Gwaine? What was Gwaine doing to him? It was making him a bit giddy, and maybe a bit giggly as well. Also, he could stand on his toes.
Look, Gwaine!
Gwaine looked. And saw.
~*~
When they did kiss, made love, danced, lived, Gwaine looked at the spark in Arthur’s eyes. Knew he had installed it there, given Arthur a reason to live, a reason not to jump. And when Arthur said he’d come with him, Gwaine smiled at him, knew he wanted him to. They’d make a new life together. A better one. A good one. They could be happy. He could make Arthur happy. God, how he wanted to see Arthur happy. He could make drawings of a happy Arthur all day long.
~*~
The first drawing he made wasn’t a happy one. But it was a needed one nonetheless.
Arthur lay back on the sofa, exposed, eyes gazing into Gwaine’s.
Gwaine knew there and then he was in love.
~*~
When the boat sank, Gwaine told Arthur to get on the bloody door. Arthur did what he said, immediately, trusting him on every possible level. But when the door proved incapable of holding them both-and Gwaine knew there was a reason he hated the thing-Arthur looked at him over his shoulder, hands clenching the edge of the wooden plank, intentions of getting off shining through on his face.
“Don’t you dare,” Gwaine growled at him, and he grabbed Arthur’s hand and made him stay put, willed him to remain safe and dry, miserable and cold.
Alive.
Eventually, Gwaine’s body grew so cold he had no choice but to let go. He would not drag Arthur down with him, would keep him as warm as possible by distancing himself from his shivering frame.
Gwaine was long past the point of shivering.
“Sing me a song,” he said quietly, and Arthur did, voice cracking slightly. Gwaine allowed himself to be lulled into a state of unawareness, the sound of Arthur’s voice washing over him like warm waves, waves unlike the ones surrounding him.
He left Arthur without a sound, sank into the dark unknown with a small smile on his face. The only thing on his mind the hope that Arthur would keep singing, if not out loud, then at least in his mind. Singing for Gwaine. For freedom. For life.
He slipped away with hope in his head, in his heart, underneath his skin-and an indescribable love for the stupid door and the person on top of it.
~*~
Gwaine moved on easily. Had done so all his life. Tears were wept for him. But strength was drawn from the legacy he left behind.
And when Arthur Pendragon reached America, he went his own way, lived his own life, lived it fully, and was in charge of every good and bad step he took. He lived, danced, loved and kissed, exactly like Gwaine once hoped he would.
~*~
The Ship of Dreams, they called it.
And it was. Oh, it was.
FIN