Chapter Text
“Tell me you want it- me, this, us . Arthur, please. We’re a thousand miles, hell, a thousand years away from the day that we started. And I’m- I’m standing here, with you, just trying to be honest. If honesty,” His breath caught, and he found himself suddenly unable, unwilling to say the inevitable.
He pushed through.
“If honesty means telling you the truth? Then I’m still in love with you.”
Close eyes. Breathe. The words felt sour, caustic. Acid to douse the man in front of him. Meant to burn like they’d been burning Merlin, eating him up inside, stealing his sleep and his dreams away until only finding Arthur remained.
Because it always had been, hadn’t it? Arthur. From the day he’d arrived in Camelot, all those centuries ago, it had been Arthur. Like Merlin’s body was wired to him, every nerve tingling with even the scant proximity they had now, the wind whipping between them offering little to cool the flame in Merlin’s cheeks.
Merlin opened his eyes.
Arthur was still standing there, which was- something , at least. He looked scruffier than the day he’d died, like maybe he’d been put through the wringer in the couple years between his resurrection and now. Good , Merlin thought, as his subconscious whispered not so good. His jaw showed the wispy beginnings of a beard, his hair curling over his ears and sweeping low over shadowed eyes. Eyes that were, currently, blown wide with shock, and confusion, and then he blinked and it was gone. Replaced, as every emotion had been, with a glassy stare.
Merlin had known, when he came here, following the weak pull of his magic through car parks and forests and lawns to this place, that Arthur would be waiting for him.
Merlin had not known that Arthur would not know his own name. Would not know Merlin’s name , which hurt more than anything Merlin had endured in the past millennia-point-five. He had pleaded, screamed, cried, shook Arthur down, held his hand, kissed his fingers, anything . No response from the man, except brief flashes of something and flinching away from Merlin’s hands.
The truth had not worked. Arthur had known, before, that Merlin loved him. This Arthur did not know, and seemingly did not care, and it was all Merlin could do to keep from chucking this one off a cliff and going to find his King. The way his magic had reacted, the way it curled warm and low and familiar in Merlin’s belly when he’d parted the branches and seen him , he’d known there was no mistake. So he’d worked himself raw, peeling back layer and layer until the bone-white truth was all he had left.
And Arthur remained unchanged.
Merlin never, in the thousand-odd years he’d been waiting for Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King, to return, imagined himself turning away from the man he loved. Yet here he was, disgusted with himself, with Arthur, with whatever deity was currently having a laugh at their expense. Star-crossed lovers , he’d whispered to a playwright, and it had never felt more true.
So Merlin turned. Turned and shrugged his jacket higher on his shoulders, the chill of the breeze finally making itself known.
“ Merlin .”
Any resolve he had disappeared. One whispered, tiny word, vast in the voice buried for eons, the voice Merlin worried and worried he’d forgotten. Names have power , someone said. And Merlin’s name in Arthur’s mouth felt like home.
He’d barely turned around before Arthur was crashing into him, tucking his face into Merlin’s neck just like he used to, all wet face and hot breath. Like Merlin’s name had broken some dam inside of him, words flooded out of Arthur.
“ Merlin I came back and I couldn’t remember I couldn’t feel , it was like someone had- had painted over everything, and I woke up and people were shouting, saying I’d drowned and someone had rescued me and then your name, your face was in my head but it wasn’t you, but I knew I had to find you and I couldn’t.” Arthur shuddered, gripping Merlin’s jacket, pressing himself closer in a way Old Arthur would never have done. Stop comparing them , said Merlin’s head, in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Gaius. This Arthur has been through things old Arthur could never have imagined.
“I looked, Merlin. I looked for you in Camelot and London and Glasgow and then I found my way to the continent and I couldn’t find you . And then, there was a newspaper. An art exhibit, in Lyon, by the renowned artist Emrys . And I thanked whatever is out there because then I knew , I knew to find you there. And now- now we’re here. And I remember everything.”
Merlin was here. Merlin was holding Arthur. Things were going to be okay.
There were bad days. There were days Arthur woke up kicking and screaming, eyes gone blank, pleading with someone to send him back. Days he wouldn’t talk to Merlin, days spent locked in his room, eating only when Merlin begged him to. Days where he couldn’t remember who he was, or why he was here, and days where the memories were too much and he would sob, chest heaving as he purged all the grief and guilt he’d allowed to build up.
But in between the bad days there were days that were good. Days Merlin would wake up to the smell of coffee, days Arthur would settle closer than usual on the couch. Days spent in silence, the good kind, where Arthur would rest with his face in the sun and then Merlin would sketch him, his ever-lengthening hair and beard glinting golden in the light.
They’d been on a stretch of good days- nearly a week, not that Merlin was counting. He’d found a therapist for Arthur, someone with warm eyes and a kind smile that reminded him of Gwen. Arthur, pig-headed though he was, agreed to go, and walked out of the first session with the weight in his eyes a shade lighter. He’d begun to go for walks, traversing the wild Lyonese forests behind Merlin’s flat and bringing back flowers, or a pinecone, or a particularly beautiful rock that he’d proclaimed matched Merlin’s eyes exactly. The nightmares had subsided.
It all came crashing down when Merlin opened the flat door not to Arthur, but-
Gwaine.
Gwaine with short hair, cropped close to his skull. Merlin stood dumb, blocking the doorway, eyes traversing the ripped jeans and loose tee advertising some British boyband he’d never gotten into. It was only supposed to be Arthur .
At least Gwaine looked fairly well-adjusted.
“Merlin, hey. Was hoping it’d be you. News article, y’see. About you.”
Merlin blinked, realizing he was supposed to respond to the fucking vision of a dead man soaked in twenty-first century influence.
“Arthur’s here,” he blurted, feeling very suddenly off-kilter with all of the everything currently happening to him. If this was how he felt about Gwaine showing up out of thin air, what the hell would this be like for Arthur? He was dimly aware of Gwaine gripping his elbow, leading him gently into his own living room, and sitting him down before muttering something about tea and meandering, Merlin supposed, to the kitchen.
When did Gwaine become the responsible one?
“So. Arthur. He’s... here? Playing the hero again?”
Gwaine materialized, two mugs of steaming liquid clenched in his hands. Merlin winced. There was no delicate way of saying Arthur isn’t Arthur anymore , of telling Gwaine that Arthur had been so deeply traumatized by the whole process of resurrection that he sometimes started at his own shadow.
Merlin told him, nonetheless. He watched as Gwaine’s face unfurled like a flower, every ounce of concern and fear and anguish clear on his sharp features. He’d always been like that, Merlin remembered. Gwaine was deceptively open, showing everything and hiding even more. The other man leaned back as Merlin trailed off, scrubbing a hand over his scalp and loosing a quiet breath.
“Sounds to me like he woke up scared, and alone, and everything just...compounded. I got lucky; Perce showed up around the same time as me, we were able to figure things out from there. Arthur... he had no one.” And it sounded like an accusation, Merlin’s hands tightening reflexively on his mug. Breathe in, breath out. No use shouting at Gwaine when he was right.
Merlin had failed.
Thankfully, his shame-spiral was interrupted by the sound of the flat door banging open and the scrub of shoes against the doormat. Shit .
“Hello, Merlin. Gwaine. Is the kettle still on?”
Merlin gaped, eyes locked on Arthur until he disappeared into the kitchen. There were expected outcomes, and then there was this. Centuries worth of jaded, bitter emotion reared its head, flooding his mouth with bile. So Gwaine got to be remembered, but it took Merlin stripping himself bare?
And all at once the present rushed back, and Merlin could feel Gwaine and now Arthur staring at him. Breathe, Merlin. Tug a hand through your hair. Smile.
Gwaine left after a few hours, chatting with Arthur and Merlin both about the weather, Merlin’s art, the news; light, benign topics that Merlin was all-too-grateful for. He escorted Gwaine to the door, finally feeling the knot in his gut relax. It was fine, Arthur was fine, and, goddess above, he’d missed Gwaine. The other man pulled him into a hug, and oh, yeah, this was what being loved felt like. Merlin allowed his eyes to close, allowed himself to pull Gwaine closer in. A millennia’s worth of touch starvation did things to a person, however independent they were. Gwaine pulled back, grinning.
“There’s my Merlin. Goddess only knows how you survived this long without me. Here’s my number- if he’s, y’know, fine, after all this, let me know. I’ll bring Perce over and we can see about finding the rest of us.”
Merlin took the scrap of paper, folding it gingerly.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that. We’ll see just how far you lot’ve gotten without me. ”
Merlin made his way back to the couch, after the third reassurance that yes, he’d call, yes, he’d let Gwaine know how Arthur was doing, yes, they could FaceTime. He flopped down, drained and yet...hopeful. Doubly so, as he felt Arthur’s weight settle in next to him. A head tipped onto his shoulder, a hand guiding his to the hair there.
“What’m I meant to do with this?” He teased, elbowing Arthur gently in the ribs.
“Shut up and pet my head, Merlin. It’s been a long day.”
Who was Merlin to deny his king? His hand took up a steady rhythm through the blond’s ever-longer hair, feeling Arthur relax fully into the couch.
“Gwaine...was that, was it-”
“Weird? Yeah. I- remembered, though. At first, just being jealous of him.”
Merlin’s hand stilled. Jealous? Of Gwaine?
“Merlin. Continue.” When Merlin didn’t, Arthur sighed, a sound of the long-suffering and pretentious.
“Yes, jealous, you prick. You and he...were close. Anyway, I quickly remembered his merits. I wonder... if he made it back, does that mean...?”
“He said Percival came at the same time he did. I think it’s likely the rest of them are out there, eh?”
But Arthur had fallen asleep, the gentle soothing of Merlin’s hand combined with the effort the day knocking him out exactly like it used to. Merlin allowed himself a smile.
He could take the down-moments in exchange for ones like this.