Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sometimes I wonder if it’s all in my mind.
If the way his gaze lingers a moment too long is real—or if I’ve dreamt it all.
If the brush of his fingers against mine was accidental, or deliberate.
If the way he says my name—like it means something—means anything at all.

The thought blooms like a bruise behind Merlin’s ribs, soft and aching. It presses against his chest with every sunrise, with every smile that isn’t quite his, with every glance that catches and slips away like flowing water. He knows better than to believe in destiny.

And yet he does.

Arthur sleeps with his back to the door, golden hair haloed by moonlight, and Merlin watches him like a secret. Like a sin. His fingers are curled around the hem of the prince’s tunic, where he clutches it to his chest as if that might keep him from steady minded come morning.

He knows it won’t.

Sometimes Arthur speaks his name in sleep. Sometimes he murmurs Merlin like it’s water on parched lips, like it’s a balm, like it’s safe. And Merlin lets himself believe, in those rare twilight hours, that maybe he is. That maybe he could be.

But then morning comes, and Arthur rises, and the walls go back up. Merlin follows at a distance, always a pace behind. Always just far enough to be invisible.

It wasn’t always this bad. There were days—brief, flickering things—when Merlin thought the space between them might narrow. When Arthur would look at him with something like wonder. When his laugh felt like a sacred thing, like an echo shared only between them.

But Camelot is made of stone and laws and things that don’t bend for boys like him. And Arthur… Arthur was born to rule. Merlin was born to kneel.

He tries not to let it rot him from the inside.

But he is tired. So tired of loving in silence.

It started, Merlin thinks, on a battlefield. Everything does, in Camelot. Blood and dust, the scream of metal. He remembers the way the enemy stood over him, sword outstretched. He remembers thinking he might die from it—the way Arthur’s eyes went wild when he saw Merlin fall, as though it meant something. As though he meant something.

But nothing ever comes of it. Not really.

“You’re an idiot,” Arthur says the next day, voice tight. “Throwing yourself in front of me like that. Were you trying to get yourself killed?”

Merlin smiles like he always does, like it doesn’t hurt. “Someone has to keep your royal backside alive.”

Arthur huffs. But there’s a pause. And then a hand, warm and heavy, lands on his shoulder.

He doesn’t let himself flinch. Not visibly.

Later, he sits alone in his chambers and curls that shoulder into the crook of his neck, trying to remember the exact weight of Arthur’s hand. As if remembering might somehow make it matter.

He doesn’t tell anyone. Not Gaius, who would worry. Not Gwen, who would understand —which is somehow worse. He doesn’t even whisper it to the wind when he’s out walking in the forest, when the silence feels too loud in his head and the ache of it threatens to consume him whole.

It’s not just the status. Though that’s the foundation of it all, isn’t it? The great divide built into their bloodlines. Prince and servant. Heir and afterthought.

It’s that Arthur can’t see it. Or won’t.

Merlin’s love is a quiet thing. It folds itself into the way he draws the prince’s bath, the way he sets out his clothes just so, the way he pulls him from fire and fangs and death time and again without ever asking for thanks. It weaves into the way he says be careful without saying it, the way he watches Arthur ride into danger like a star burning too bright.

He wonders if Arthur knows. If somewhere, beneath all that royal pride and armor, Arthur feels it.

And worse—wonders if he does and simply doesn’t care.

There’s a moment. A terrible, beautiful, unforgettable moment.

A night when the two return bloodied and shaking from a skirmish with bandits, and Merlin pushes Arthur into a chair with trembling hands, cleaning wounds with too-gentle fingers.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Arthur says, voice low.

“You’d be dead if I hadn’t,” Merlin replies.

They look at each other then. Really look. And the air between them goes still, heavy with things unsaid. Arthur’s hand lifts—hesitates—then settles delicately on Merlin’s wrist.

“You’re always there,” Arthur says, barely more than a whisper. “Why are you always there?”

Merlin’s mouth opens. Closes.

Because I love you.

Because I can’t not be.

Because you’re everything and I’m nothing and still, I would tear the world apart just to keep you breathing.

Instead, he says, “Someone’s got to be.”

Arthur’s eyes darken. “You’re a bad liar, Merlin.”

And maybe, maybe , for a moment, something cracks.

But it’s only a moment. Then Arthur pulls away, and Merlin is left holding the broken pieces of something that never got the chance to become whole.

He dreams of a different world, sometimes.

One where he could press his forehead to Arthur’s and breathe without restraint. One where he could say, I love you, and not feel the weight of centuries pressing against his lungs.

One where Arthur would say it back.

In this dream-world, Merlin is not a servant. Arthur is not a prince. They are just two boys, lost and found in each other.

He wakes from these dreams choking.

The hardest part is pretending.

Pretending he doesn’t notice the way Arthur’s voice softens when they’re alone. Pretending the way Arthur looks at him—like he’s searching for something—doesn’t set him on fire. Pretending the ache in his chest is just fatigue, or hunger, or anything but what it is.

He folds love into cleaning and polishing. Into jokes and jabs and the way he always stands between Arthur and harm. He folds it into silence.

And Arthur, ever oblivious or ever cruel, doesn’t unfold it.

He just keeps going.

Keeps being —loud and bright and golden and so far away.

Merlin watches him dance with noblewomen at feasts, all courtly smiles and shallow flirtation. Watches him kiss them in hallways, laughter still clinging to his lips like wine. Watches, and says nothing.

It would kill him to speak.

So he swallows his hurt. It sits in his gut and rots.

Once, just once, Arthur comes close.

They’re drunk. Or nearly. The fire is low and their boots are off and they’re sprawled too close on furs that smell of smoke and sweet wine.

“You’re the only one who’s always here,” Arthur says, voice thick.

Merlin says nothing. Can’t.

Arthur’s hand brushes his, light as breath. “Sometimes I think—”

He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t have to.

Merlin thinks it too. Every day. Every bloody day.

They don’t speak of it again.

He wonders what would happen if he told him.

If he stood in the light and spoke the truth he’s been burying like a corpse beneath his ribs.

I love you.

Would Arthur laugh? Would he rage?

Would he step away, or forward?

Would he say it back?

The not-knowing is worse than the certainty. But he is a coward, and Arthur is a prince, and the world is cruel. So Merlin stays silent.

He’s gotten good at silence. 

Time passes.

Seasons shift. Snow turns to thaw. Arthur becomes king.

And Merlin—

Merlin becomes a ghost in his own skin.

He watches Arthur from the shadows, from the sidelines. Watches him rule with strength and justice and that fierce, blinding light that first made Merlin love him.

He watches Arthur take a queen.

And smiles. Because that’s what he’s supposed to do.

Because what else can he do?

He is still just the servant. Still just the shadow. Still just Merlin.

No matter how many times he saves Arthur’s life. No matter how many times he bleeds for him. No matter that his magic—his soul—is stitched to Arthur’s fate.

None of it matters.

Because love is not enough. Not here. Not like this.

He returns to his chambers alone that night. Sits on the edge of his bed, hands shaking.

Says his name out loud. Just once.

Arthur.

And it breaks him.

Sometimes he thinks of running.

Of vanishing into the woods, leaving Camelot behind. Of living in the quiet, somewhere far from crowns and courts and aching hearts.

But he always stays.

Because he can’t not. Because Arthur needs him, even if Arthur doesn’t see him. Because love isn’t always about being seen. Sometimes it’s about staying, even when it hurts.

Especially when it hurts.

There’s a moment—years later, maybe—when Arthur looks at him across a crowded hall. Just looks. And something passes between them.

Recognition. Regret. Words unspoken.

But then Arthur turns away.

And Merlin knows, with quiet certainty, that he will never hear it. Never have it.

He learns to breathe around the ache. To smile when his throat is closing. To laugh when something inside him is bleeding. It’s a quiet, daily kind of grief. A wound that never scabs over, because the knife is never removed.

Arthur never stops needing him. Not really. Not in the way Merlin does, but in the way one might need a fire in winter. A thing to return to. A constant.

And Merlin is constant.

That is the great tragedy of his love.

He wonders if Arthur ever looks at him and sees a man. Not a servant, not a tool, not a fool to be tolerated—but a man with a heart that beats violently for him. A man who has built his life around someone who will never look down and say, You were enough.

Because he isn’t. He never was.

He remembers what Morgana once said to him, in a whisper full of venom and sorrow: You will never be one of them.

And she was right.

He walks among them, but he is not of them. Not noble, not crowned, not chosen. Just magic, hidden in the bones of a nobody. Just a heart, raw and unguarded, tucked away behind a smile no one ever thinks to question.

Arthur never notices how hard it is, some days, just to stay. To serve and bow and hold his tongue when every part of him wants to reach. Wants to break the world open just to say—

Love me.

But he doesn’t. He never does.

Because that is not his role in the play of destiny.

There is one night—years after the wedding, long after Arthur has become a legend in flesh and gold—when the weight of it becomes too much.

The moon is high, full and merciless. Merlin walks the empty halls like a shadow, bare feet whispering against cold stone. He stops outside Arthur’s chambers and leans against the door, forehead pressed to the wood.

He can hear Arthur’s voice, faint and weary, murmuring to his queen. A laugh. A sigh.

Merlin closes his eyes and pretends that laugh was meant for him.

He remembers their early days. The fights. The teasing. The moments between that were not quite nothing. And he wonders if he imagined it all.

If Arthur ever felt it. Anything.

His magic thrums under his skin, aching for release. But he does not cast spells tonight. He does not speak. He only stands there, listening to a life that was never his.

Then he turns, and walks away.

He doesn’t notice the soft creak of floorboards behind the door. The shadow that moves to follow and stops. The sound of Arthur saying his name, too late, too quiet.

Merlin.

There is comfort in the small things. The brushing of a cloak from Arthur’s shoulders. The way Arthur lets him speak freely when others would be punished. The rare moments they are alone, when the masks fall and they are just two tired souls holding up a kingdom neither asked for.

But even in those moments, Merlin feels the edges. The lines he is not allowed to cross. The invisible cage he’s locked himself in, gilded with loyalty and silence and duty.

Arthur talks of destiny sometimes. Of fate. Of great battles and ancient prophecies.

But never his destiny. Never theirs.

And Merlin listens, nods, smiles. Pretends his heart isn’t breaking under the weight of what will never be. 

He buries Gaius one winter.

The frost hasn’t melted from the fields yet. The sky hangs low, grey and unforgiving. Merlin stands beside the grave, hands shaking, and thinks— I have no one left who knows the truth.

Gaius had known. Had seen him, even when no one else did. Had known the depth of what Merlin carried, what he sacrificed, what he suffered. And now he is gone, and Merlin is once again just the servant. The ghost. The boy who smiles too easily and never says what he means.

Arthur comes to the funeral. Stands beside Merlin in the snow, silent. His cloak brushes Merlin’s, but they do not touch.

After, Arthur says, “He was proud of you.”

Merlin doesn’t look at him. “He was the only one who ever said so.”

Arthur is quite a moment too long. Then, “You have always been…extraordinary, Merlin.”

Merlin turns then. Really turns. Meets Arthur’s eyes, and sees— something.

Recognition. Regret. An almost-love. The ghost of a future that never lived.

“I had to be,” Merlin says softly. “For you.”

Arthur swallows. His jaw tightens.

He doesn’t say what Merlin wants him to.

He never does.

There are moments. Always, moments.

Arthur falling asleep at his writing desk, head tipped forward, ink staining his fingers. Merlin covering him with a blanket, brushing his hair back without touching.

Arthur standing on the battlements, staring at the horizon. Merlin stepping beside him, their shadows almost touching. Saying nothing.

It is not love. Not really. It is proximity. Familiarity. The ache of what could have been.

Merlin gathers these moments like a child hoarding feathers. Small, weightless things. Beautiful, useless things.

But they’re all he has.

So he keeps them.

The last time Arthur says his name, it is with blood in his mouth.

The final battle is chaos. Steel and fire and magic, loosened at last from Merlin’s hands. There is no hiding now. No use in pretending.

Arthur sees him. Really sees him.

And for a moment, Merlin thinks— this is it. This is where it changes.

But then Arthur falls.

Merlin is there before the sword has finished falling. He catches Arthur, pulls him into his arms, presses shaking hands to the wound. He tries to summon the magic. Tries to force it to do what love cannot.

Arthur’s hand catches his wrist.

“It’s too late,” Arthur breathes.

“No,” Merlin whispers. “No, it’s not. I can—”

“You should have told me,” Arthur says, and his voice is breaking. “All this time. You—why didn’t you—”

Merlin closes his eyes. “Because I couldn’t lose you.”

Arthur laughs. It’s a broken, beautiful sound. “You fool.”

“I know,” Merlin says. His tears fall, hot and silent. “I know.”

Arthur lifts a hand, brushes Merlin’s face. His fingers linger at the edge of his jaw, and Merlin leans into it like a prayer.

“If I had known,” Arthur says, voice fading, eyes drooping, “I think…”

But he doesn’t finish.

He dies before he can.

Merlin doesn’t scream.

He holds Arthur’s body against his chest. Strokes his hair. Presses his lips to his temple and whispers words in a language no one else remembers. Words that mean stay.

But Arthur does not stay.

And Merlin is left alone.

He lays him to rest in the lake, like the prophecies said he would.

He walks back through the ashes of battle, clothes filthy, eyes hollow.

He returns to Camelot. To silence.

They call him hero. They call him sorcerer. Some call him traitor.

He does not care.

He is none of those things.

He is only the boy who loved a prince who never truly loved him back.

And now that prince is gone.

And Merlin has all the time in the world to remember.

Years pass.

Decades.

The world changes. Kingdoms rise and fall. Legends fade and grow.

But Merlin remains.

He walks the edge of the world. Alone.

They say the great sorcerer waits for the return of the Once and Future King.

But the truth is quieter.

He waits for the man who said his name like it meant something. Who brushed his hand, once, and almost said I love you.

He waits for a voice in the dark, a hand in his own.

He waits for a heart that broke his.

Because even now, after everything, Merlin still loves him.

He always will.

Even if Arthur never comes back.

Even if he never hears the words.

Even if it was all in his mind.

He loved him.

Chapter Text

They say the lake never gives back what it takes.

That kings who fall do not rise again.

And yet—

Merlin hears the wind shift.

Centuries have passed like tides. Seasons dying into one another, snow bleeding into spring. Camelot is long gone, stone by stone. Time has worn down the castle, the crown, the songs. But not Merlin.

He is still here.

Still waiting.

Still aching.

Sometimes he hates the waiting more than the loneliness. At least loneliness is honest. Waiting is crueler—because it carries the weight of hope.

He lives in a cottage now, by the lake. The water howls like grief most days, but Merlin has grown used to the sound. It suits him.

He speaks little. Magic hums under his skin like an old lullaby. The world has no use for wonders anymore. And he—

He has forgotten how to be anything but tired.

Until the day the lake speaks.

It’s not with words.

It’s with light.

Merlin is walking the shoreline, long coat billowing like shadow, when the sky goes silent. The wind stills. The birds stop singing.

And the lake shines.

It’s soft, at first. Like starlight caught in water. But it grows—rises— calls.

Merlin does not breathe.

He runs.

The lake waits, gleaming and ancient, and in its heart—a figure.

A man.

A name carved into every bone of Merlin’s body.

Arthur.

He is soaked and shivering when Merlin reaches him, blinking like the sun hurts his eyes. He’s wearing the armor Merlin laid him to rest in, sword still strapped to his side. He looks as he did the day he died.

Merlin collapses to his knees before him.

His voice cracks like ice in the coldest winter.

“Arthur?”

The king stares at him.

Frowns.

And whispers, “Merlin?”

And the world falls apart.

The fire crackles low.

Merlin wraps Arthur in a blanket, pours tea with shaking hands, as if this were any other homecoming. As if this were not the end of grief itself.

Arthur looks older. Not aged, but weathered. His eyes hold centuries. His hands tremble when they reach for the cup.

They sit in silence.

Until Arthur breaks it.

“I remember dying.”

Merlin stares into the fire.

“I remember your face,” Arthur says. “You were—crying.”

Merlin lets out a laugh. It’s broken and bitter. “Of course I was.”

Arthur’s eyes find his.

There is something in them that was never there before.

No crown.

No mask.

No walls.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Arthur asks.

Merlin swallows. “Because you would have sent me away.”

“I wouldn’t have.”

“You would have. You had to. You were a king. And I—” He stops. The words are sharp, jagged in his throat. “I was just someone who cared too much.”

Arthur’s breath catches.

Silence blooms again.

Then—softly—Arthur says, “I cared too.”

The words unravel Merlin.

Not loudly. Not with fireworks or fanfare. But like a wound quietly tearing open after all this time.

He turns away, afraid to believe it. To hope.

But Arthur reaches out.

Fingertips brush his wrist. And this time— this time —they do not pull away.

Merlin looks down at his hand.

Then up at the man he waited lifetimes for.

And in that moment, it is not a king before him. Not a destiny. Not a crown.

Just Arthur.

Just him.

“I don’t know what I am anymore,” Arthur says, voice rough. “The world’s moved on. I don’t belong in it.”

“You belong,” Merlin says, fierce and sure. “You always did. And this time—” His voice falters, steadies. “This time, you don’t have to be anything but you. ”

Arthur watches him.

And then—slowly, achingly—he leans forward.

Their foreheads touch.

It is not a kiss nor confession. 

But it is everything.

They sleep side by side, that first night.

Not in the same bed.

But close.

Arthur stretches out on the couch. Merlin creates a makeshift bed on the floor. He hadn’t wanted to leave Arthur alone and it had seemed too strange to offer Arthur a place in his bed.

Arthur doesn’t ask why Merlin’s shoulders tremble. Merlin doesn’t ask if Arthur remembers how he died.

There is too much to say. And none of it matters.

Not anymore.

Because he came back.

Because Merlin waited.

Because after all the longing and silence and nights spent whispering his name into darkness—

Arthur heard.

And answered.

In the morning, the sky is pink with dawn.

Arthur stands by the lake, waves lapping at his feet.

Merlin comes up beside him, quiet.

Arthur doesn’t look away from the horizon when he speaks.

“I dreamed of you.”

Merlin’s voice is barely a whisper. “What did you dream?”

Arthur turns.

Smiles, slow and real and soft.

“That you were still waiting.”

Merlin breathes in.

Lets it break him.

Lets it heal him.

“I was,” he says.

The days after Arthur’s return pass like a dream Merlin doesn’t dare wake from.

It’s quiet, mostly. That strange kind of quiet that follows grief—not the end of sorrow, but the stillness it leaves behind, like an echo in an empty room.

Arthur walks the beach each morning. The lake fascinates him, though he never says why. Merlin watches from the porch, sipping tea, pretending not to worry that Arthur won’t come back from those walks. That he’ll step too far into the water and vanish again.

Sometimes, Merlin finds Arthur standing knee-deep in the surf, face tilted up, eyes closed like he’s trying to remember what it means to breathe.

Sometimes, he joins him.

They don’t speak much, not yet. Not about the past. Not about what was said the night Arthur returned.

There’s too much. Too many splintered things.

So they speak of simpler things instead.

Of tea.

Of weather.

Of the gulls that steal vegetables from the garden when Merlin forgets to shoo them away.

Arthur has taken to carving small figures out of wood. He says nothing of why, but Merlin finds them lined up on the mantel: a lion, a hound, a dragon. A single raven. Their silence fills the room like an old rhythm.

One evening, as the fire dwindles low, Arthur breaks the spell.

“Was it worth it?”

Merlin doesn’t need to ask what he means.

He stares into the flames. His voice is quiet.

“I-I don’t know.”

Arthur hums, something between a laugh and a sigh. “That’s honest.”

Merlin glances at him. “Would you have waited, if it were me?”

Arthur’s answer is slow. Measured. “I think I would have tried. Until it broke me.”

Merlin says nothing.

But later, when Arthur falls asleep in the chair by the hearth, Merlin covers him with a blanket and brushes the hair from his brow. His fingers linger, just for a moment.

And for the first time in years, he lets himself whisper, You’re home.

The intimacy grows like moss.

Quiet. Unhurried.

Arthur doesn’t flinch when their fingers brush now. Merlin doesn’t pull away when their shoulders touch.

They share meals, mismatched mugs, chores around the cottage. Merlin teaches Arthur how to use the stovetop; Arthur teaches Merlin how to carve figurines.

They argue, once, over who left the window open during a storm. Merlin calls him an arrogant idiot. Arthur calls him a clumsy goat-footed fool.

It feels like a memory returned to them.

Later, soaked and shivering, they sit by the fire again, side by side on the rug. Merlin hands Arthur a towel. Arthur takes it, but doesn’t move away.

Their thighs touch.

They both pretend not to notice.

Sometimes, Arthur wakes from dreams he doesn’t speak of.

Merlin hears him out on the couch those nights—the sharp breath, the soft curse. He never goes to him, not unless Arthur calls.

But one night, Arthur does.

Just says his name.

And Merlin is there.

He doesn’t ask what Arthur saw. Only sits beside him in the dark. Their shoulders pressed together. A tether in the silence.

Eventually, Arthur leans against him. His head on Merlin’s shoulder.

They stay like that until morning.

No words.

Just warmth.

Just presence.

There is a moment—not a kiss, not yet—but something like one.

Merlin is tending the garden, cursing the weeds. Arthur kneels beside him, hair a mess, hands in the soil. He says something ridiculous, and Merlin laughs—really laughs—and Arthur just looks at him.

The world hushes.

Their hands still in the earth.

Their faces inches apart.

But neither moves.

They just look.

And Merlin thinks, If this is all I ever have—this half-second of peace—I could live another thousand years on it.

But he doesn’t say that.

And Arthur doesn’t kiss him.

Not yet.

The rhythm of the cottage grows around them, tender and unspoken. Like breath. Like a lullaby neither one remembers learning, but somehow, both know by heart.

They fall into it.

Not quickly. But surely. Like two stones finding their place in the current.

Arthur takes over the washing up.

Not because he volunteers—he never volunteers —but because he insists Merlin does it wrong. He says this with the haughty certainty of a man who once ruled a kingdom and now can’t figure out how to use a toaster.

Merlin grumbles, of course.

“You’re no better,” he says, flicking suds at Arthur’s shirt.

Arthur retaliates by flinging a spoonful of water at Merlin’s face.

They end up soaked.

Again.

Laughing.

And Merlin thinks, This is what I waited for.

Not battle. Not prophecy. Not even a kiss.

Just this.

They go into town once a week for groceries.

Arthur doesn’t like crowds.

They walk side by side, close enough that their shoulders bump. Arthur always insists on carrying the bags—even when it means grumbling and shifting awkwardly under the weight of fruit and tea and bread Merlin absolutely didn’t need but bought anyway.

Merlin learns the exact sound of Arthur’s laugh when he finds something new—hot chocolate, pre-sliced cheese, cinnamon buns in wax paper. He hoards those sounds like treasure.

Arthur, in turn, learns Merlin’s tea preferences. The way he hums under his breath when stirring a cup.

They don’t talk about it.

But they know.

One night, Merlin found him in the hall, leaning against the wall, breathing like his chest hurt.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Arthur had said, softly, like it was a sin to admit.

“You’re not,” Merlin replied.

And so they shared the bed.

Inches apart, backs turned, not speaking.

But warm.

Safe.

Now, weeks later, they sleep back to back, no words, no ceremony—just there.

And in the morning, they pretend not to notice that sometimes, in sleep, they drift together.

That Arthur’s fingers have found Merlin’s shirt in the night.

That Merlin’s breath rests against Arthur’s throat.

That some part of them is always touching.

They never speak of it.

But neither one moves away.

On rainy days, they read.

Merlin sprawls on the worn sofa, feet propped up, book across his stomach. Arthur sits at the table, hunched over a mystery novel he pretends not to like.

Sometimes Merlin reads aloud.

Sometimes Arthur complains about his pronunciation.

They argue over plots, bicker over endings.

It feels like years ago and never before.

Once, Merlin reads something—an old poem—and doesn’t realize he’s crying until Arthur says his name.

Not with pity.

Not even with concern.

Just that name. That way he says it. Like it holds something.

Merlin wipes his cheek. Shrugs. “It reminded me of you.”

Arthur doesn’t ask more.

But he walks over. Sits beside him on the couch. Close enough to share breath.

And listens to Merlin read the rest.

Silently. Unmoving. There.

One afternoon, Merlin finds Arthur standing at the window, looking out toward the water.

He doesn’t speak. Just watches.

Until Arthur says, “I think I’m beginning to feel real again.”

Merlin swallows.

Arthur turns, eyes soft. “It’s you. It’s always been you.”

Merlin doesn’t answer.

Because he knows.

Because if he speaks, he might say something foolish.

Like I never stopped feeling real when you left. Just… less alive.

Instead, he walks over. Stands beside Arthur. Their arms touch.

And neither of them moves.

Not for a long time.

That night, Merlin can’t sleep.

The wind rattles the panes. The cottage creaks around them.

He turns to look at Arthur. The soft rise and fall of his breath. The line of his jaw. The little furrow between his brows even in sleep.

And in the dark, Merlin whispers, “I loved you then.”

Arthur doesn’t stir.

“I love you now.”

Silence answers.

And maybe it’s enough.

For now.

The first time Merlin thinks Arthur might kiss him, they are watching the fire.

It’s late. Rain taps soft fingers against the windows. They’ve just eaten—Arthur made the stew this time, too much salt but too much heart to complain. Merlin’s legs are tucked under him on the couch. Arthur’s sitting beside him, one arm draped along the back, fingers nearly brushing the curls at Merlin’s neck.

The light flickers gold on Arthur’s face.

He’s watching Merlin. Not with hunger. Not with pity.

But like Merlin is something holy. Something that hurts.

Merlin holds his gaze.

His heart stumbles.

And for a breath—a single, trembling breath—Arthur leans in.

But then—

A log shifts in the fire.

The spell breaks.

And they look away.

Later that night, Merlin stands by the sink, washing the mugs.

Arthur appears behind him. Says nothing. Just stands there, close enough to feel.

“I almost kissed you,” Arthur says.

Merlin doesn’t turn.

His hands keep moving, slow, deliberate. His heart beats like a drum.

Arthur is quiet for a long time. Then—

“I don’t know if I’m allowed to want that.”

Merlin’s voice is soft. “You’re not a king anymore.”

Arthur hesitates. Then breathes, “Aren’t I?”

And Merlin— Merlin, who waited lifetimes for a love that was always out of reach—says nothing at all.

Because the truth is: Arthur is still Arthur.

And Merlin is still Merlin.

And love—real love—was never going to be simple.

They don’t speak of it again for days.

But something has shifted.

Arthur lingers closer.

Merlin laughs more.

There are silences that feel fuller, warmer. And glances that last longer than they should.

Arthur begins touching him more—softly, absently. A hand on his shoulder. A brush of fingers when passing the salt. He straightens the collar of Merlin’s shirt one morning, and Merlin forgets how to breathe.

But they still sleep with space between them.

Still live in the ache.

The wanting.

The waiting.

Spring arrives.

Arthur plants wildflowers behind the cottage, stubborn and unskilled. Merlin watches from the porch, pretending to read. Arthur curses at the roots, at the worms, at the weather. Merlin hides his smile behind the page.

Later, Arthur presents him with a single, crooked bloom. It’s half-dead.

Merlin takes it like it’s gold.

“I didn’t think you were the flower type,” he says.

Arthur shrugs.

And walks away.

Merlin keeps the flower on the windowsill until it dries.

And then presses it into the pages of a book neither of them has finished reading.

One night, they walk the beach.

The stars are out. The moon spills silver over the waves. The air smells like salt and memory.

Arthur stops suddenly.

Stares out at the water.

“When I was gone… did you ever think about ending it?”

The question is quiet.

But it lances.

Merlin closes his eyes.

“Yes,” he says.

Arthur doesn’t flinch.

Merlin opens his eyes again.

“But something always stopped me. A dream where you called my name. The feeling I’d be letting you down if I gave up before you came back.”

Arthur turns.

The wind catches his hair. His eyes shine.

“Merlin—”

“I never asked you to love me,” Merlin says, and his voice breaks on it. “I never needed that. I only ever needed you. ”

Arthur closes the space between them.

Slow.

Like the tide.

And when he reaches Merlin, he doesn’t touch him. Not yet.

He just looks at him.

And says, “I think I needed you too.”

It happens on a Tuesday.

Merlin is chopping carrots. Arthur is reading on the floor, back against the cupboard.

They are talking about something—Merlin doesn’t even remember what. Something simple. Something stupid.

Arthur looks up.

Merlin looks down.

And suddenly, the quiet becomes full.

Their eyes meet.

Arthur stands.

Walks over.

Merlin doesn’t move.

Arthur’s hand lifts, gently, to touch his jaw. His thumb rests against Merlin’s cheek.

There is no rush.

No tremble.

Just… truth.

Arthur leans in.

Merlin lets his eyes fall closed.

And when their lips touch, it is like breathing after drowning.

Like waking from a sleep that has lasted too long.

The kiss is soft. Brief.

But when they part—foreheads resting together, hands still barely touching—

Merlin knows.

This is not the end of longing.

But it is the beginning of belonging.

At last.

After the kiss, nothing changes.

And everything does.

They still move through their little life in the cottage: Merlin rising early, barefoot and sleepy, making tea in his moth-bitten robe. Arthur pretending he’s not cold until Merlin wraps a blanket around his shoulders with an eye roll and the ghost of a smile.

The sky still rains.

The fire still crackles.

The floorboards still creak when Arthur paces late at night, and Merlin still wakes every time, just to make sure he’s not alone.

But now—

Sometimes their hands find each other in the quiet.

Sometimes their knees press together under the table and neither one moves away.

Sometimes Merlin catches Arthur watching him—like he’s memorizing. Like he’s home.

They don’t kiss again right away.

It’s not a fear.

It’s a savoring.

Like they both know the world waited too long for this.

So they don’t rush it.

They cook together now—awkward, elbow-bumping, infuriatingly domestic. Arthur claims Merlin burns everything on purpose. Merlin retaliates by enchanting the cupboard so it only opens for him. Arthur swears he’ll ban magic again, “just in this kitchen.”

But then Merlin smiles, and Arthur doesn’t mean it.

They clean up side by side, Arthur’s hand brushing Merlin’s lower back. The touch lingers. Warm. Solid.

Merlin says nothing.

But he leans into it.

Arthur takes to sleeping closer.

The first time, he reaches across the narrow space between them in the night and lays his hand over Merlin’s.

Just that.

And Merlin doesn’t move.

The second time, he tucks his face into the curve of Merlin’s neck like it’s always belonged there.

By the third, Merlin is waiting for it—turning toward him in the dark, heart full, body open.

They never speak of it come morning.

But there are crumbs of it in their smiles. In the way Arthur makes Merlin’s tea before he’s even asked. In the way Merlin finds a second mug waiting on the windowsill, beside the newest dried flower from the garden.

Once, Arthur builds a bookshelf.

Badly.

The whole thing leans left like it’s had one too many ales, and half the books slide off unless Merlin props them up with a rock.

But he doesn’t fix it.

He never does.

Because it was Arthur’s.

Because he built it for them.

That evening, they sit on the floor, backs against the crooked shelves, sharing a blanket and a book Merlin reads aloud in his too-soft voice.

Arthur falls asleep halfway through.

Merlin keeps reading anyway.

They dance, once.

No music. No reason.

Just the kitchen, a slant of golden afternoon light, and Merlin humming something ancient and tuneless.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. Merlin bows, mockingly. Arthur accepts.

They sway together, awkward and clumsy, laughing under their breath.

Arthur places one hand at the small of Merlin’s back.

Merlin lays his palm against Arthur’s shoulder.

And for a moment, the world stills.

Merlin’s breath catches.

Arthur rests his forehead to Merlin’s.

And in that hush—between heartbeats—Merlin whispers, “You don’t even know how many times I imagined this.”

Arthur whispers back, “Tell me.”

And when they kiss again, it is not careful.

Not uncertain.

It is not the hush of a beginning.

It is the exhale of everything they’ve carried.

Soft.

Sure.

Slow.

And when they part, Merlin presses his smile to Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur rests his cheek against Merlin’s hair.

And outside, the wind carries the sound of waves.

But inside, it is quiet.

Peaceful.

Like two old songs finally played in the same key.

Like home.