#ithvmerthurficlet

Arthur gives Merlin a neckerchief. Two days later, he uses it to bandage a new knight’s wound. Arthur picks Merlin flowers and Merlin chops, grinds and boils them into remedies. Arthur tries to take Merlin on a romantic picnic and Merlin packs a crossbow instead of a picnic basket.

It’s driving Arthur insane. He’s so desperate that he’s almost to the point of actually talking to Merlin but he knows he can find the perfect gift to express how much Merlin means to him, he just needs to try harder.

He asks Gwen for advice. He buys Gwaine endless amounts of ale and pumps him for knowledge on Merlin’s likes. He pulls Lancelot aside after training and grills him on everything he knows about Merlin.

It becomes clear that Arthur needs to make a grand gesture. So when Merlin walks into his chambers that night, Arthur blurts out, “I know you have magic and I’m going to repeal the magic ban for you.”

Merlin shrugs his shoulders and nonchalantly says, “That’s nice” without even a thank you.

After preparing Arthur for bed, Merlin goes to the tavern for a celebratory drink. He sits beside Gwaine and helps himself to his jug of ale, ignoring the empty jugs littering the table.

“The Princess is trying to court you, you know?” Gwaine drunkenly slurs into Merlin’s ear, his arm slung across Merlin’s shoulders.

“I know.”

Gwaine looks cross eyed and confused. “But you rejected all his gifts and we all know it’s not because you don’t love him because you’re ass over kettle for him, completely looney—“

Merlin smirks, shrugs his shoulders and admits, “He hasn’t said a word about it. He just keeps throwing gifts at me and ordering me to pack picnics. He’s going to repeal the ban on magic for me and he can’t even say, ‘Merlin I would like to court you.’ Relationships require communication and Arthur needs to be taught how.”

The door to the tavern slams closed. Just inside the door, still in his sleep clothes and wearing his boots on the wrong feet, stands the King, wide-eyed from the sheer insanity of the man he loves.

“Merlin!” Arthur shouts in the suddenly silent tavern. “You absolute menace, fool and love of my miserable life, I would like to court you. Is that all right with you?”

He’s lost, alone, frightened and shivering in the cold as the sun begins to set. It dips beneath the roofs of buildings. One roof shines with a golden light drawing Arthur in. Emrys’ Natural Remedies.

After centuries the name is vaguely familiar, but the smell is like coming home. The shop smells of herbs and Earth like Gaius’ chambers. Bundles of flowers and leaves hang drying in the window. Arthur pushes open the door. Above him a bell rings.

“Aithusa,” a familiar voice calls out, “if you’re messing with that bell again.”

A ball of white fluff weaves its way through Arthur’s legs, purring for a moment before darting off at the sound of footsteps. A man appears from behind a shelf, expecting a cat and finding a man instead. Arthur would know his eyes anywhere.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathes out shakily.

Until…

“I cannot fucking believe you!” Merlin shouted, slamming open the door, and striding through it without a care in the world if said door ricocheted back to hit Arthur in the face.

Which it would have if Arthur weren’t trained since birth to have cat-like reflexes. He caught the door, glared at it, and seethed. He flopped down in chair, pinched the bridge of his nose, and waited for Merlin to calm himself.

“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

Arthur closed his eyes against the pounding in his head. He had plenty to say, none of which would make Merlin any less upset. So he sat in silence until he couldn’t bear the curiosity of what Merlin was doing to make so much noise. He turned, and his heart stopped. In Merlin’s hand was his rucksack that usually hung on a hook beside the wardrobe, and was now full of Merlin’s clothes, and books, and—he’d even packed the fucking quilt.

“No.” Arthur stood, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. No.”

“What?”

“You. This. Whatever idiocy you’re thinking, no.”

“I’m going to my room, Arthur, where I can be away from whatever idiocy you’re thinking.”

“This is your room,” Arthur said slowly, and deliberately so the words could sink in through Merlin’s thick skull. “Do you not think it strange that you have to pack to go to your room? That all your things are here, and you haven’t slept in that tiny closet for months? You don’t just move out because you’re upset with me. You call me an idiot, and turn your head when I try to kiss you, and if I’ve really pissed you off—“

“You have,” Merlin interjected.

“Then you throw my pillow onto a chair and make me sleep in it!” Arthur shouted, and then bit his lip, trying to hold back the sudden rush of tears. Maybe Merlin was more than upset. Maybe…fuck. He sniffled, and softly added, “But you don’t walk out unless you stop loving me.”

Merlin’s rucksack dropped to the floor. “I didn’t—Of course, I love you. I didn’t realize. I just thought…”

“What? That I let all my servants claim my space, and half my bed?”

“Well I hadn’t thought we’d officially moved in together,” Merlin admitted sheepishly.

“We have. Months ago. You live here. I’m a prat. You’re all caught up now.”

And if Merlin wanted to linger in the argument before, he didn’t anymore. He didn’t even really want an apology for Arthur’s pigheadedness, but he got one kissed into his neck, and his lips, and his hair.

He’s 16, when he realizes that no matter what he does he’ll never be a part of the circle. He’s a Prince first and everything else second. It’s all anyone ever sees.

He’s 18 when it really makes him bitter. He’s no longer a naive boy hoping someone will take his olive branch and become his friend first and subject second. He taunts and bullies the servants because at least then the other noble boys will laugh with him instead of leaving him alone on the sidelines of their childish games.

He barely gets out a “hi, love” before Merlin’s demanding, “Where are you?”

“At home, in bed. You said you didn’t want me to pick you up at the airport. Where are you? Did you make it home from your trip?”

“I’m at home, staring at an empty bed. Are you in the wrong flat? Oh my god, Arthur, tell me you’re not in the wrong flat, again! Mr. Simmons will kill us.”

“That was one time! I was pissed off my— Of course I’m not in the wrong flat! I’m in my flat, watching my television. I think I know where I live.”

“Oh,” Merlin whispers.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Right. Sorry. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Merlin—“

But he’s already hung up. That tiny little “oh” full of disappointment, and confusion lingering, replaying in Arthur’s mind like a scratched record unable to move on. The door to the flat opens, and a little bubble of joy blossoms in his chest.

“Merlin?”

“No.” Morgana. Damn. She stands at the door, hands on her hips. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“No you don’t. You haven’t lived here in months. I rent out that room on Airbnb.”

“You what!?! It’s my room!”

“You don’t need a room for old football jerseys and trainers,” Morgana scoffs. She looks round the room. “Where’s Merlin?”

That damn little “oh”. He’s a fucking pillock, the world’s biggest idiot.

“I want a cut of the Airbnb money,” he tells Morgana as he shoves past her.

“What?! It’s my flat!”

“Dad gave us the flat,” Arthur insists as he yanks on his shoes.

“Then I’m charging you the cleaning fee for your idiocy.”

Fair enough, Arthur thinks running out the door and hailing a cab. Merlin’s key is on his key ring. His favorite pair of trainers is by the door, his jacket on the coat rack, his boyfriend in the bed.

Merlin wakes as Arthur climbs into bed behind him. “What…?”

“You were right. I was in the wrong flat. How stupid am I?”

Merlin’s sleepy smile makes his chest ache, but then he tucks his mop of black hair beneath Arthur’s chin, and the feeling changes to a flutter as Merlin mumbles, “So stupid.”

But he neglects to realize a catalyst for all his change. He overlooks it as an extension of himself, so close that it’s absence is like losing a hand, his sword, his legs… his heart.

Then one day, he sees them together: Merlin and Thomas, the servant Arthur terrorized for his short employ at the castle. Thomas smiles at Merlin and when they talk, it’s like they’re sharing a secret between them. One that makes them laugh, and Thomas clap Merlin on the shoulder while he shakes his head. When they part, Merlin looks back to where Arthur stands far enough away to not be privy to the conversation but close enough that were Arthur to need Merlin, or were Merlin to need Arthur, they’d be close enough to intervene.

“What was that about?” Arthur asks when Merlin rejoins him at his side.

“Just catching up.”

“Didn’t know you were friends.”

The word stings Arthur’s throat as he chokes it out. It isn’t that Merlin can’t have friends. If anything Merlin has many, and Arthur, secretly, counts himself among them.

It’s in that very moment—looking between his old servant and the man that changed how he looked at servants—that Arthur realizes that it isn’t the battles or the losses that changed him.

Merlin smiles his big dimpled smile at Arthur, oblivious to Arthur’s sudden realization and inner turmoil and says, “Who else would understand what a prat you are?”

Arthur knocks Merlin’s shoulder with his own, a sudden aching squeeze of fondness stealing all his breath. You’ve changed me, Arthur thinks, for the better and in ways only you could. And part of him wishes he could say it to Merlin, but he hasn’t changed that much, not yet.

“You’re fine Arthur.” “Suck it up, Arthur.” “If your that sick go see Gaius.”

Secretly he always wanted someone to mop his brow and stroke his head while he sips on tea and broth, but he will die before he admits it.

Merlin had always been nursed by his mother. He knows her secret recipes to sneak gross herbs that make him feel better into chicken stew with enough salt that it tastes like warmth and love. He has a favorite book with stories of old myths that he can nearly recite from memory but only when reads when he falls ill.

So, when Gaius tells Merlin that Arthur looks sick and needs to be escorted to his quarters and forced to rest, Merlin grabs his mother’s book. He gets tea and stew from the kitchens and all but forces a sweaty pale Arthur into bed. Then he pulls a chair next to the bed, tea and stew sitting on the nightstand within Arthur’s reach and begins to read aloud.

Arthur’s confused, but he’s tired and Merlin’s voice is soothing. He drinks his tea, eats his stew and closes his eyes.

When Merlin runs a cool cloth over his forehead, he knows what it feels like to be cared for. When he awakens to Merlin slumped in the chair, asleep but still keeping watch his heart flutters.

“Merlin,” he whispers softly, nudging Merlin to waken him. “Go to bed. I’m fine.”

And Merlin, sleep deprived or half asleep still, Arthur can’t tell, puts a hand to Arthur’s forehead. He’s still sweaty but not burning up. Merlin mops his brow and climbs into Arthur’s bed like he belongs there. Arthur’s always wanted to be cuddled and he can blame it all on a fever and Merlin. When Merlin falls asleep, Arthur lays on his chest and lets Merlin instinctively wrap him in his arms.

Now that, but Merthur. They have a secret first kiss, or maybe they don’t, maybe Arthur learns of Merlin’s magic but doesn’t tell him he knows…either way Arthur invites Merlin to run away with him. “I can’t do this. I can’t be who my father wants me to be and I’m just so tired of failing.”

And Merlin’s so done with Kilgarrah, and destiny, and Camelot, and all of it, but he still has his secrets so he says, “I don’t know.” But he knows. He knows he can’t bear the sadness on Arthur’s face, knows he doesn’t care if he becomes king if he’d rather just be happy.

Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder. “What will you do without me?” What will I do without you? “Meet me at the stables tonight if you figure it out.”

So Merlin packs his bags, and he’s ready to go. But destiny is a bitch, and so is the latest bad guy who knocks him out and leaves him on the floor.

Merlin wakes in a panic, the light of dawn on his face, and runs to the stables. Arthur’s gone. He goes to his chambers, wanting for one last time to be where Arthur’s memory is strongest. His heart jumps into his throat when he sees the familiar blond hair on the pillow.

They don’t speak of that almost moment, though Arthur looks forlorn, and his eyes beg for an answer. I thought you’d come. Why? I thought it was always going to be me and you.