Archive of Our Own

“I thought I knew you.” It was an accusation, but there was an attempt at banter behind it, like he was trying to return them to what was familiar. Merlin stopped his fidgeting to look over his shoulder, crouched down, and adjusted the pack.

“I’m still the same person.” He didn’t know who he was trying to convince, Arthur or himself.

“I trusted you,” Arthur said, and it was a twist of the knife. Trusted, past tense.

“I’m sorry,” he said, like it could be anything close to enough. Like it could make up for a decade of lies, for all the quiet betrayals and the loud ones. What have I done wrong? Arthur had said, Why does everyone I care about betray me? Why do they hate me?

“I’m sorry too.”

***

Of Hyacinthus & Apollo

i.

Apollo first saw him on the bed of the river Eurotas, washing the dirt from sculpted arms. He was as beautiful as he was fair, his skin a deep contrast with the bronze of Apollo’s own. A crown of dark curls spilled over his brow, black as night, and when he looked up and caught Apollo’s eye, his smile was bright as the sun. The smirk that played around his plush lips was drenched in mischief and promised only trouble. Apollo loved him instantly and could only look down at his own breast in alarm, expecting Eros’s wayward arrow.

His name was Hyacinthus.

ii.

His voice was sweet and lilting, his fingers moving over the strings of the lyre with practiced grace. Apollo smiled from his position in Hyacinthus’s lap, eyes closed.

“You know,” he said, when Hyacinthus had paused singing, just strumming strings idly, “the first moment I saw you, I knew you.” He opened his eyes, reaching up to stroke the prominent cheekbone that was so dear to him. “Your hair, your eyes, they are all familiar. As if I had seen you in a dream.”

“Do gods dream?”

“Only of pretty boys and their prettier kisses.” Hyacinthus swatted at him.

Apollo tugged at a curl in retaliation. “My little bird,” he whispered, rubbing the dark lock between his fingers, “my merlin.”

iii.

“Come, Hy, I will show you. Properly.”

Hyacinthus laughed, head thrown back and his wide grin on display. “You may forget, Philtatos, but I was a soldier once. I know my way around a bow and spear.”

“But,” said Apollo, flexing his fingers around the bow grip slightly, just to see Hyacinthus’s eyes widen at the way it made the muscles in his arm ripple, “you have not been trained by a God.”

He released the arrow. It flew through the branches of the fig tree, spearing two fruit before burying itself in the target trunk. Hyacinthus whistled, dropping to a knee with a wink, all false deference. “My lord, I stand corrected.”

They ate the figs laying in the sun-warmed grass, licking the dripping juice from each other’s chins, until it was more like kissing, their smiles wide and their laughter like the turn of spring.

iv.

The wind god Zephyrus had long been an admirer of his Hyacinthus, rustling through his curls with a tendriled finger and making the very air beneath his feet lighter, so it appeared as if Hyacinthus were floating when he walked. The day the god had appeared to him, Apollo was yet pulling his chariots across the sky as the light faded upon the ground below.

The scene he came upon then, boiled the very ichor within his veins. Hyacinthus, backed into a cave, sheltering from a sudden onslaught of wind, hands in front of his face, shielding his eyes.

Seeing Apollo, the other god withdrew his torrent, “You will regret this slight, mortal,” he snapped at Hyacinthus. Then he disappeared back into the wind.

v.

It was Apollo that had challenged Hyacinthus to the discus game, and for that the guilt threatened to drown him.

They were stripped down and bare, oil shining across their toned bodies, river water lapping at their ankles. “You first,” he had shouted at Hyacinthus. And Hyacinthus had thrown the discus. It was a fair throw, flying across to the opposite bank and embedding itself in a nearby tree.

But Hyacinthus was built for the agile strength of the bow. And Apollo was a God.

He had thrown and Hyacinthus had whooped, running across the water, playing at catching it from the air. He had turned back to grin at Apollo, and so Apollo had seen the moment when the treacherous wind changed, and Hyacinthus had not, sending the discus hurtling back towards Hyacinthus’ head.

He heard the strangled cry from his own throat before Hyacinthus hit the water. He was to the middle of the river in an instant, Hyacinthus cradled in his arms, red blood streaming from the back of his head as he carried him to the shore.

He screamed for his son Asklepios, and then for herbs, for the miracle ambrosia of the gods, for any remedy. But while they came, none could reverse the evil that had already been done. As the sun faded fully from the sky, Apollo’s face lost its godly luster, pale with fear. Hyacinthus had grown cold in his arms and his wound had stilled its leaking. His string of Fate had been cut.

In that moment, Apollo wished to be mortal more than he had ever wished anything, if only so he could lay alongside Hyacinthus forever. Hands shaking, he collected the pooled blood in his palms, tears sliding down his cheeks to mix in, and breathed. In his palm grew a stalk of flowers, the startling blue of his philtatos’s eyes.

From that day forth, the bloom was known as the hyacinth and all who beheld it knew its great and terrible beauty, the sorrow and grief that had wrought its tragic beginnings. From that day forth, the Sun would never again trust the wickedness of the Wind.

Of Giuliano de’ Medici & Merlano Vicenzi

I.

He was running late again, clutching scrolls of designs to his chest, which is why he did not at first see the man’s face. They collided suddenly, shoulders jarring in the crowded street and he stooped to pick up his designs without a glance.

“Watch yourself,” a man’s voice said, and though it was terse, the fact that he was still hovering there and had not immediately moved on made Merlano look up.

Porco dio. My god. His gaze lingered on the cut of the man’s sharp jaw, the hint of chest at his open collar. His hands ached for his clay. The man only smiled, helped him to his feet, and with a tap to the scrolls safely against his chest, melted back into the street.

II.

The next Merlano saw him, he had gone to the Medici estate on his master’s behest to collect details of their latest commission.

Stepping onto the grounds of the Medici’s lush gardens was always a privilege, and any time he could run his master’s errands, he tried to solicit projects for which he could visit the Medici estate. It was here that he ran into the man a second time. This time, it was not his fault.

The man was walking down the grand staircase, backwards, shouting something raucous up to another—a brother, perhaps, or a friend. He tripped over Merlano, who was staring up at its grandeur. The palazzo was lavish, it wasn’t his fault.

“You again!” the man said, laughter in his eyes. It made crows' feet crinkle at the corners. He wished to put his fingers there, to feel the shape of the creases, so as to better carve it into marble.

“I apologize, my lord,” he said, bowing low. “For trespassing on your kindness a second time.”

The man only shook his head, raising his hands in a magnanimous gesture, “What might I do for you?”

“I am here to see my lord Lorenzo de’ Medici, sir, for a commission he would like to make for the anniversary celebration of his brother’s birth.”

The man laughed again, head tilted back and throat bared. Merlano swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Well,” he said, finally, “I do hope it was not meant to be a surprise. Lorenzo is away at the moment. But I will be happy to help you with the commission.” He bowed low, and it would have been mocking if not for the twinkle in his eye as he winked at Merlano. “I’m Giuliano, Lorenzo’s brother.”

III.

“I am only Master Giovanni’s apprentice, my lord,” Merlano protested, as he was dragged by the wrist into a makeshift studio a few days later.

“Nonsense, I’m sure Bertoldo could use all the help he can get. Something tells me you have very skilled hands.” He raised an eyebrow at Merlano, eyes dancing. “And what did I say about calling me lord?”

“It feels strange to call you Giuliano, my lord. Like we are equals. Friends.”

“Are we not?” Giuliano said, and his hand was under Merlano’s chin then, tilting it up to meet his eyes. Merlano was startled to realize he was taller than him, just barely, but enough that Giuliano was looking up at him now. Giuliano’s eyes were very blue, a cloudless sky, and he wished suddenly that his skill lay not just in sculpting but in painting as well, so as to capture their shade.

“Not?” Merlano repeated, dumbly. He had forgotten the question.

“Friends,” Giuliano said, then with a dramatic sigh, “let us start as equals then, and we can work our way up to friends.”

IV.

He was starting to have a conditioned response to their studio room and it was becoming a problem. Every day, Merlano sat in the corner with his sketch pad and charcoal and clay and Giuliano would swan into the room, take his clothes off with no semblance of shame, and drape himself over a piece of furniture. And Merlano would cross his legs and pretend he had not just gotten hard in his breeches. Again.

The first time Giuliano had done it, he had colored so brightly and stuttered for so long that Giuliano had thrown his shirt at his head.

“Please tell me Bertoldo teaches you something at that school of yours. Have you not seen nude models before?”

“Yes, my lord, but–”

“Giuliano.”

“Yes… Giuliano. But I didn’t expect— None with such fine forms as—” Then, coloring even further, and exasperated because of it, “Is this not supposed to be a present for you, my lord?” Then, again, when Giuliano only raised an eyebrow. “Giuliano.”

Giuliano’s expression was quite smug then, and Merlano’s mind fluttered through an extremely inappropriate panorama of ways to wipe it from his face. “And why should I not have my own form cast in marble for my celebration? As you say, such a fine specimen as mysel—”

Merlano threw the shirt back in his face.

V.

The first time he touched Giuliano had been innocent enough. Well. He was innocent and Giuliano was… whatever he was. A slag, probably. Perhaps it was up for debate.

Merlano had been huffing over an angle he could not get right in neither his sketch nor in clay and his eyes were going crossed trying to figure out what was wrong. A shadow fell over his page, and suddenly Giuliano was in front of him, tugging on his wrist.

“Come,” he said and led them back to the couch he had been sprawling on. He resumed his position, then pulled Merlano’s hand down to his thigh, moving it up and down slowly so that he could feel the angle of it with his fingers. Where the flexed muscle started and ended, how the tendon curved around the bone. “Better?”

Merlano could swear Giuliano’s gaze had been like molten coals then, his chest even wider and more pronounced than usual, his neck even more languidly bared. He made a decision then, between one breath and the next, with that molten gaze on him like a brand, his hand still affixed to Giuliano’s thigh. He swung one leg over top of Giuliano’s, as if mounting a horse, and sat astride his thighs. Giuliano’s expression, very comically, resembled a fish, eyes bugged wide and mouth dropped open in surprise. A very attractive fish. He felt very smug to have been the one to put it there. Then, hooking one hand behind Giuliano’s neck and the other in his waves of flaxen hair, Merlano kissed him, very soundly on the mouth.

VI.

It took several more studio sessions after that to get the proportions of the sculpture just right. This apprenticeship project had been extremely fruitful, he thought. Lots of hands-on experience, an intimate and careful study of anatomy. He was quite proud of his work, if he did say so himself.

“Show me, then,” Giuliano murmured one afternoon, nibbling on the bottom of his ear, while Merlano sketched idly on his scroll. He had been very inspired lately, sketching Giuliano in various contortions of ecstasy. Maybe one day when he had his own studio, he would sculpt them all. A whole room of just Giuliano in the throes of pleasure. He would call the series something suitably chaste, like Passions of a Nobleman or some drivel, so he wouldn’t be shunned by polite society. But it would be his passions on Giuliano’s form, expressions he alone had put there.

Giuliano pinched him on the inside of his thigh then and he whined, protesting. “You’re not paying attention to me.”

He set down his scroll then and swiveled in Giuliano’s lap, hands going around his shoulders. “Sì, amore mio,” he said theatrically, noting with interest how Giuliano’s cheeks pinked just a bit, though he tried to cover it with a lascivious grin.

“I was saying that I would like to see the sculpture. All your hard work. Obviously, it cannot compare to the true flesh and blood masterpiece.” He shook his shoulders, tossing his hair. Merlano bit his lip to stifle a laugh. “But I would like to see it.” His gaze was so intense then, laughter fading from his eyes, earnest in a way Giuliano wasn’t often, and Merlano felt the immensity of it in the shiver that traveled his spine.

“You know Master Giovanni doesn’t allow anyone but students in his workshop. And it’s really his sculpture, I only helped.”

“Bullshit. You’ve done all the work, I’m sure of it.” Then, nuzzling against Merlano’s neck, “take me at night when no one is around. We can go after Mass this Sunday. All the elders will be drowning their penance in wine.”

“Alright,” he said, arching his neck to Giuliano’s ministrations. “I’ll take you.”

“Like hell you will.” Giuliano grinned, pushing him back onto the couch.

VII.

He was late for Mass. It was not unexpected; he often lost track of time while in the studio, needing another student to drag him along when it was time to leave. But no one had been around this morning, which while not unusual, niggled at something in the back of his mind. A vague sense of foreboding.

The streets leading to the Duomo were busier than they should have been during Mass, people pushing past him without looking back. Some shouting, calling to one another. His sense of unease grew. He started to run.

The Palazzo was chaos. People were streaming out of the Duomo, screaming, trying to get away like Satan himself was at their backs.

He pushed through the crowds, trying to see anyone, find anyone he knew. His heart beat to the drum of one name. Giuliano, Giuliano, Giuliano.

“Sandro!” He pulled Botticelli up from the cobblestone, where he was covering his face to avoid being trampled. His face was wet with tear tracks and there was a spray of red over his tunic from blood that wasn’t his. He was the Medici’s family portraitist, he had been with them this morning. Now he was covered in blood. “Sandro,” he shook the other boy’s shoulders, “what has happened?”

“Merlano– I can’t. It’s too much to bear.” He gripped down hard, unsure who was steadying who.

“What has happened. Tell me.”

“The Medici. They’ve been murdered. Lorenzo and Giuliano are dead.”

He tore the workshop apart. Every sculpture obliterated, clay castings torn asunder, limb from limb. His hammers and chisels thrown against the wall until their wood splintered and stone shattered. He screamed his anguish to the heavens.

And his marble masterpiece, his Giuliano, he smashed over and over until all that was left were unrecognizable pieces. Except the one he could not bear to destroy. Giuliano’s face looked back at him from between his shaking dust-covered hands, an unusually serious expression. Quiet certitude. He curved a thumb along the cheekbone, over the royal nose, the plush lips he could almost feel give way in the marble and then he sank to the floor, cradling it in his arms, letting the grief wash over him in wracking waves.

He never sculpted again.

Years later, a young upstart named Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, already known mononymously to the world as Michelangelo, would find this yet surviving piece. So entranced by his beauty, he would craft a body to match, removing smile lines and dimples to create a more stoic expression, worthy of its biblical representation. And Merlano’s Giuliano was lost to history, and this sanitized version, David, remained.

Of Lord Pendragon & Master Emrys

One.

It was a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man possessing of good fortune must be in want of a wife. This particular man had no discernible fortune, judging by his clothes – elbows scuffed and worn, sleeves too short, shoulders too wide. Had he never heard of a tailor?

He seemed lascivious besides, all twinkling grin and eyes. A no good reprobate through and through, definitely not worthy of his sister’s attentions. Arthur did not understand why his father was even entertaining the match. Balinor Emrys and Lord Pendragon had done their apprenticeship together, some 20 odd years ago. And while his father, Uther, had inherited a dukedom and no longer needed to work in trade society, Balinor had stayed part of the merchant class, made a respectable name for himself in the silk trade.

His son, however, seemed unaware of even the meaning of the word respectable. Arthur hated him on sight.

Two.

Master Emrys and Morgana seemed to get on like a house on fire. Which was, of course, perfectly fine. If he was who she was to be marrying, then he preferred it, in fact. She deserved someone good to her, that she could be herself with.

It just seemed a bit uncouth that their heads were always bent together, and Morgana had taken to snickering behind her hand – a wildly unlady-like habit at the best of times – even more than usual. Especially if that snickering was done at his expense. Which, given the way Merlin’s eyes tracked him through every room, seemed likely.

Three.

He was sitting in the library, having holed himself away so as not to have to witness a certain couple’s canoodling any longer. Emrys had been pushing her on a damn swing for god sakes, out in the garden, with the birds and the flowers, and Morgana had been whooping and Emrys had been laughing and Arthur had felt he was trapped in some twisted fairytale where he was somehow the crotchety, lonely old maid.

So naturally, the library. It was safe there. Or so he thought.

“Hiding?” Came the voice. Arthur noted, irritatingly, that there had been no knock.

“Reading. It does happen to be what people do in libraries, you know.” Arthur had not been reading. He had been staring at the same page for the last 30 minutes, instead replaying the scene in the garden in his mind’s eye. The way the sunlight had seemed to turn Emrys’ hair almost bronze, and his eyes crinkled against the glare, making a dimple appear in his left cheek.

Not that Emrys needed to know all that.

He had even made Morgana snort inelegantly out her nose, like a prime boar or some such. Arthur had scoffed to himself. He'd need to remind her that such behavior was unbecoming.

When Arthur looked up from his book, he was startled to see that Emrys was right in front of him, infuriating smirk on his face. He reached forward into Arthur’s lap and Arthur’s breath started to catch, stoppered in his lungs when—

“Your book is upside down.”

Four.

“You could just call me Merlin, you know,” he said one day, apropos of nothing. They were in the sitting room, and Arthur was meant to be ‘chaperoning’ while Morgana entertained their guest on the pianoforte. Morgana was terrible at all musical instruments, however, and had disappeared to fuck knows where nearly 20 minutes ago now. Arthur’s eyes had been burning a hole in his papers so hard he was surprised there was no scorch mark on the tablecloth below.

“It’s impolite,” Arthur said, without looking up, but he shifted his eyes subtly to catch Emrys standing and stretching, his long legs crossing the room to the piano bench in two strides.

Arthur was keenly aware of how close they were now. If he stuck out the toe of his boot, he would touch the man’s leg. Could perhaps trip him, even.

His fingers were sliding along the keys now, not quite playing, as if testing their weight. Merlin had long fingers, calloused merchant’s hands, yet still delicate somehow.

He looked away sharply when he realized he’d been staring too long. What was wrong with him? And now Emrys was looking at him too.

“What?” He asked, sharper than was really called for.

“Why is it impolite?”

“Haven’t we had this conversation before? We barely know each other. I can’t just–”

“We’re about to be,” and Emrys faltered, then pushed out the word, after an awkward beat, “brothers.”

Arthur felt his stomach twist a bit, unsure quite why. He shifted on his chair.

“If it really means that much to you.”

“It does.” He was looking at Arthur now, gaze intense like Arthur was missing a very obvious point.

“Fine,” he said, teeth grinding. “Merlin.”

“Thank you.” Merlin said simply, completely failing to rise to the bait. Arthur felt a bit put out. He nodded, feeling oddly shy suddenly and returned to staring at his papers.

Five.

The annual Pendragon Christmas ball was a lavish, and in both Arthur and Morgana’s opinion, obnoxious affair. They typically stood in the corner, bitchily pointing out offensive outfit choices and creating torrid stories of why one family seemed to be snubbing another. But this year she seemed to have found someone else to critique the party with, her lacquer-manicured hand resting on Merlin’s chest as she wiped her eyes with her other hand. Which was fine, she could do as she liked. It was fine.

Merlin was not wearing an ill-fitted suit for once, the coat a navy gray that was eye-catching among all the black, the tailoring deliberately drawing the eye to his narrow waist, his longer legs. Arthur looked away, face feeling a bit hot. He could not possibly be upset at Merlin for dressing appropriately for once.

“What’s got you scowling?” Gwen said, sidling up next to him and putting an arm through his. She looked radiant tonight, in a purple gown that mirrored Morgana’s blue and brought out her eyes. Gwen was Morgana’s favorite lady-in-waiting, and Morgana doted on her like a younger sister, always letting her have first pick at the seamstresses’.

“I’m not scowling,” Arthur said, and proved it by smiling down at her.

“Well, now they are.” She giggled, inclining her head across the room. Morgana looked perfectly pleasant on the outside, but to anyone who knew her, her lips were subtly pursed in the way that meant she was upset, pinched at the corners like she’d bitten into a tart lemon slice. Merlin’s expression was curious too, harder to read. His head was tipped slightly sideways, frowning faintly, and he had a small furrow between his brows. It was an ache to realize he would’ve done anything to wipe that expression away, push the furrow flat until Merlin smiled again.

Gwen leaned up on her tip toes beside him, reaching to kiss his cheek, then with a wink and a shy smile pulled her arm free and bounded towards Morgana.

Arthur was drunk. In the way that was teetering between happy and morose, but was still on just this side of pleasant to be enjoyable. He had lost track of Morgana at some point, and Gwen, and Merlin. And that couldn’t be good, all three of them missing. Excusing himself from an extremely long and dull conversation with one of his father’s peerage, he exited the ballroom. He heard Morgana and Gwen almost immediately, giggling in a nearby corridor as they barely maintained decorum and pretended not to run down the hall to their rooms.

There was a lone figure in the courtyard, silhouetted against the snow, and leaning against a tree as if he needed it for support. Arthur thought he knew who it could be.

“What are you doing out here in the cold?”

Merlin continued looking at the sky. “I like looking at the stars. Reminds me of home.” With an ache, Arthur realized Merlin’s eyes were a bit wet. He guessed not from just the prick of the cold.

“Home?” He asked, pretending he hadn’t noticed. But Merlin had noticed him noticing, and just gave a small smile, eyes clear even through the haze of drink.

“Ealdor,” Merlin said. Arthur remembered his father telling him once of the small village where Merlin was born and where his mother, Hunith, had died. They were twins that way, makers and masters of the same pain.

Merlin shivered then and Arthur began to peel off his suit coat so reflexively, it was in his hands before he had even realized he’d meant to offer it.

They stood looking awkwardly at it for a moment in Arthur’s hands, before he pulled it up around Merlin’s shoulders.

“You shouldn’t–”

“Do shut up, Merlin.”

They stood in silence, Merlin burrowing further into the coat and wrapping the collar tighter around himself as if he could fuse it to his skin.

“Do you miss her?” Arthur asked, when he couldn’t quite take the silence anymore. It was a stupid question. Of course he did.

Merlin only nodded. “Do you?”

Arthur nodded, grim. “More than anything, some days.” There was a lump stuck in his throat suddenly, that wouldn’t get unstuck.

“At least,” Merlin said carefully, “we have sisters now.” He gave Arthur a look that was so pointed, it could’ve cut through the very air. For the life of him, Arthur had no idea what it meant.

“God, Arthur, you must know by now.” Merlin looked at him imploringly, it was rather funny, ensconced in Arthur’s jacket as he was. He seemed to be attempting to look stern. Cute. “She’s like a sister to me.”

“Who is?” Arthur said, feeling as though he had missed several steps in the conversation and somehow stumbled to the end.

“Christ,” Merlin said, exasperation laced through every syllable, “you really are a–” and Arthur thought he said dollop… head. Which couldn’t be right, because what? But a moment later it was irrelevant, the furthest thing from his mind, because Merlin was kissing him. And oh god, Merlin was kissing him. Merlin was kissing him.

Merlin’s hands were in his hair and at his lapel and Arthur was still standing stock still like an idiot, feet frozen to the ground. Merlin made to pull away, he could feel the hesitation, the tension buzzing in him as their lips clicked and came unstuck.

“Arthur…” Merlin said, softly, like he was scared. Like Arthur was a wild animal seconds away from being spooked.

“Oh,” he said and “No,” when Merlin’s eyebrows crumpled, and “Shit,” when that was somehow an even worse thing to say. Finally, he just gave up on words, cuppied Merlin’s face between his palms, and kissed him. His cheekbones that were so dear, the eyelashes that fluttered closed at each stroke of his thumb. He kissed him with a tenderness that felt foreign to him and yet familiar, like this was a dance he knew. When Merlin put a hand in his hair and tugged, he exhaled a sharp gasp into the night.

He gave up on words, except for one, whispered over and over between their mouths, made visible in the frigid air. “Please.” He was melting to butter in Merlin’s hands, and he was afraid, suddenly, viscerally, that if they stayed here, in perpetuity under the stars, that they would cease to exist, becoming one with the landscape.

Six.

They stole moments, fleeting and rushed, pushing each other into alcoves, into storage rooms, between hidden shelves in the library. There had never been more places to explore in the Pendragon mansion. And Arthur wanted to push and push and keep pushing, because there was an itch beneath his skin that was finally getting sated, and it was ravenous now in its desire.

Currently, he was staring at the corner of the room, trying to focus on a painting of a distant relative (Katrina something?) because Merlin had touched his foot under the table, perhaps even by accident, and now Arthur’s mind was running wild with what Merlin could get up to under that table. Merlin kneeling, eyes coy and shining, pushing apart Arthur’s thighs with his slender calloused fingers. Or, fuck, if it was him under the table and he would have to be so quiet because he was loud when they did this, couldn’t contain the noises that escaped him with the weight of Merlin heavy on his tongue.

“Arthur!” He jumped. His father’s voice rang through the hall. It sounded as if it had not been the first time.

“Apologies, father, what was the question?” Across the table, Merlin bit his lip to stop from smiling. Arthur kicked him under the table.

“Are you feeling quite alright, Arthur?” His father looked mildly alarmed. He must have been lost in his thoughts for some time.

“Of course, fath–” Merlin stepped on his foot, a deliberate, slow press. He coughed. “Actually… perhaps I should get some air. I have been feeling rather under the weather lately. I may be coming down with something.”

Seven.

They were not always as careful as they should have been. Some days, he would not see Merlin for hours at a time and the desperation, the excruciating agony of it would reach such a boiling point that he barely bothered pulling a door fully closed, dragging Merlin into shadowy sections of corridors where anyone could walk by.

Was this what love felt like? This giddyness, this heady irresponsibility? It was a wonder anyone got anything bloody done.

It was on one such instance that the impossible happened.

“Arthur, we have to be quiet,” Merlin was saying, but he was laughing too. His smile was like the sun peeking through the clouds on a cold winter day, shy and rare and all the more dear for it. Arthur had an odd prickling feeling at the base of his skull that he had had this same thought before.

“Fine, fine,” he said, tugging at Merlin’s belt and waistband, “do hurry up then.” Merlin kissed his laugh into Arthur’s mouth, pushing away Arthur’s struggling hands and unfastening his belt deftly. Merlin’s trousers hit the ground at the same time as Arthur’s knees and he looked up at Merlin through his eyelashes, teasing.

“Fuck off,” Merlin said, but the rest of his protests were lost to gasps as Arthur swallowed him down. Arthur, always one for single minded determination (or as Merlin would call it, pigheadedness), took to the art of sucking cock quite well, if he did say so himself. Based on the several pieces of evidence they had collected over the past few fruitful weeks, Arthur was quite good at it. The way Merlin’s head would tilt back against the wall behind him, eyes closed and mouth open, breathing hard seemed a revelation, worthy of scripture or sculpture. Arthur liked to watch his ragged breathing through his eyelashes, every hitch of breath, every sigh and groan – they coaxed him through his ministrations, coached him through his technique.

He especially liked when Merlin would grab at the back of his head, as he was doing now, tugging at the hair there as if it was the only thing grounding him to the Earth. It sent sparks fizzing down his spine to the tips of his toes and Arthur had to press a hand to the front of his own trousers to avoid a mess.

They were being loud he knew, he was being loud, groaning around the mouthful that was Merlin, savoring the heavy weight of him on his tongue, the ache in his throat. But somehow, he hadn’t expected, hadn’t dreamed of being caught like this.

Merlin made a choked noise, not the good kind, and yanked his pants to cover himself. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut between a breath and the next and turned around.

In the doorway behind him, one hand on the door, backlit by the corridor, stood his father.

At first, he appeared simply shocked, unable to process the situation fully. Then his face transformed into barely contained fury.

“Arthur.” He said, through gritted teeth. “I’m sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this.”

“I–” Arthur attempted, scrambling to his feet.

“Than finding my only son,” he continued, as if Arthur had not spoken, “heir to the Pendragon line and dukedom, on his knees for a– ” He would not even look at Merlin. “Boy.” The word was spit with such disgust, Arthur flinched backwards. He knew it was a mistake instantly, the barest hint of weakness was as blood in the water to sharks and he had shown more than a hint already.

“And your sister, is she aware of this? What would it do to her, if she knew, Arthur? What of her future?!” He was shouting, purpling with rage, his voice carrying down the hall. Everyone would know.

Arthur had never felt fear like this in his life. Perhaps because it was not only for himself, the fear, but for Merlin, and for Morgana, too. He wondered if his father would hit him. Have him flogged at the post like a common servant or a disobedient horse. He could bear that. As long as it wasn’t Merlin. He would bear it one hundred times if it meant keeping Merlin from harm.

Eight.

In the end, it was worse than he could have ever imagined.

“A gentleman’s duel.” His father said, quietly, but he would not mistake the teethed edge to it. “You must restore the honor of your good name and of our house.”

It took a moment to register what his father was proposing. Ordering. When it clicked, he could not suppress his sharp inhale.

“No, wait. Fath–”

“I am not asking, Arthur.” His voice low and dangerous. “Balinor and I have already spoken and agreed. Given our earlier arrangement is now void, This seemed the only fair solution.”

“Fair?” Arthur exploded, far past caring about repercussions now. His father could do whatever he liked to him. But to Merlin… This was unforgivable. “Father, he doesn’t even know how to use a gun!”

“Well, that is certainly not my problem. He has,” he checked the timepiece in his pocket, “twelve hours to learn.”

When Arthur only stared at him in shock, mouth slightly open, Uther made to get up from his desk. “You are dismissed, Arthur.” He sounded tired, pinching the bridge of his nose until an indent was left by his thumb. “I am not trying to be intentionally cruel here, Arthur. Understand the position that you have put me in.” His voice hardened again, “Go and say your goodbyes. Maybe you can teach that boy something useful before the end.”

Arthur walked numbly to the door, his feet moving him without conscious thought by his mind.

“And Arthur?” Uther called after him. “No seconds. That is not up for negotiation. This will be a duel to the death.”

He went to Morgana first. Because he couldn’t not. She was crying and she was screaming at him, but it was not because of what he had done, not because she thought him disgusting or vile or against nature. But because he had been so stupid, so careless, so thoughtless as to get caught and to endanger them all. Gwen sat in the corner, a hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her face. He wondered which one of them she was crying for.

He allowed himself to hesitate in front of Merlin’s door for only a minute before forcing himself to knock. He would not waste any more precious time. When he entered the room, Merlin’s belongings were spread across the floor, his trunk gaping open, half the clothes packed neatly inside, the other half splayed over the edges haphazardly.

“Merlin… what are you doing?” Merlin ignored him, continuing to throw things into the trunk from all corners of the room.

“Merlin! Stop, please. We don’t have time.” He tried to grab Merlin’s wrists and stop the franticness. Merlin just pulled away and continued. “For gods’ sake Merlin! Cut it out!”

“What the fuck do you think I’m doing, Arthur? Can’t you see? I have to leave. I have to get away from this place, from you, it’s the only way.” He was crying then, hot tears spilling down his cheeks.

Arthur would have almost laughed if it wasn’t so horrid. “You think my father will let you leave? You think he hasn’t thought of that already, Merlin? All the gates to the estate are shut, posted with guards. And even if you were to somehow get out, he’s a very powerful man, Merlin. He’ll have mercenaries on the lookout. He’ll have you shot! Why do you think he even agreed to this sham of a marriage in the first place? He doesn’t need you or your father! It was a favor, Merlin. A fucking favor!” He was panting now and he didn’t know when he’d started crying but his face was wet and he was scared, he was so fucking scared.

Merlin had stilled finally in front of him, eyes wide. He opened his arms hesitantly and Arthur fell into them, face falling to Merlin’s shoulder. “Alright, Arthur. Alright. I’ll stay.” He rubbed circles into Arthur’s back, soothing. Arthur squeezed him tight to his chest and never wanted to let go.

Nine.

The early dawn light peaked tauntingly over the hill on which they stood, staining the sky in blood like some kind of wicked portent of things to come. He was glad that his father had forbidden Morgana to come. She had kicked and shrieked and threw things but he had threatened to lock her in her room and she had finally relented. Knowing her, she had probably still managed to somehow, tying her dresses together and climbing out a window, Gwen hot on her heels. But he didn’t want her to see this.

They were spaced in a rough circle, Arthur and Merlin across from each other and Uther and Balinor behind in the trees, as witnesses. Uther had already explained the formalities. Shake hands, 10 paces, shoot. He could practically hear Merlin trying to think of a way out of this from across the field. He tried to subtly shake his head in his direction.

There was no other way.

He and Merlin shook hands. Merlin’s grip was sweaty but steady. “Trust me,” he whispered. And he didn’t know whether he was talking to himself or to Merlin. They turned their backs on each other and Arthur risked giving Merlin’s hand another quick squeeze between their bodies, sure his father couldn’t see from this distance. It would be the last time he held Merlin’s hand he knew, the last time he touched him.

They counted their 10 paces out loud. His heart rate increasing with each step he took away from Merlin.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.” There was no other way. He repeated it in his head like a mantra. No other way.

“Four.” He thought of Merlin.

“Five.” The way his hands had shook when Arthur had adjusted his grip, curling his hand around the trigger.

“Six.” He knew what he had to do.

“Seven.” He only needed the strength to do it.

“Eight.”

“Nine.” He breathed in.

“Ten.”

He turned, sighted down the gun and fired. Merlin shot slightly wide, but that was to be expected, he was not an expert marksman. Had not been trained to kill since birth.

He had ensured Merlin was standing in a very specific spot, so that his aim still appeared deliberate, and his father could find no fault with his marksmanship. But just behind and to the right of Merlin’s head there was a large, flat boulder, the edge of which was dented from several years of Arthur’s target practice. His bullet glanced off the side, just as he had intended.

“Merlin, get down!” Arthur yelled, and it was probably only gut instinct that made Merlin drop instantly, obeying without question.

“No!” Uther screamed, and it was almost gratifying then to hear the pain in his voice, the terror.

He closed his eyes. It was over almost before it had begun. The white hot pain of it was searing down his side, but it would be over soon. And Merlin would be safe.

Someone was screaming in the distance, hysterical. It sounded like Morgana.

And then Merlin was at his side, putting pressure on his wound, hard, as if he could force the blood back in with force of will alone. “Fuck, there’s so much blood. Shit, Arthur, what have you done. You fucking asshole. I thought you had a plan! I thought you had a plan!”

He was sobbing and the tears were like a cooling balm to the wound in his side. He wanted to tell Merlin to forgive him, tell him not to cry, that it would be alright. That he was ruining his only decent shirt for fuck’s sake. But he couldn’t form the words. He was so tired.

He felt a hand cupping his cheek. “Stay with me, Arthur. Stay with me. They’ll get Gauis, just hang on a little longer. Arthur! Please. You can’t leave me, don’t go.” Then, shaking him, “I was the one who was supposed to die, Arthur. How could you, how could you. Arthur!”

He opened his eyes, just a sliver. “Shhh, Merlin. You never knew– ah when to shut up, did you.” He coughed weakly, trying to crack a smile but Merlin just cried harder. “Just, shh now, just just- just hold me.”

Of Merlin Wyltt & Arthur Dubois

1.

Arthur snapped a photo. Emblazoned on the back of the man’s jacket was a pink triangle and the words, ‘If I die of AIDS – forget burial – just drop my body on the steps of the FDA.’

“My partner left it to me,” the man was saying, voice nearly drowned out by the shouts of the crowd around them. “When he died.”

He’d introduced himself as Merlin, but that had to be a pseudonym. Arthur could understand that only all too well in his line of work. There was something familiar about him though, a sense of déjà vu Arthur couldn’t place.

He lifted a ceramic jar that Arthur had not previously noticed. “I’m going to scatter his ashes on the White House lawn.”

2.

The New York Times ran the article on the front page. His byline, Arthur Dubois, right beneath.

“I could kiss you,” Merlin said, vibrating with energy, still in the same jacket that was now plastered across newsstands everywhere.

“Why don’t you, then?” Arthur said, feeling brave. It had been why he had wanted to cover the protest, hadn’t it? This feeling. And why he’d walked with Merlin to the White House lawn to watch as he scattered the ashes of his dead partner, daring the guards stationed at the gates to move. It’d been why he’d paid Merlin’s bail, too, and stood waiting with his hands in his pockets.

Merlin’s eyebrows shot up, mouth opening slightly in shock, before he grinned. His eyes formed little crescents with the force of it, which was incredibly cute. Then, out on the grimy DC street crowded with people, in front of the police station, Merlin stuck his middle finger in the air and kissed him.

3.

With Merlin, kissing felt new. He was often frantic and got tangled in his clothes and his silly elbows went everywhere and they ended up laughing half the time instead of kissing. And Arthur loved it. He loved the way kissing Merlin’s cheekbones made him duck his head, blushing, and how licking at his collarbone made him groan and arch towards Arthur. And the way his brow knotted ever so slightly when he opened for Arthur, then relaxed, yielding to pleasure. The way the cords in his arms would stand out when they were bracketing Arthur’s shoulders. And the way it felt to be taken by Merlin, too, the way Merlin was always so fucking gentle, even when Arthur wanted it – needed it – to be fast. Most of all though, he loved the quiet moments in between. When their labored breathing had slowed and there were no sounds outside but the slow whistling of the wind and the rain pattering on the window. When they would lay tangled together, Arthur’s heart would knit closed around the too large feeling in his chest and breathe.

Inevitably, Merlin would wriggle away complaining of the heat, but it was nice while it lasted.

4.

The call came in the middle of the night, as it often did. They said it was to avoid panic, but for whom Arthur didn’t know. Merlin’s blood tests had come back positive, which meant a temporary 2 week quarantine in the local hospital. Not mandatory but “highly encouraged”, which was practically the same thing.

Arthur paced the halls, waiting, waiting, waiting to be let in, until a nurse looked at him sharply, pointing to a chair.

They’d been careful, he knew. Merlin had insisted on it. But, there was always a chance.

But Arthur wasn’t worried about himself. There wasn’t anyone else left in his life to care about him. And if Merlin was gone… what was the point.

The door opened. The doctor walked past him without a word, giving him a wide berth. He wanted to shout after him, that he should be careful, that the gay was catching. But he just stepped into the room.

“Merlin?” Merlin said nothing, just looked at Arthur with a small, sad smile. It was enough.

5.

Arthur sat by his bedside every day, even though Merlin insisted he shouldn’t.

“Go live your life,” Merlin would say, exasperated.

“My life is right here,” he’d say right back, needling, just to make Merlin wrinkle his nose in disgust.

“Sappy.”

Sometimes he would bring a deck of cards or they would prop up a board game on his bed. Most times, he would bring his notepad and write down stories as Merlin talked. Merlin had wanted it all recorded. “Just in case you forget me,” he would say, with his cheeky smile, but his eyes were turned down and he knew it wasn’t quite a joke.

Other times, Merlin would withdraw, and they would sit in silence staring out the window. Arthur would reach for his hand and sometimes Merlin would pull away, curling into himself further. But he would eventually reach back for Arthur, squeezing his hand as if to say sorry.

Those nights, Arthur would stay in the hospital, curled around Merlin in the tiny bed. Maybe if they stayed just so, he could shield him from the rest of the world. But from the virus inside, wreaking havoc on his body, Arthur had no defenses.

6.

In total, it took 4 months after the diagnosis. 119 days. The last two weeks were the hardest. Merlin’s cheeks had become sunken, his hair was thinner, he was forgetful sometimes, eyes glazing over. The lesions on his arms had started to spread to his hands and he had taken to wearing long sleeved shirts and pulling them over his fingers until the fabric had worn thin. So that Arthur wouldn’t see.

Every day, Arthur stooped a little lower to kiss his forehead, hand him his coffee with as many sugars as deemed medically allowed, and sat at the foot of his bed until visiting hours were over.

On the 118th day, Merlin grabbed Arthur’s wrist as he was leaving. His grip was loose, weak, but Arthur stopped immediately.

“Don’t come tomorrow,” Merlin whispered, voice hoarse.

“Merlin–” he protested.

“Please, Arthur. I don’t want you to see. I don’t want you to see me like this.” As if he hadn’t already seen. As if it wasn’t already tearing him up inside.

“I’ve already seen—”

“Arthur. Promise me.”

Arthur broke his promise. But in the end, he was too late anyway. The train was delayed and he stood an hour on the platform, before sprinting back home to take his car. Stupid, stupid.

By the time he got through the traffic around the hospital, Merlin was gone.

He stared at the death certificate in his hands, where the doctor had written the official cause of death as complications of streptococcal pneumonia. Not AIDS, not Kaposi’s sarcoma, fucking pneumonia. Out in the parking lot, he sat on the sidewalk for a long time, knuckles turning white around the box of Merlin’s belongings in his hands. Then he got in the car and drove away.

7.

The house was too quiet, had been too quiet, but there was a finality to it now that had not been there before. He touched the wall. There were pieces of Merlin still everywhere. His well-loved chucks were still strewn next to the closet, one inexplicably upside down. There were polaroids tacked to the wall. A pamphlet of poems on gay liberation still sitting on the coffee table. But Merlin’s laugh would never again light up this hallway. He wouldn’t trip as he tried to untie his shoes, and take off his coat, and tell Arthur a story all at once. Or give Arthur a kiss on the cheek for steadying him, before bouncing into the next room.

There was an afghan still draped over the couch that Merlin’s mother had knitted him. He stared at it for a long time, worrying the threads between his fingers and wondering who would call her. Then he went to the bedroom and closed the door.

He curled up in sheets that had stopped smelling like Merlin weeks ago, staring numbly at the wall. He had the stark realization that the only family he had left in the world was now gone. When the tears finally came, it was in the large wracking sobs he had not let himself succumb to since his mother died.

He thought about the pills in his cabinet from an old sports injury. He thought about taking his car to the ocean, where he had been so many times with Merlin, driving to the edge of the sand and not stopping, not until the car filled with water and took him down and down and down, away from the pain.

And he thought about his promise to Merlin.

“Don’t let them forget me. Forget this. What they did to us.”

Eventually, hours later, when his limbs were stiff from lack of movement, his lashes dried with salt, he got up to sit at his desk. Then he got out a pen and started to write.

Of Captain Emrys of Citizens Republic & Captain Pendragon of United Allied Federation

●----.

The sun shines bright on the day of takeoff. Merlin has smiled for all the prop footage, most likely live throughout the Republic at this very moment. The countdown begins in his headset: “60 seconds till lift off. 59, 58, 57…” as he goes through the last minute checks. His suit is fully secured to the seat, leg braces tightened, helmet buckled in to prevent head rolling. His eyebrow raises at the slightly higher oxygen ratiometric reading, 23%, above the ideal 21/79. There’s no blaring alarms though and mission control hasn’t flagged it, so it must be within the accepted margin of error.

“13, 12, 11, 10, 9…”

“Emrys,” he hears through the other channel in his headset, “status?”

“Ready, sir,” he says. He can feel the rumbling of the engines beneath him, the cabin starting to shake.

“3, 2, 1, and we have liftoff!”

He feels the initial rush of nerves, of nausea, that are typical from his hours of flight simulators. He compartmentalizes, pushes them down, as he has been trained. Then the exhilaration, the headiness of going to space, the importance of the mission. The pressure on his ribcage is becoming immense. Why— It’s the last thought he has before he blacks out.

He comes to in the med bay, machines beeping around him and the automated med rovers moving between the beds, checking vital signs.

Wait, beds? As in plural.

He swivels his head around and makes to get up, before a mechanical arm pushes him back down. “Please do not rise yet, Captain Emrys. Your oxygenated hemoglobin levels are still stabilizing.”

There is a blond head in the bed next to his. “Override,” Merlin says. “Manual override.” But the arm does not let up.

“Manual override is not permitted at this time. This is for your safety, Captain.”

There is a groan from the bed next to his.

“Hello?” he calls over to them, first in Republic, then switching languages just in case.

“What the fuck?” comes the mumbled reply. In UAF. Fuck. Why the fuck is there a United Allied Federation spacefarer suddenly aboard his ship? And why is this the first he’s hearing about it?

“What the fuck are you doing on my ship?”

“What the fuck are you doing on my ship?”

“Ugh, Republic? Just great.”

Merlin is about to reply when the system nav interrupts. “Captain Emrys of the Citizens Republic, Captain Pendragon of the United Allied Federation. This is now and has always been a joint mission between your two nations. This information was kept confidential due to growing geopolitical tensions prior to launch and the anticipated psychological burden it could cause. I am sure you have many questions, but the mission objective remains the same. Finding a hospitable planet in the Outer Rim that will sustain life.”

●●---.

The days pass in a grudging, relative peace. There are several tasks to complete to keep the ship running smoothly and daily samples to analyze from the unmanned reconnaissance to nearby meteoroids. While an approximate mission trajectory was decided, due to its exploratory nature and based on any noteworthy evidence, course corrections are possible, even probable. He’s just finished fixing a faulty wire and is replacing the paneling when he hears a sigh from the lab bench across from him. Pendragon is digging his thumb and forefinger into the bridge of his nose, underneath his glasses, now askew.

“Time for a lunch break, Captain?” He calls to him, smirking slightly. Pendragon only grunts.

Later, they sit across from each other with their radiated nutrition packs, Pendragon pushing around his plate what could possibly be a new amoebus lifeform but is probably just calorically enhanced peas.

“You could just call me Arthur,” Pendragon says, voice rough from disuse. Merlin realizes he hasn’t said a word all day, possibly in multiple days. The low timbre of it prickles up Merlin’s spine.

“What?” He says, when he realizes the other man is expecting a response.

“I said,” he sighs, put-upon, “you could call me Arthur.”

Merlin blinks, nonplussed. “I didn’t even know your name was Arthur.”

“You… what?”

“You never introduced yourself.”

“Surely, the nav has— I know your name is Merlin!”

“Because, I’m not a robot and I actually introduced myself to you!” He glances at the ceiling. “No offense, Nav.”

“None taken, Captain.”

“Fine,” Arthur huffs, “Forget it.”

●●●--.

The first time Merlin actually uses Arthur’s given name, his hand is on his dick. But it’s not what it sounds like. Well, not exactly.

He’s taking a shower, or ‘routine medically cleansing wash’ and he’s got a few minutes left in his allotted weekly time, having saved up extra minutes from quicker perfunctory RMCWs throughout the week. He’s feeling a little amorous — it’s been a while, sue him — and is halfway to something interesting when he hears a noise.

“Arthur?” he calls, voice a little breathier than he had hoped. He squeezes his eyes shut and hopes it was just the normal creaking of the ship.

“Yeah?” Arthur says, from outside the door. Thank god.

But then he’s coming in. Merlin does not squawk, thank you very much, he lets out a very natural and human sound of alarm.

“Sorry.” Arthur says, then looks down. “Were you just–”

“So what if I was.” He tips his chin, daring Arthur to say anything. He can feel his cheeks heating up and he just knows the light in here is going to accentuate the blush even more.

“Saying my name?”

“What? No!” His face is on fire. This is the worst moment of his life.

“Let me just–” and then Arthur is pushing through the door and coming in.

Later, when they have used up both of their RMCW time, for possibly the entire next week, Arthur kisses his shoulder, more delicately than Merlin would have expected, tracing a pattern through the hair on his lower belly and says, “I feel like I’ve known you before.” When Merlin only hums, he continues, “What is that old french concept, ‘already seen’?”

“You’re the one with French ancestry,” he mumbles, already halfway to sleep in the warmth of Arthur’s arms and residual heat from the shower. “Déjà vu.”

“Right.” Arthur says, “That. Don’t you think…” but Merlin doesn’t hear the rest.

●●●●-.

The blaring of an alarm lights up his helmet as soon as he steps back inside the airlock. The airlock depressurizes and reopens into the interior of the ship, his helmet unlatching automatically. Arthur catches him by the elbows before he can fall to his knees, pulling an oxygen mask to his face.

“I thought–” he gasps, his blue eyes wide and panicked, “you were outside. The alarm. I thought–” Merlin realizes Arthur is breathing as shallowly as he is. He shakes his head, removing Arthur’s wrist from his own so he can detach the oxygen mask and transfer it to Arthur.

He breathes deeply, trying to slow his breaths so that Arthur will do the same. It feels wrong. His chest is still tight, the alarms are still blaring. “It must be the ship,” he says.

“Captain Emrys. Captain Pendragon,” the Nav blares over the speaker system. “Prepare for interportal transmutation. We are now jumping 3000 years to the past.”

***

“Do I know you?” Arthur says, tripping over the words like he has said them before. Familiar, yet strange. Like the man before him. A dark mop of curls obscuring one raised eyebrow, the tattered brown of his jacket and worn boots, his blue shirt belted beneath a red kerchief.

“I’m Merlin,” he says, arm outstretched, half smile tugging at his lips.

“So I don’t know you,” Arthur says, but it feels like a lie.

“No,” Merlin concedes, sheepish, head lowered in what Arthur can already tell is only a play at deference. His eyes lift, insolent, framed by dark lashes. “But, perhaps you will.”