Work Text:
-VVV-
Merlin moves along the corridor with quieter steps than anyone might credit to him. It is deep night, and, for the most part, Camelot is at rest. In the distance, Merlin can hear the jangle of the steward’s many keys echoing off of the stones walls as he makes his rounds. He nears the kitchen and freezes when he hears the sound of soft, feminine laughter tuck quietly into the shadows.
It’s Gwen. Something in Merlin’s heart constricts as, chasing the heels of Gwen’s laughter, comes Arthur’s. There’s whispering – Merlin can imagine that Arthur and Gwen are leaned towards one another, heads bent close together, their words for eachother alone – and then there’s nothing but silence. It is loud and terrible in his ears.
Merlin retreats back down the hall with haste; he doesn’t want to see what he knows he’ll find around the corner: Arthur and Gwen sharing breath. Arthur and Gwen sharing that and more; far more than what Arthur shares with him – than what Arthur refuses to share with him. The resignation that Merlin feels settle within him is nothing new, nor is the sharpness of his hurt. It’s the anger that’s fairly new; anger born of having to hide so much, give so much, and sacrifice such significant pieces of himself, with nothing in return.
Merlin absently touches his left side, his fingers automatically seeking out the jagged path of a faded scar; the chunk of flesh missing from his hip, carved away by a highwayman’s blade, is the least of what he’s given up for Arthur.
Halfway back to his quarters, he stops and sags back against the corridor wall. He closes his eyes and lets his shoulders slump. The wall is solid at his back and the stone is silent and cold; the coldness seeps through the fabric of his shirt and cools the angry, heated flush of his skin. It takes a moment for him to gather his thoughts, and, by the time he makes a decision, he knows that his decision had already been made back there: back with Arthur and Gwen and the spare space between them.
Merlin pushes away from the wall and takes a steadying breath, before resolutely heading in the opposite direction of his quarters. He slips quickly down the hall as quiet as a shadow.
-VVV-
There are over two-dozen secret passages in Camelot, most of them hidden behind thick falls of tapestry, false walls, and, in some cases, ponderously heavy pieces of furniture. The only one that Merlin uses is tucked away behind a huge mural of the Pendragon family crest, situated along the far east wall of the lesser dining hall. It leads directly to Uther’s chambers.
He can navigate it with his eyes closed.
Merlin enters without asking or waiting for permission, pulling aside a dresser just far enough for him to wriggle through. He grunts with the effort; the dresser is old and unreasonably heavy, its ornate feet scraping noisily across the floor. He doesn't bother to push it back into its proper spot after squeezing through.
The room is dark, the only illumination coming from a few candles burning slowly in their sconces and the moonlight which spills in through the windows. Uther is standing with his back towards him, in front of an open window that dominates the far wall and overlooks a rose garden that he particularly favors. Merlin knows this because he's stood and has looked out over that same damned garden from the very spot Uther occupies.
“What do you want?” Uther questions sharply. He doesn’t turn around.
Merlin moves to Uther's side and stands and flicks his gaze over the neat arrangements of rosebushes, below. For a moment, he says nothing, numbly staring down at the shadowed garden without really taking any of it in. “Your son is a fool," Merlin says, eventually. He speaks quietly, his words instantly swallowed by the wide, dark expanse of night.
The blow catches Merlin across the mouth, though not unexpectedly. Uther doesn't hit him hard, but it’s a solid hit, nonetheless, and backed by the many rings which Uther wears along each of his fingers. They are heavy and they are gold. Merlin knows it will bruise, an ugly thing painted blue-purple across the swell of his lips; he’ll worry about that in the morning.
Uther turns to him and grabs his shoulder, his fingers digging harshly into bone and muscle. He’s angry, and Merlin wants to Uther to be angry. He needs it to be this way for their relationship to work, all fucked up spaces and dysfunctional angles - whatever the hell that means. Theirs isn’t one of give and take, and how can it be? There’s too much animosity between them; too many tough decisions with too many consequences that slowly kill the soul. There’s too much Arthur between them, so bright and so…Arthur, that it sometimes fucking hurts Merlin’s eyes.
Sometimes Merlin just wants to fold into the darkness, just a little bit. Sometimes, damn-it, he just wants to dampen the light a little bit, this bright fucking destiny he’s supposed to have with a man he’s not sure even likes him most of the time. Certainly, there’s loyalty between he and Arthur, and there’s something else too, something that he feels as surely and as deeply in his bones as the Old Magic flowing through his veins.
Still, for all the little moments - the smiles and the trust and the brush of Arthur’s fingertips along the ridges of his spine - there are harsh words that can never be taken back. And there's deceit, too (of course, what would his life be without deceit?) and promises that are vapid and empty.
Uther pushes Merlin back against the open window and hitches him onto the sill with more strength than is readily apparent beneath his cape and clothing. Merlin leans precariously back and revels in the feel of Uther’s hands tightening over his hips, holding him firm. He might not love Uther - hell, half the time he probably loathes him - but Merlin trusts him not to let go. He leans back even further and moonlight splashes across the high planes of his cheeks like liquid silver. Uther skims his mouth across his jaw and Merlin spreads his hands over Uther's shoulders. He anchors himself, then digs the heels of his feet into the small of Uther’s back. He tilts his hips up and pushes up firmly into Uther’s body held tightly against his own.
He is hard and he is ready.
Things unravel quickly after that. It’s how it always is; it's how it always will be. No reason to change things now - things work this way. The dysfunction of their relationship has almost become a comfort; it's something constant, something that never quite changes within the constant flux of Merlin’s life. It's something that he can rely on, and Merlin holds onto that steadfastness - no matter how fucked up it is - with greed and desperation.
Uther is too impatient to fully disrobe, but Merlin doesn’t care. He helps push his own breeches down around his ankles and jerks back from the sudden brush of cool air against his thighs. In a rare show of tenderness, Uther rubs his palms lightly down Merlin’s back, warming his skin, the cool metal of his rings bumping against the divots of his spine. Though the touch is feather light, it almost burns. Merlin shivers, and, for a moment, rests his forehead against Uther’s.
When he opens his eyes, he sees Uther looking at him with a curious intensity which makes his gaze fever-bright. For half a breath that seems closer to an eternity, they remain locked in that position, gazing at one another; just a quick glimpse of what was possible and what would never truly be. Merlin hitches his leg tighter around Uther’s hip and shuts his eyes, closing out that probing stare. He shuts out the feelings that tighten in his chest and crushes his mouth against the Uther's.
Merlin draws back and slicks his fingers in his own mouth, spitting into his palm for good measure. He lifts his arse to prep himself. Uther stops him, but Merlin shakes his head sharply; Uther ceases his protest and instead watches, pupils blown out with lust, as Merlin works one, two, then three fingers into himself. Merlin winces against the burn, against the haste in which he’s stretching himself, but the raggedness of the pain is also so fucking good.
He watches Uther for a moment, through the dark fringe of his eyelashes; he enjoys the attention, pleased by the raptness of Uther's gaze when he wets his lips and lets his mouth fall open. The power within him, the Old Magic that is as essential to him as the air in his lungs, rises from his pores like noxious, heady fumes.
His blood sings out for worship.
His heart sings out for love; for reassurance.
His body just wants to fuck.
Merlin gasps when Uther breaches him, tilting him sharply back until his upper body is hanging precariously out over nothingness. It is deep night and the garden below them is empty; nobody will see. A thrill shoots through him as Uther pushes into him slowly, leaning him back even further. He loops an arm around Merlin’s back, the other propped on the windowsill to support his weight. He pushes their bodies close.
Merlin cinches his legs around Uther’s waist, the muscles of his thighs tightening like a vice, anchoring himself. He slides his hands around to the back of Uther’s neck, pressing his fingers into the hard muscle banded across his shoulders and back; he is reassured by Uther's solidness.
Merlin lifts his chin. He and Uther are practically nose-to-nose, and they’re pressed close - too fucking close. Uther doesn’t say a word as he begins to move his hips, slowly, almost sedately. Merlin writhes; his throat is tight with the returning riot of emotion that erupts in his chest. This isn’t right. This should be frantic; this should be desperate. This should be laced with misdirected anger and blind fury.
This shouldn’t be intimate.
Merlin chokes on something that sounds too much like a sob for his like, and screws his eyes shut against the enormity of what he’s feeling. It’s too much, too fucking much; he buries his face in the curve of Uther’s neck and lets the other man ride him to completion. His eyes are wet and something unexpected rises in him: even surrounded by a castle full of people, Merlin is so very alone.
He clings to Uther and digs his heels harshly into the small of Uther's back with a viciousness he doesn't really feel. What he does feel, is the desperation in the relative silence of their fucking; neither he nor Uther have made much noise past quiet gasps and low grunts. But they’re still so close, so fucking close; Merlin can feel the thump of Uther’s heart in his own chest, can feel the flush spread beneath his fingers as Uther quickens the pace.
He feels torn apart, so out of control, losing it; losing himself. He comes when he jacks a hand between them and touches himself, barely dragging his fist down the length of his cock before he’s coming with a sob that he can’t hold back. It tears from him, pushing between his teeth and filling the space between them with broken noise. Uther follows him over the edge with a few jerky thrusts and a ragged, quiet groan that sounds almost as unhinged as Merlin feels.
Merlin’s cheeks are wet in the moonlight. Uther pulls him back from the window and slips out of him wordlessly. Merlin looks at him in defiance, his eyes shiny with moisture. His eyelashes are damp; he dares Uther to say something. Instead, Uther wipes away the tears from the corners of Merlin's eyes with the edge of his cape and Merlin jerks away. He presses the heels of his hands hard against his face and tries to hold himself together as everything begins to unravel.
Uther says nothing, just gathers him in the folds of his cape and lets the silence linger.
(The End.)