note: So yeah, this chapter got away from me. Not really surprising, considering who it is about! I hope every one has enjoyed the story! I have several more planned for this fandom, and cannot wait to get them done so that I can post them!

Second Ending

His entire life has just been shoved off it's axis and then promptly punted into the heavens! The view of Merlin wrapped around Percival like some kind of man devouring vine has altered the flow of his reality and he wants it to STOP! He will ORDER it to, if he must! The rest of that evening saw him pacing through his chambers, grunting and grumbling to himself before he finally gave up trying to find reason in the events of the past few weeks. In the end, he decided that there was absolutely -no- reason for him to wish to bash all of his Knights over the head for the gifts and kisses exchanged with Merlin, and that there is -definitely- no reason for him to want to lock Merlin up in his chambers and yank every single one of those gifts off.

Once that was settled, he was free to throw himself into bed and try and get some sleep. Forget the fact that there was still light streaming in his window, that he hadn't eaten supper, not to mention the fact that he's still dressed in his council clothing! Sleep would surely solve all of this ... right?

By morning, everything is, of course, worse! He dreamed of Merlin. Of the wide eyed little fool in a state of ripped clothing and tangled limbs, surrounded by his lecherous Knights as they pawed at his flesh. Marked his neck and made him make such sweet, lusty sounds. So, of course, he woke up sweating, hard, and pissed off! He tore his covers off, locked his chamber doors, and ripped his clothes off.

Once he could force himself to settle in his chair and take care of his throbbing problem, he lay in a sodden heap on the floor. Panting for breath. Cursing Merlin, his Knights, and every thing else he could think to curse!

A quick clean in his water basin, change into a simple pair of black breeches and a Pendragon red tunic with his sword belted at his waist. Now, he feels normal again. He feels -right-. The remnants of his dream burn away with the coming of the morning sun, and he revels in the fact that he finally feels as if he's on even footing again. That strange imbalance is something he never wishes to feel again. Since becoming King, it seems as if there is very little truly in his control, and he would rather his mind and body both be!

With this new found sense of calm and happiness, he decides that today is a day for doing what he wants, rather than what he's obliged to do! There are no council meetings scheduled, nothing that needs his official attention, so he decides to get back to what he enjoys most; training the Knights! It feels like ages since he was able to put them through their paces. And no, this has absolutely -nothing- to do with wanting to beat them down for their behavior toward Merlin these past few weeks. (He actually means that, too! He's not just rationalizing to himself or anything else like that.) With a quick, simple breakfast gathered from the kitchen by himself, he heads down to the training field, feeling in high spirits!

... until he actually gets there. The first thing he sees .. is Percival standing behind Merlin. With one hand on the flat of the manservant's back, the other hand pressed against Merlin's where he's gripping a sword. The image of Merlin wrapped around Percival like a second skin from the previous day is enough to send his blood boiling and to bring snatches of his dream to the forefront of his mind. The way that Dream Percival's hand had been tangled in Merlin's hair, tugging.

He swallows heavily, feeling his limbs grow leaden and a bit unruly.

"I'm glad to see everyone up early to practice. Merlin, put that damn sword away. It's wasted on you." He snaps the last bit, a small mote of satisfaction burning deep in his belly as Merlin jumps and immediately shoves the handle of the blade into Percival's hand. The Gentle Giant, however, is not smiling. In fact, he looks down right mad at Arthur, though he is smart enough not to say anything. He turns and strolls to the weapon rack, replacing the sword for now. Merlin uses that moment to put himself on the other side of the arena barrier, taking himself firmly out of the presence of the others as Arthur moves in to begin assigning training partners.

"Percival, you and Elyan." He snaps out, missing the scowl exchanged between the two before they grab sword and shield and move toward the middle of the arena. The rest of the Knights and Arthur move off to the side to observe. Of course, Arthur misses Gwaine sidling over to slip out of the arena and lean next to Merlin on the railing.

"He was out of line on that, Merlin. I hope you know the rest of us don't feel that way?" It touches Merlin, makes him feel all warm inside, to have Gwaine admit that. He knows that the rest of them don't find him useless. Hell, he even knows that Arthur doesn't, not really. Not -deep- down. This just has to be one of his moods. And, of course, it makes his heart clench and stutter as he tries to find out what could have made Arthur verbally lash out like that. Shouldn't he be used to it by now? But, well .. being in love with the grade a Prat hasn't lessened how badly it stings when he throws those biting words at him. At least, not the times where he actually seems to MEAN them. Those times lash the poor warlock open. Flay the skin from his bones and leave him bleeding and broken on the inside. Because he would never be so cruel as to show Arthur what those words truly do to him. It would be wrong. Very wrong.

"I know, Gwaine. And he really doesn't, either. You know that. He must just be having a bad day .." Merlin's words trail off when he realizes that Gwaine is out and out glaring at him. Because he is defending Arthur's bad mood. Again. As he always does. He takes a deep breath, about to say something, when any chance is taken away.

"GWAINE!" Arthur snarls the knight's name, causing said Knight to jump and stare at where the King is standing. His features a bright, angry red. Gwaine blinks slowly, trying to figure out what has caused the King to come apart like that. He casts a side-long glance to where his hand is lightly brushing the side of Merlin's arm. He hadn't even realized he was doing it! His fingers still, and he's not sure if he imagines it, but it looks almost as if Arthur's jaw unclenches just a fraction. Interesting!

"One moment, Princess. I was just having a word with Merlin." Gwaine drawls out the nickname he had not used in several weeks. As if Arthur's crowning had somehow finally earned him the respect of the Knight. More likely, he had just worn himself out on using the word. But now? Now, he has purpose! He reaches up, his fingers dancing along the clothed expanse of Merlin's chest to grasp the chain that rests against his neck. He carefully pulls the trinkets from under the shirt, letting them fall out, in plain view, for the King to see. He runs his fingertips across the edge of Merlin's neck, causing the younger man to shiver and let out the softest hint of a whimper. Enough to inflame the knight, though Gwaine actually has no intent to act on it. No, he is .. experimenting. Testing a theory, if you will.

And the theory proves true in the very next second. Because Arthur has appeared, his hand clamped hard enough on Gwaine's shoulder that he will sport a bruise there later in the day. He physically shoves the knight toward the arena, somehow managing not to snarl like the rabid animal he seems to be impersonating at the moment.

"Leon! You and Gwaine." Arthur's words drip with anger and may as well have been a verbal order for Leon not to take it easy on Gwaine. Though Leon himself looks just as upset as Gwaine had been moments ago. As Percival had been. None of them liked Arthur taking the sword away from the manservant, insinuating that he had no right to learn to fight. It angers them -all-. As far as they are concerned, Arthur should have -ordered- Merlin to study combat more for all the times he insists that the unarmed servant follow them into the worst kinds of danger.

Arthur steps rigidly away from a wide eyed, trembling Merlin. Who, with shaky hands, manages to tuck the necklace back beneath the collar of his shirt. After a moment of struggling to regain his breath, Merlin manages to lean against the railing once more. Of course, that can't be the end of it, can it? No, of course not. Because this has to continue, until someone finally cracks!

Now that the attention is on Gwaine and Leon, Percival comes waltzing over to where Merlin is leaning. He hesitates for a moment, before leaning right next to him. Close enough that their arms brush lightly.

"You alright, Mer?" He questions in soft, concerned tones, though he doesn't glance over at him or anything. Hoping that if he keeps his voice low, Arthur won't realize he's over there.

"Yeah. Just .. confused, Perce." Merlin's voice is broken, a quivering mess of emotion, and it wounds the Gentle Giant. Angers him. He throws a scathing look at Arthur's back, before standing straight. His fingers curl under Merlin's chin, coaxing the younger man to stand straight and turn to face him. When he realizes that there are unshed tears in Merlin's eyes, he finds himself wanting to walk over and smack Arthur. No, not even smack. No. He wants to punch him square in his arsehat jaw! He sucks in a deep, silent breath.

"Yeah, don't blame you, Mer. He's an emotionally constipated toddler, ain't he?" Merlin's eyes widen, and he physically shoves both of his hands across his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Though he is utterly impressed at the rather spot on description. Percival lights up with a beaming smile when he realizes he has cheered the manservant up. It makes him feel all warm and fuzzy, as it usually does.

"He is, isn't he?" Merlin snickers softly at that, all the tension draining from his body as he leans his hip lightly against the railing. Percival moves his hand from Merlin's chin, brushing fingers teasingly down the curve of his jaw until his fingers catch in the neckerchief. Merlin sucks in a silent, sultry breath, his eyes fluttering closed as Percival's fingertips graze across the side of his throat. It telegraphs heat all through out him, and he wishes that Percival would yank the neckerchief away and -

"PERCIVAL!" Arthur actually roars the name this time, causing even the Gentle Giant to jump in surprise. Arthur comes stalking over to where the two men are standing, his hands shaking in fists at his sides. Where Gwaine had pulled away, Percival doesn't. He continues to run the fabric of the neckerchief through his fingers until Merlin is forced to act. He hastily steps away, making sure that the piece of fabric stays in place.

"Arthur, he was just -" Merlin walks toward his King, trying to defuse the situation, but he doesn't get the chance. The moment he is within distance, Arthur grabs him. One hand wraps around Merlin's hip, jerking him close. The other hand wraps around the side of his face, tilting his head. Before Merlin can make a sound, a whimper or a gasp, Arthur's lips are a wave of passion crashing against the shore of his mouth and he wonders that he can even stand.

Arthur's lips are soft, warm. The barest hint of moisture. Merlin had always imagined they would be chapped, slightly rough, matching the demeanor that Arthur wore like a shield. But this. Oh god, this is so much more than he expected! Arthur's lips are loving and pliant. Molding to Merlin's as they move in a sensual, heated .. and ye gods, CLAIMING kiss. The warlock melts into the hold, his own hands eventually moving to fist in the front of Arthur's tunic as he feels every last breath kissed from his body.

"Now!" Arthur calls out, his voice a husky octave of need, his eyes moving from one Knight to the next, until he is sure that every one of them have seen the kiss. "Do you lot -finally- understand!?" He snarls the words, his gaze snapping back to the blushing, open mouthed manservant. "Mine." He purrs the final word sensually, his tongue poking from his mouth to trail along his bottom lip. His eyes sweep across Merlin, seeing every gift, every trinket ... every thing that had been offered to his Merlin, and he wants to rip them away. Remove them. He drags in a stilted breath, nostrils flaring as he forces himself to let the other man go. This definitely wasn't the time, or the place, for whatever conversation they probably need to have.

The Knights look on in confusion ... and more than a tad bit of anger. It wasn't fair! How could he claim Merlin as well!? Percival clears his throat, frowning as he steps forward.

"That's not fair, Arthur!" Percival grunts, reaching out to place a hand on Merlin's shoulder, prepared to pull the manservant toward him. Even as he sees Arthur riling up for a fight, he is prepared to stand his ground. Until Merlin turns to look at him with those wide, sad eyes. He pats Percival's hand gently, before carefully pulling it off his shoulder and taking a step back. Gasping faintly when his beck collides with Arthur's chest. Even as Arthur's arm wraps possessively around his waist.

"I'm sorry, Perce. I really am. I .. I am flattered by the things you and the others have told me." He glances at each Knight in turn, before looking back toward the Gentle Giant. His hand slips down to touch the back of Arthur's hand. Poor Merlin ... he finally has what he wants, and he can't look happy to save his life. Because some part of him isn't. Because surely, this is just jealousy, right? A case of a spoiled King not wanting anyone else to play with his toy, right? Merlin blinks back tears, and smiles up at his friend again.

"I told you all .. that I couldn't be courted. Because .. because my heart already belonged to someone else." He leans back against Arthur, a little surprised to feel that the older man has relaxed a little in the hold, but still isn't letting go. If this is the only moment he has .. then so be it. It's better than nothing, right?

"Damn it, Merlin! You are better than this!" Gwaine charges forward then, watching as Arthur's arm tightens around Merlin as the newest challenge presents itself. "He is going to marry Gwen. You'll still be his manservant, nothing more!" Gwaine grunts the word manservant, trying not to sound as disgusted as he feels. He cannot understand how Merlin can still be so loyal and so in love with a man that dismisses him, treats him as badly as he does.

Before Merlin can say anything, do anything, Arthur has gasped. He takes a step away, and pulls at Merlin's stomach, twisting the man around to face him. Arthur's features are red with anger and ... something else. Fear? It's so hard to read him. Though his eyes are much easier to read. They are full of sadness.

"You .. you don't believe that .. do you, Merlin?" He questions softly, showing far more emotion and vulnerability in his words than he had intended, but he can't stop it. Can't staunch the flow of emotion as his hand lifts to cup Merlin's cheek. "You can't possibly believe that you're nothing .. can you?" The question quakes from a croaking throat, and Merlin wants to laugh hysterically when his first thought is that he should run and get his Sire a drink of water. Or maybe wine, for how strange and surreal the situation is? "Merlin .." Arthur's tone has turned to begging and pleading, and Merlin gasps with surprise. That is not a tone he has often heard. Definitely never heard unless they were absolutely alone.

"Arthur, I .." He swallows heavily, his adam's apple bobbing with the strain as he wrestles with his inability to speak and the tidal wave of emotion crashing through him. "Arthur ... I .. I just don't know sometimes." His voice creaks on his Sire's name, and Merlin reaches up to push the palm of his head against his forehead. He can feel a stress headache developing behind his eyes, and suddenly, he wants nothing more than to be laying down in his room. Or better yet, curled up on the floor in Ealdor, pretending this life has never happened. Pretending that he is a normal young man without magic or unrequited love.

"You say things .. sometimes you don't mean them and I know that. But then you do, and it .. it cuts. It burns. I just .. I never know which Arthur it will be, and I -" He gasps, feels Arthur's lips collide with his again. Not claiming. Not rough, or mean, demanding. Just a gentle, trembling brush of lips against his, to quiet him. Reassure him. Arthur pulls back, his wide, suddenly dark eyes sweeping across his Knights.

"E-everyone carry on." He creaks, croaks, his voice a disheveled mess as he moves to grab Merlin by the arm. He turns and leads him quickly from the arena, and toward the Castle. His destination is simple and obvious; his chambers.

By the time they entered the castle, Arthur was no longer touching Merlin. It had been a mistake to do that, on the training field, out in the open. Where eyes could see, tongues could wag, and the world around them could find a way to tear them apart before they had a proper chance to try and make things work. Or, as Arthur fears, before Merlin has a chance to throw his feelings back in his face and laugh himself stupid at the fact that Arthur could be so foolish as to harbor affections for a man that had never shown any kind of fondness beyond friendship toward him. A man that, as far as he knows, has shown little to no true desire for -anyone-.

Once they are to his chambers, he wrenches the door open and waves Merlin inside, stepping in and closing the door once he's sure that Merlin is half way across the room. He then bolts it, facing the heavy wooden portal as he wages a silent war within himself. First, as any good general, he must get himself sorted. Control his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow. Steady. Calm. Then, he tells his heart to steady itself. Calm. Collected. Controlled. Finally, he turns to face Merlin .. and all of his careful self control flies right out the window because Merlin is staring at him with -those- eyes. The round, doe eyes that glisten with unshed tears. Lashes quivering and fluttering ever so slightly as he fights not to let the tears fall. It pierces Arthur's heart. Had he truly been such a ... a fucking PRAT, that Merlin had no notion of how much he means to him!?

"Merlin .. please." His voice nearly closes itself off at the use of the unfamiliar word. He swallows heavily and tries again. "Please explain what you meant. A-about .. which Arthur .." The King finds that his hands are shaking, so he wraps them in the hem of his tunic, clenching his fingers like vices within the material. He is falling apart. Fraying and breaking at the seams.

"Arthur, I .." Merlin whimpers. Actually. Whimpers. It's a sound that is earth-shattering to the King. Because it moves him. Before he can stop himself, he has bridged the gap between them and done something he would never even think to do with -Gwen-. He takes both of Merlin's hands in his and gives them a careful, reassuring squeeze. It seems to work. Merlin relaxes a little bit and another of those reality shaking whimpers don't come, so Arthur counts it as a victory. (And no, the hunter and warrior in him is NOT trying to treat this like a battle with victories and wins, honestly!)

"I meant .. what I said, Sire. I'm sorry, but it's true!" Merlin's words tremble as he tries to drag a breath into his aching chest, powering on before Arthur can think to try and comment. "You are three different Arthurs and I never know which until it's too late ..." His words trail off in a pathetic whine of frustration and don't start again until Arthur has given his hands a reassuring, if not unsteady, squeeze.

"On the one hand, you're Professional Arthur. All business. Neither distant or personal. I can handle that. Because it means ... it means you're being the King I always knew you would be." As per usual, anytime Merlin shows unwavering confidence in his ability to rule, Arthur pulls himself together. A subtle straightening of his back, squaring of his shoulders. He truly shines with pride!

"And then, there's Friend Arthur." And gods, if that label doesn't fill them both with a warm contentment that beams from them in uplifting waves. Their friendship has inspired a lot of happiness and enjoyment in other people. "The Arthur that lets me call him Prat and Dollophead, that threatens the stocks without ever meaning it anymore. The Arthur that ... that ..." Merlin's voice cracks on the two thats and Arthur finds that he has never wanted to hug someone so much in his life, save his dead Mother. (And damn Gwaine to -hell- for getting to hug the younger man so many times when he couldn't!) "That admits there is a bit of wisdom in me. I -like- that Arthur!" The King does too, though he can't currently find the words to admit it.

His thoughts are severely, fully interrupted by the feel of Merlin's hands wrenching free of his. Leaving him feeling bereft and inexplicably -empty-. That single motion of separation has drained every ounce of positive emotion from Arthur, leaving him a broken vessel floundering to find even footing once more.

"Th-then ... there's the O-Other Arthur. The true Prat, no better than the mean-spirited arsehole that I met when I first came to Camelot!" As Merlin fights to spit the fractured words out, Arthur is left to contemplate the fact that being stabbed, shot full of arrows, and drawn and quartered would hurt -less- than this fucking revelation! Every word inflicts a wound one hundred times worse than the last ... and each wound kills him a thousand times over. Dramatic, yes, but a breaking heart is the purest form of drama. More devastating than a war, or so it feels with the damn ache in his chest!

"That is the Arthur that still gives me nightmares. The Arthur that calls me a -coward- and still -means- it despite the fact that I'm not even a KNIGHT but I still ride into every fucking battle at his side without sword or armor! The one that sneers at me and calls me useless when he's angry or frustrated at a situation that actually has fuck all to do with me! And I still do more of his mean, vengeful, -asinine- chores than any other servant could or -would-! The Arthur that I secretly wish would hurry up and marry Gwen so I can quit and move back to Ealdor!" The more Merlin rants about the third Arthur, the louder and more animated he gets. Until his arms are flailing, his eyes are wide as saucers, and he's almost foaming at the mouth. When Arthur hears the possibility that Merlin will leave ... will run from Camelot and end up right back in Ealdor, an entirely -different- kingdom altogether, he feels as if every whiff of breath has been leeched from his body.

"NO!" He roars the word, his tone a waterfall of cascading grief and fear. Despite his Royal Prat nature, the word isn't a order as it would be in -any- other situation. It's a plea. This is Arthur begging, in the form of a single pitiful, wailing word, for Merlin not to give up. Not to leave him. It is the only word he can use, because no matter how he's feeling in this moment, he cannot actually voice the words to tell him to stay. Beg him to stay.

"Dollophead." Merlin breaths softly, though his voice falters. He hasn't the foggiest clue what is actually happening here. Why this is happening, or what good may come of the words spoken between them. He reaches out suddenly, splaying a hand on each of Arthur's cheeks, the King barely registering that they are cool and almost silken against his fevered skin.

"I will not leave Camelot, Arthur. This is my -home-. It has been since I came here. Even .. even when I returned to help Mum in Ealdor, I always knew I would come back if I survived." Arthur feels his heart clench, the same way it did on the day that Merlin had told him he was leaving. Because it was his Mother and he had to take care of her. He still feels like such a right foul -idiot- for having assumed that Merlin would choose him and Camelot over his Mother and the place he was born. He had simply -assumed- that Merlin would apologize to Hunith and send her on her way. Once he realized that Merlin was leaving, he had -assumed- that he would escort her home and then return. God, no wonder Merlin had called him a Royal Ass when they first met. If no other proof had ever been offered, that was definitely more than enough. What kind of grade a arsehole expected a man to put his Prince before home and hearth, kith and kin!?

He fears, for one dreadful moment, that he's going to physically be sick. His stomach churns with the rancid burn of bile, his lips compress in a tight white line to fight the need to sick up. He will not let these emotions get the better of him! He can't! He's Arthur Pendragon, KING of CAMELOT, damn it! He does not go about losing his breakfast because of a manservant's opinion of him! Though ... gods forgive him, he might do just that over the fact that a friend is standing there, radiating disappointment in him.

"Things are hard enough these days, Arthur, without having to worry which version of you I'm going to face. Without .. without .. god, you're going to call me a fucking -girl- again, but without having to wonder if I'm going to be lucky enough to go to bed feeling relatively happy, or if I'm going to go to bed in -tears- because you're being a prick again." Words should not cut like knives and swords. They should not cause physical pain as real and true as a mortal injury. They are words, not slings and barbs, but they prick his skin. Pierce his heart. Rip the breath from his lungs as he fights against the onslaught of it all. This is Merlin. Kindhearted, sweet, PRECIOUS Merlin that never has more than a nice word or kind 'insult.' Unloading on him with words that cut him to the quick, and yet, delivered with such sadness, as if the very fact that he has thought them at all, hurts Merlin just as much. Knowing him .. yeah, of course they do. Because this is Merlin. Ever loyal, sweet Merlin that sees his own logical thoughts as a betrayal to that loyalty.

"You're not a girl, Merlin. You're not ... I'm sorry!" He speaks the apology with impassioned vehemency, and it shocks the younger man enough that he pulls away. Snatches his hands from the sides of Arthur's face as if he has been physically scalded or something. He turns away from Arthur, moving around the chambers he seems to just now realize he is standing in. Chambers that he knows better than his little room in Gaius' place. He feels the tickle of hysterical laughter beginning at the back of his throat and he practically lunges for the pitcher of wine. Fills a glass and knocks it back with the desperation of a man dying of thirst. It's too much. Not enough. A cataclysmic differential of spectral structure. How can he feel as if he is inhabiting two completely different things at the exact same time? Is this what going mad feels like!?

"Oh, Arthur .. Sire .." The words slip from lips painted pale pink with remnants of wine, that even now glistens in the corners of his mouth and he hasn't the mind to think to lick the dregs away. He reaches up, instead. Pallid fingers pressed against the nest of his ebon hair, twisting and tugging the strands into gravity defying, swooping angles that begged for other hands to card through. Gods, Arthur wished his could be that other hand. To feel the velvety heat of the strands .. would they be pliant against his finger tips? Wiry, or as soft and smooth as he thinks they will?

Oh. Oh, wait .. he called him sire again, didn't he? Another barbed arrow to his heart. He huffs a heavy breath and it is his turn to drag himself toward the table. His turn to grab the pitcher, fill a glass, and down the contents in one quick, bitter swig. It burns. Claws at his throat as he forces it down. Nearly splutters, but somehow manages to retain some sliver of his damned dignity.

"Fine. Just .. fuck, fine, Merlin. You're dismissed. Permanently. You're no longer my manservant. Just. Go." he hisses the words, falling beneath the familiar protection of spite and anger. Wearing the false shield of disinterest and Pratliness, trying to protect what remains of his shriveled heart. He slugs down a second full cup of wine, falling heavily into his chair. He now has a future to plan. A future without Merlin. A future with some bootlicker that will remind him that fondness is the biggest crutch and weakness a King can ever succumb to.

"God. Just .. I don't even ... you .." It seems as if Merlin has finally, fully broken. His words becoming a disjointed spewing that Arthur cannot make heads or tails of. Doesn't really want to either, come to think of it. What does he care what the arsehole wants to say? He's so quick to want to leave him, why should he care what he's trying to say!? He slams the cup down on the table top and sinks a little deeper into his chair. It's easy to be angry and anything but regal at the moment. In his rooms, he can pretend he's just Arthur. Not a King, a Pendragon, or even a warrior. Just an insignificant speck that has managed to thoroughly fuck his life up.

"Just .. fine. I'm done, Arthur. With this. All of this. May the Gods help Gwen, that she may be able to put up with your bullshit!" He snarls those words. Merlin. Snarls. It is perhaps the most unsettling thing Arthur thinks he has ever heard or seen. Worse than the Griffin and the Question Beast combined. Worse than an Immortal army. He shudders vaguely, nothing more than a minute quake of his limbs that goes unnoticed by his ... by Merlin. The man is not his in any way. A fact he is silently reminding himself of by way of a mental chant; Not mine. Not mine. NOTMINEBUTSTILLMINE, damn it!

"I'm -not- marrying Guinevere, MERLIN!" He screams those words. Not a snarl. Or snark. Or yell. But a full on, nearly bloody -scream-. It is shocking enough that Merlin turns on his heel to face Arthur full on finally. The only time he has done so without Arthur forcing him to by taking his hands or something as intrusive. Forceful.

Merlin's eyes have gone wide as saucers again, but it's different. Because the emotion, the glittering shards of unfallen tears, they are missing. His eyes are wide .. and utterly unreadable. No trace of emotion. Just .. nothing. This is as unsettling to the King as the snarl had been!

"Damn it, Merlin .. I'm -not- marrying Gwen." He sighs the words, as heavy as a rock, leaning forward to balance his elbows on his knees as he tries to calm himself. He is a warrior, a King. He should have utter -control- over himself!

"Wha...?" The word is so slowly drawn out, that it almost sounds more like a sigh than an actual attempt at verbal communication.

"Honestly, Merlin, how many times do I have to -say it- before you'll understand!? I. Am. Not. Marrying. Gwen!" He bites each word off with angry gusto. "I'm not stupid, Merlin. I'm not .. not as bloody daft as everyone seems to think! She loves Lancelot. Far more than she loves me. I knew that when we rescued her. The way she looked .. broken .. when Lancelot left. I .. I recognized the look ..." He shudders. A ripple of something passing over his form as he tries to stuff it all down.

Yes, he remembers that look. True, it had not been so overt or obvious when he himself wore it. But he still remembered it. From the moment Merlin told him he was going back to Ealdor to help his Mum. He bites at the inside of his cheek, a sudden shock of copper across his tongue enough to tear him from his maudlin state.

"I don't know why the Knights .. thought I was getting ready to propose, but I'm not. I told her to go after Lancelot. To follow her heart. I'm not marrying her." Why he feels the need to continue repeating those words, he has no clue. But he does. Maybe, if he says them enough, Merlin will finally show emotion again. Finally -believe- that Arthur means it. Though why he cares so damn much if the fool believes him, he has no -

His thoughts are summarily shattered by the feel of a hand on his shoulder. Trembling as it squeezes. This, of course, causes him to sit up straight to look up into Merlin's features. No sooner is he sitting straight, though, than he has a lap full .. of his manservant. Er, ex-manservant? Did sacking count when it was done in the midst of a childish strop because of new-found emotions that are too hard to handle?

But yes. Merlin is suddenly -there-. Filling up his every sense, making him almost hyperaware of the presence of the other man. The way Merlin's arse bounces against his lap as he drops sideways onto him. Merlin's arms, as they wrap around his shoulders, feel stronger than he expected them to, given how thin the other man has always seemed.

"Arthur! That's FANTASTIC!" Merlin squeaks the words, voice cracking, as he buries his face in the crook of Arthur's neck. Letting the king feel the surprisingly warm, ticklish puff of breath that accompanies each word playing across his skin. Suddenly, it really doesn't seem such a good idea for Merlin to be -in his lap- as that heat coils through him. Serpentines it's way to the nexus of his desire and claws at him. Taking hold.

But he does his best to ignore it. For now. Instead, he almost shyly wraps his arms around Merlin. Carefully slips his hands along the curve of his side and pulls the man a little closer. Holds him a little tighter. To be sure this moment is real. It. Is. Real. His heart thumps rapidly, and he finds himself completely lost for words. How can he answer Merlin, that exclamation that his not marrying Gwen is -fantastic-!? It means divulging emotions he knows he shouldn't be feeling for the younger man.

Not to mention .. -why- the hell does Merlin think it is -fantastic- that he's not going to marry Gwen!? See, these are the kinds of questions that are dangerous. They threaten to shatter the status quo, which in turn will probably destroy the magnificently strange friendship the two of them have cultivated, and he -really- cannot stand that thought. he has lost so much already. He cannot, WILL NOT lose Merlin to. That would be the final straw in the breaking of his spirit, and Camelot probably wouldn't survive that. He had seen the capacity for hatred and anger that Uther carried, and knows that that possibility lay within him as well. If Merlin were to go back to Ealdor ... if Merlin finally gave up on him? He fears that it would take him down that dark, lonely path and it terrifies him. More than any feeble string of words could ever fully articulate.

"Merlin .." He tries to make his voice sound steady and strong, but it quivers. Cracks and bleeds emotion all over that single word. Leaving him with the gut wrenching fear that he has already said everything he has meant to keep silent, without ever speaking the words themselves. Horror fills him when Merlin untangles his arms from him and slides out of his lap. Suddenly standing several feet away, back ramrod straight, eyes wide and solicitous.

"Oh, fuck, Arthur! I am so .. so s-sorry. I shouldn't have .. I didn't .. oh GOD!" Merlin's words trail off in shambles, his hands flying up to tug at his bangs. Twisting and pulling at them so hard that Arthur momentarily wonders how badly it must hurt! But that is a moot point, nothing that really needs to be thought on, when he sees Merlin turning to bolt. NO! NONONO! Merlin cannot leave! Not like -this-! Because then he might actually do it. He might actually leave Camelot, go back to Ealdor, and even Arthur is not so brash or foolish as to realize that the king of Camelot could not ride into a neighboring kingdom without causing a mountain worth of problems. Can't do it. Won't. He has to STAY!

"MERLIN!" He yelps the other man's name, launching himself from the chair and running for the door. Merlin has just managed to reach for the lock when Arthur gets there. His hands slam against the wood, the action burning his palms a bit. Beyond a faint wince, though, he doesn't register the pain. He just stands there. A hand on the wall on either side of Merlin's head. His body a rigid cage keeping him trapped between flesh and wood. And he's breathing heavy. God, soooo heavy. Gasping and panting, as if he has run a bloody marathon, rather than sprinted a few feet from chair to door.

"eep!" Merlin's squeak of surprise, and fear, causes Arthur's head to snap up, eyes narrowed. Merlin is now facing him, back pressed so tight against the door he is likely to have a bruise there if he's not careful. His eyes are wide, brimming with unshed tears, and yes, that oh so obvious fear. It cuts Arthur to the quick again, and he silently marvels at the fact that this is not an actual duel. Merlin's emotions and confessions would've killed him a dozen times over by now. How does a single person have so much fucking POWER over him!? How does this man, this manservant, his friend, wield so much power over him with words and actions?! It makes no sense. For one terrible moment, he is sure that he is going to lash out as he had done earlier. Take his own anger and frustration out on his friend, when he most definitely doesn't deserve it.

"Merlin, please. Just .. just -stop- for a second and let me bloody well -speak-." This time, his words are a fierce, urgent demand, and he nearly laughs hysterically right into Merlin's face when his manservant seems to calm instantly. Not completely, of course, but calms quite a bit. Honestly, why couldn't the beautiful fool ever listen this quickly when things were not so high-strung and difficult!? "If I move back, will you bolt?" Merlin seems to contemplate the question for a moment, before he shake his head no quickly. Unable to find his voice, apparently. Gods be praised, that's a miracle! Arthur draws back slowly. Starting with his hands. He slips them off the wood, flexing his aching fingers a little, seeing how red his palms are. He then takes several steps back, and bites at the inside of his cheek when he sees Merlin finally start to relax. Though he remains crowded against the closed door. Of course he does.

Arthur decides to trust me, because really, what person has he ever trusted -more- than Merlin? He walks to the table and grabs the pitcher, pours a cup of wine, and turns back. Merlin still looks like a wide eyed rabbit ready to bolt, but he's still there. That is what matters. Arthur holds the cup out to him, and after a hesitant moment, he takes it and sips at the liquid.

"Now. Please sit at the table, Merlin. There's no reason to have this .. conversation ... with you squashed against the bloody door." He turns on his heel then, silently cursing Merlin for making him say please so damn much. He's the King, damn it. He shouldn't have to be speaking like this! He drops heavily into his seat, sighing silently when Merlin drops into the chair across from him, sitting the mostly full cup on the table. Also a blessing, considering how little Merlin can usually drink. He doesn't want his friend drunk for this, either. Because if he likes it or not, Arthur knows that this conversation has to happen. It will be like pulling teeth, neither of them will get through it unscathed, but it has to happen.

"What is there to talk about, Arthur?" Merlin finally manages to pluck up the courage to start acting rational in all of this, to calm down enough to speak plainly. And yeah, ok, he's aware that there are quite a few things to talk about, but he doesn't want to. He's too tired, too emotionally worn out. Too everything, to summon the mental capacity to try and explain anything Arthur might wish to discuss.

"Merlin .." The King speaks the word as a sort of weary warning. He knows the fool is not that big of an idiot, as to think that this will all pass without some type of discussion, even though he knows they both wish it would. It's not healthy. They've kept enough of this crap bottled up for too long as it is. More time will destroy them. He's sure of it. "Please, just ... just don't do this, okay? We both know this needs to be gotten through, so just .. answer honestly, and this will go quicker." Maybe. Arthur leans back in his seat, letting himself sink down into it, though he nearly jumps when the action causes his foot to slide against Merlin's. He quickly pulls back, crossing his feet at the ankle and keeping himself as calm externally as he can. On the inside, he's a ruddy great mess, but that's his problem, and his alone, to deal with. Once Merlin gives a bare nod of agreement, Arthur exhales deeply. Okay, he can does this.

"You're happy that I'm not marrying Gwen." It is obviously a statement, but his gaze still bores into Merlin, expecting an answer. Which comes in the form of a jerky nod yes. Arthur's tongue dips from his mouth, skating across lips that feel a little chapped and dry. No clue why, since a lap full of happy Merlin had obviously meant he was happy that the wedding wasn't going to happen. But this is different somehow. Real, maybe? An actual acknowledgement, even if it hadn't been spoken.

"Why?" Blunt, to the point, brooking no argument or lie. Just the plain, hard facts. So, of course, Merlin begins squirming and eyeing the door. Ready to bolt. Again. Arthur feels something ugly snap inside, and his hands ball into fists. Slam angrily onto the table, causing it to shudder and quake under the strength of him. "Is it really so fucking appalling, the thought of being truthful with me, MERlin!?" He sneers the other man's name, tries to inject as much venom and anger into the name of his best friend as he can. It causes Merlin to flinch and cower. To curl into himself in the table, and Arthur is at complete odds with himself. He want to stop, apologize, beg Merlin not to take it personal. He also wants to scream, curse, and continue throwing that verbal venom at the man. "ANSWER ME!" He screeches, unable to keep his cool anymore. "Do you HATE me that MUCH, Merlin!? Am I that despicable? That much of a fucking PRAT that even a conversation with me makes you want to RUN!?" He is aware of the fact that he's screaming again. Full out, bloody screaming. He can't stop. Emotions and words are pouring out of him now, the broken dam of his composure no longer able to save him. Too much. Too much tumbling out. Soon, he will be a cracked, empty vessel. A shadow of what he was. Please, Merlin. Please, stop me before I destroy myself!

"ANSWER! ME! MERLIN!" He punctuates each word with his fist slamming down on the table between them, knuckles bruised and swollen. Fingernails digging into the pads of his palm as he screams at his friend. Words now molten, metallic. They burn and cut, aimed to decimate the man he calls friend. Save me, Merlin .. save us.

"I LOVE YOU, YOU STUPID, INSUFFERABLE, SUPERCILIOUS, EGOTISTICAL PRAT!" Merlin jumps up from his chair, his own hands balled into mottled red, shaking fists that rain down on the table top, a knuckle on his lift hand cracking and splitting. A few droplets of blood dotting the wooden surface, though Merlin is too steeped in adrenaline to feel the pain of it at the moment. Arthur notices it at once, though. The tang of copper, the sheen of crimson amongst the grain of wood. It turns his stomach. He sucks in a searing breath and looks up, into Merlin's eyes. Searching. Seeking. It has to be truth ... it has to be the truth, damn it! If it isn't .. if it isn't, he'll banish him from Camelot! This would be the cruelest joke ever, if he doesn't mean it.

His legs give way. He collapses gracelessly into the chair one more time. His hands, still pressed into aching fists, fall against his thighs. Push hard enough that that area will be bruised as well.

"One chance, Merlin. You have one chance to take it back and save yourself." The fire and ire are gone from his voice. Arthur simply sounds .. old and tired. Worn out and defeated. Resigned, maybe. Merlin falls into his own chair. Struggles with how to react, what to say, etc. In the end, a high pitched, hysterical giggle escapes from him. He tries to shove his fist against his mouth, but the pain has started to sink in and he's a bloody mess. He gives one more hysterical giggle, and then sinks, defeated, deeper into the chair.

"I should. I should take every single, fucking word back, Arthur Pendragon. No, not all of them, actually. Because you're an arsehole. A full blown jerk, bastard, and prat. But the other .. the .. the love. I should take that back. And Gods forgive me, but I want to at times! These last few weeks .. I -begged- myself to forget you. To get over these bullshit feelings because they hurt so fucking much. Do you have any idea how much -easier- it would be if I could just say yes to Percival or Gwaine? If I could've smiled and agreed to Elyan or Leon? My life wouldn't hurt a fraction as much as it does now. But no. I can't do that. I can't get over this fucking -ache- in my heart and be smart enough to love one of those that actually love me. Instead, I have to live like .. like this! Your servant, your -slave- in all but name, for the way you treat me. I have to smile and nod, and pretend as if every scrap of near nonexistent affection you deign to throw my way when no one is looking, is real. Which I'm sure you don't even realize you do, because otherwise, you would stop. After all, -no one- can know a King would DARE to be friends with a servant. Forget the fact that the damn servant has given every piece of himself to ensure that the King has lived to rule. No, can't have that, can we!? Fuck you, Arthur Pendragon. But, at least you did get -one- thing right." Another bubble of that insane, hysterical giggle, and Arthur is shaking all over. Unsure how to react. "I really -am- a great big, pathetic IDIOT!" Merlin squeaks the word idiot, his giggle reaching a whole new level of squeak, before it abruptly changes. To sobs.

The hand no longer struggles to shove itself down his throat to stop the laughter. Instead, both hands fly to his face, palms pressed tightly against his eyes to try and stem the flow of hot, sluggish tears pouring down his cheeks. Those. His tears. THOSE effect Arthur more than words ever could. They make him uncomfortable, make him -hate- himself. He slinks from the chair, crossing the table with the kind of silence a practiced hunter and warrior displays. Before Merlin can question it, before he can over think it or have to reject the action, Arthur grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him to his feet. The action causes Merlin's hands to fall from his face. His eyes are wide and already red rimmed. Tears raining steadily upon his soaked, flushed cheeks. His mouth is a wide, surprised O, and Arthur doesn't care about any of it. None of it deters him from his wish, his desire.

"Merlin." When he speaks the name this time, it is nothing but affection and a soft, silky tone that the manservant is most definitely not expecting. Nor does he expect Arthur to lean forward and press a tender kiss to his lips. Molding so sweetly to them. Nothing like the possessive kiss he had used to 'claim' him from the Knights' attention. Or the breath stealing kiss before they had made their way here. It is sweet, lingering, and explains so much, even though there are still questions. They don't seem as desperate and pressing now. "I love you, you idiot." Arthur whispers those earth-shattering words against Merlin's lips before he pulls back. He wraps his fingers in the material of his sleeve and loving scatters the tears from Merlin's cheeks. Smiling now. No, more like .. Arthur is beaming now. The words are out. They won't solve everything, but it's a start.

"I love you, Merlin. The rest .. the rest will .. fall into place." He leans forward, his arm snagging about Merlin's waist as he presses another kiss to the other man's lips. Merlin hesitates, but eventually, his arms wrap around him in turn and he relaxes into his king's embrace. It will all work out. Of that, he now has faith.

- Fin.