( he tried to stay unassuming in the question between elena or guinevere -- really, an ultimate question between doing what's right, and doing what's in your heart. it's not his place to turn a son against his father, a prince against the king, and so he tries his best to stay quiet, even if he has some strong emotions towards whatever's inside of arthur's heart -- strong emotions towards the crucial role of arthur's happiness, his well being. it doesn't matter if he's in love with the prince, or if he has been since he'd first became his servant. what matters is arthur's happiness, what matters is what arthur wants, even if it isn't merlin.
except, arthur doesn't follow his heart. he marries politically, and it breaks merlin's heart to see his broken, holding a diplomatic hand against elena's and reciting his vows, crowning her. merlin's stomach is sunken in the entire time, and he's not sure it's entirely because arthur is unhappy -- it is, perhaps selfishly, because while it wasn't possible before, it's beyond that now, for merlin to ever have -- what, arthur? the future king? he knew he never had a chance, that idle daydreams of destiny and love were only to be daydreams, and that if his goal in life was to protect arthur, then it would have to end there. a prince would not be caught with his servant -- surely not arthur, either, the most handsome man in camelot, whose heart belongs entirely to gwen. merlin finds himself jealous, sometimes, watching how desperately he stares at the back of her head, watching guinevere and lancelot flirt in their soft way. he wonder what it's like to be loved by arthur, but his wonder couldn't ever measure up, truthfully. a prince's love -- that's something he'll never know, this lifetime or the next.
still, he can see arthur's shoulders sag with each day of forced pleasantries, the lady elena and her odd habits making his patience and happiness wear thin. of course, merlin can read him like a book, not that he's being subtle with his feigned smile, his too harsh handhold on elena's hand. he knows his prince, knows the genuine smiles from the fake ones, and he wishes that he could help -- even with a small glimmer of the old, happy arthur, merlin would count himself lucky. but the prince is always quiet when merlin tends to them, and merlin always leaves his duties early because the prince and princess' room is surely no place for a servant late at night. he hates it when elena thinks to help arthur dress, hates to miss the few, small joys he allowed himself when drawing his fingers loosely across arthur's chest, lining his palms against broad shoulders, and almost pressing his lips to the back of arthur's warm, sunkissed neck. the time spent serving him gets shorter and shorter every day -- merlin never thought he'd miss it, and yet he does, misses waking arthur up in the morning and bickering with him throughout the day, misses being his punching bag for sparring, misses bringing him meals in the evening and offering him guidance. it's just not his place, anymore, and as arthur's mood falls so does merlin's -- because he's incapable of happiness when his prince is upset. that's just how it is.
this day has been a small blessing, old habits brightening merlin's mood, when he doesn't have to mind himself around elena and can offer arthur his genuine self. he hates how easy it is to love him more and more with every passing moment, and hates himself for allowing this kind of pain inside him, loving a married man, loving a married prince. the question is mostly posed as a formality, merlin expecting some snarky answer to gawk and laugh at, but what he gets -- well. arthur's lips are heaven, even if they're gentle and unsure. he smells like expensive perfumes merlin sometimes spills on his hands, like the wilderness and outdoors, like something ephemeral, captivating, and he's warm -- or he makes merlin feel warm, his insides melted and suffocating inside. it takes merlin a moment to realize he isn't living in one of his thousands of fantasies -- that arthur, arthur kissed him, with some ridiculous order resting on his mouth, stay with me, because merlin would never leave his side, if he asked. his eyes fluttered shut with the kiss in question, but they pop open once arthur separates them -- his cheeks are rosy red, eyes wide, lips parted in something like shock.
is it because he lusts for gwen? merlin has to wonder. one servant isn't the same as another, and surely not him -- a long time companion of arthur's, and a man, no less. is it a joke? his heart sinks.
( even if it was, it wouldn't matter. his duty is to serve arthur, and if arthur wants to kiss him a hundred more times and pretend it's gwen -- well, merlin certainly won't complain. the wound probably won't feel so great with the reprise of arthur's kisses, anyway. ))
Arthur. ( arthur not my lord. he's never been good with his royal manners, anyway. ) Are you being cruel to me, now? You know how I -- ( does he know, though? is it possible? merlin bites back the words at his mouth, eyes glancing at arthur's boots which he really should be shining. a hand moves up and wraps around arthur's wrist, but he doesn't pull him away. couldn't, even if he were being crueler than morgana now -- merlin, in many ways, is just as desperate to touch him as he is. he doesn't mind the circumstance -- he tells himself he doesn't, at least. )
no subject
except, arthur doesn't follow his heart. he marries politically, and it breaks merlin's heart to see his broken, holding a diplomatic hand against elena's and reciting his vows, crowning her. merlin's stomach is sunken in the entire time, and he's not sure it's entirely because arthur is unhappy -- it is, perhaps selfishly, because while it wasn't possible before, it's beyond that now, for merlin to ever have -- what, arthur? the future king? he knew he never had a chance, that idle daydreams of destiny and love were only to be daydreams, and that if his goal in life was to protect arthur, then it would have to end there. a prince would not be caught with his servant -- surely not arthur, either, the most handsome man in camelot, whose heart belongs entirely to gwen. merlin finds himself jealous, sometimes, watching how desperately he stares at the back of her head, watching guinevere and lancelot flirt in their soft way. he wonder what it's like to be loved by arthur, but his wonder couldn't ever measure up, truthfully. a prince's love -- that's something he'll never know, this lifetime or the next.
still, he can see arthur's shoulders sag with each day of forced pleasantries, the lady elena and her odd habits making his patience and happiness wear thin. of course, merlin can read him like a book, not that he's being subtle with his feigned smile, his too harsh handhold on elena's hand. he knows his prince, knows the genuine smiles from the fake ones, and he wishes that he could help -- even with a small glimmer of the old, happy arthur, merlin would count himself lucky. but the prince is always quiet when merlin tends to them, and merlin always leaves his duties early because the prince and princess' room is surely no place for a servant late at night. he hates it when elena thinks to help arthur dress, hates to miss the few, small joys he allowed himself when drawing his fingers loosely across arthur's chest, lining his palms against broad shoulders, and almost pressing his lips to the back of arthur's warm, sunkissed neck. the time spent serving him gets shorter and shorter every day -- merlin never thought he'd miss it, and yet he does, misses waking arthur up in the morning and bickering with him throughout the day, misses being his punching bag for sparring, misses bringing him meals in the evening and offering him guidance. it's just not his place, anymore, and as arthur's mood falls so does merlin's -- because he's incapable of happiness when his prince is upset. that's just how it is.
this day has been a small blessing, old habits brightening merlin's mood, when he doesn't have to mind himself around elena and can offer arthur his genuine self. he hates how easy it is to love him more and more with every passing moment, and hates himself for allowing this kind of pain inside him, loving a married man, loving a married prince. the question is mostly posed as a formality, merlin expecting some snarky answer to gawk and laugh at, but what he gets -- well. arthur's lips are heaven, even if they're gentle and unsure. he smells like expensive perfumes merlin sometimes spills on his hands, like the wilderness and outdoors, like something ephemeral, captivating, and he's warm -- or he makes merlin feel warm, his insides melted and suffocating inside. it takes merlin a moment to realize he isn't living in one of his thousands of fantasies -- that arthur, arthur kissed him, with some ridiculous order resting on his mouth, stay with me, because merlin would never leave his side, if he asked. his eyes fluttered shut with the kiss in question, but they pop open once arthur separates them -- his cheeks are rosy red, eyes wide, lips parted in something like shock.
is it because he lusts for gwen? merlin has to wonder. one servant isn't the same as another, and surely not him -- a long time companion of arthur's, and a man, no less. is it a joke? his heart sinks.
( even if it was, it wouldn't matter. his duty is to serve arthur, and if arthur wants to kiss him a hundred more times and pretend it's gwen -- well, merlin certainly won't complain. the wound probably won't feel so great with the reprise of arthur's kisses, anyway. ))
Arthur. ( arthur not my lord. he's never been good with his royal manners, anyway. ) Are you being cruel to me, now? You know how I -- ( does he know, though? is it possible? merlin bites back the words at his mouth, eyes glancing at arthur's boots which he really should be shining. a hand moves up and wraps around arthur's wrist, but he doesn't pull him away. couldn't, even if he were being crueler than morgana now -- merlin, in many ways, is just as desperate to touch him as he is. he doesn't mind the circumstance -- he tells himself he doesn't, at least. )