Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Notes: Companion piece to known, by breath and by bone, because I couldn't leave Art and Merlin unresolved. :) You should read that one first.
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They meet by, cliché of all clichés, bumping into each other in a grocery store. Art's loaf of bread goes flying, landing on top of the dark-haired man's bag of apples, and Art's laughing apology trips as the man looks suddenly, hopelessly lost, anguished. It's not that big of a deal, you just bumped into me, Art almost says, except for how obvious it is that it has nothing to do with that at all.
The man—tall, gangly, with bright blue eyes—clears his throat, smiles a bit, and puts his hand out. "I'm Merlin," he says, and Art has to laugh, because really, what are the odds?
"It's just funny," he explains, taking Merlin's hand. "Because I'm Arthur, only I go by Art."
Merlin's smile looks suddenly edged. He says "Art," but it sounds like he's saying it to himself, trying to get used to the feel of the name on his tongue. "Art."
Art wonders why he feels suddenly heavy, why Merlin's hand feels so comfortable in his own. So familiar. He does something he wouldn't normally do, and hands Merlin his number with a stroke to the inside of his wrist. Merlin takes it with a wider smile, and though his eyes are still shadowed, Art feels a warm connection take hold of him from those blue depths.
Art leaves the grocery store, whispers to himself, "Merlin," and wonders why it sounds like the ringing of destiny.
***
Merlin is wonderful, everything Art's ever wanted, even if he's a little strange, even if he's a little guarded. Even if Art still does not know why he sometimes wakes with the phantom weight of a crown on his head, but has the inexplicable feeling that Merlin could tell him.
Merlin kisses him like he's something to be treasured, and grumbles at him when he returns from his morning run to tease Merlin awake, and when he touches him, Art wonders at the way their bodies meld together as one. Merlin falls asleep tucked into the curve of his arm; sometimes he wakes mumbling, "Arthur," then his eyes snap open, and he hides his face in Art's neck. Art runs a knuckle down his back, wonders at his love for Merlin, wonders if he will ever fully understand him.
The taste of Merlin's mouth is always a little bittersweet, but more sweet than bitter. Art can live with that.
***
There is no monumental flash of lightning that brings it home to Art, no knock on the head that changes his world around him.
It's a late night in his flat when he's got a fire going, he's a little bit drunk, head back and laughing at something Merlin's said (Art doesn't know what he looks like, firelight turning his hair a little more gold, the color of his shirt turning his eyes a little more blue, familiar and unfamiliar like everything that haunts Merlin's vivid dreams)—
—Merlin drops his glass and it shatters both itself and the roiling calm lying heavy over them. "Damn," Merlin says, falls to his knees to reach for the shards with shaking hands. Art stares down at him and feels a sparking behind his eyes. He sees: Merlin on his knees with swollen red lips and a mischievous smile; Merlin on his knees, head bowed, swearing his fealty with the court watching; Merlin on his knees, clasping his bleeding arm to his side, raising the other to release a stream of golden fire; Merlin on his knees, head tipped up, eyes bright, whispering, "You are my king, Arthur. The only king I recognize."
His Merlin (though of course they are all his, he feels it now) looks up with a burning in his face, and Art closes his eyes tight, drowning in a flood of memories filled with swords, and magic, and lifetimes of love, and when he opens them again, it is Arthur looking out at the world.
The fire slowly dawning in Merlin's blue-gold eyes warms the length of Arthur's body; he feels like he's been frozen for a century. "Merlin," he says with the weight of the years and years he has spent loving him, and Merlin stumbles to his feet, eyes wild. He says, "Arthur," voice cracking, and cups Arthur's face with trembling hands. There is no bitterness left in the heady taste of his mouth.
Arthur, held in the arms he is so familiar with, knows he has finally come home.
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