Ten Things Everyone Should Know

i: what makes them come alive.
There’s nothing in heaven or earth like the feeling of magic pulsing through Merlin’s veins as it pours out of him in a spell or an enchantment, gentle or furious or frustrated or calm depending on the circumstance. It’s always painful, almost like he has to rip something out of himself to make it work, but it’s always beautiful too, the way chaos is beautiful when it’s moulded into shape.

How can this be wrong? How can something so glorious ever be considered wrong? but he thinks he understands, sometimes. It’s not magic that’s wrong, it’s the people who use it to do wrong. They’re the ones who deserve the condemnation, not the pure, visceral joy of the energy and the power burning in his heart.

People have a habit of ruining beautiful things, Merlin’s found.

ii: where their quiet spot is.
Sometimes, when dealing with Arthur gets too much or he’s just had enough of the constant bustle and noise of the castle trying to put itself back to rights, there’s this little place Merlin goes to get away from it all. It’s just a field on the edge of Camelot, near where he used to bid Gwaine goodbye when he was still banished from the kingdom.

Gwaine joins him, sometimes, and the two of them lie in the grass and stare at the sky, exchanging words when they feel the need to talk and smiles when they don’t. They can stay there for hours, just enjoying each others’ presence, and when Merlin is ready to face the world again, Gwaine takes his hand and lifts him to his feet and the two of them ride back to Camelot, side by side.

Arthur always looks at him funny when he gets back, especially if he has Gwaine in tow, but he never asks Merlin where he’s been, just throws something at his head that misses him by more and more every time and says, if you’re done gallivanting, you do have a job to do, you know.

Merlin just grins at his employer-cum-stealth-best-friend and goes back to work.

iii: how to accept a compliment.
Gwaine’s laughing when he tells Merlin he’s wonderful, which is why he doesn’t think he’s serious at first. In all fairness, Gwaine is rarely serious anyway so Merlin just laughs it off like he does most things he says.

But then Gwaine’s eyes take on an uncharacteristic sincerity and he just looks at Merlin, steady and sharp, until he’s swallowing past a lump that refuses to budge in his throat.

I mean it, Gwaine says, an edge of something unfamiliar to his voice. You are, you’re- you’re amazing, Merlin.

And Merlin doesn’t know how but he can tell that this time is different to the countless other times Gwaine has said something like this, to him or to other people, and he knows he can’t brush it off with a laugh or a joke.

Instead, he swallows hard and says thank you and tries not to let Gwaine see how much he means it.

iv: their favourite scent.
Gwaine smells like mead and old leather and something sharper Merlin can’t name. (Sweat, probably, since he spends most of his time now training with the other knights, perfecting his already flawless skill with a sword and building up his strength and stamina.)

Whatever it is, it dissolves into something warm and rich and familiar and Gwaine and sometimes, when it all gets too much, when Merlin can’t breathe through everything crushing him on all sides, he lets Gwaine pull him close and hold him tight and just inhales until the tension eases in his body and he can breathe again.

v: who they look up to and why.
Merlin will never admit this, not to anyone, not even under pain of death, but somewhere between the first time Merlin saved his life and the last time he saved his own kingdom from destruction, Arthur sort of became his hero.

Merlin watches him ride out to battle to fight his enemies and he watches him ride out to the village to visit his people and his heart swells with pride for the man Arthur’s become. Rude, bossy, belligerent Arthur; kind, compassionate, wonderful Arthur. He’s the once and future king of Camelot and one of the best friends Merlin will ever have and there is no one in the entire world he admires more.

vi: when to listen.
I don’t think I can do this, Gwaine says, one day, out of the blue. I don’t think I’m cut out for being a knight.

Merlin squints at him, propping himself up on an elbow. They’re lying on their backs in the middle of the field, in silence because they didn’t need words, not today.

What makes you say that? he asks eventually, studying his friend from his vantage point above.

I’m no noble. Gwaine’s eyes are dark and miserable behind the smile he still thinks he has to wear. I don’t know who I’m trying to fool.

A wise man once said, Merlin says carefully, that nobility is defined by what you do, not by who you are.

Gwaine tries to snort. It comes out sort of choked. Exactly. When have I ever done anything noble?

Merlin looks at him, hard, trying to see what Gwaine seems to see when he looks in the mirror, but he sees nothing but good in the man who stares defiantly back. He doesn’t know how to make him see that, to show Gwaine that he’s so much more than what he lets himself believe, so Merlin just leans down and presses their lips together, feather-light and fleeting, before whispering, you’re noble enough for me.

Gwaine barks out a laugh but his eyes are smiling when Merlin pulls away.

vii: to remember to really make a wish on their birthday.
Merlin isn’t expecting much of his birthday, if he’s honest. Maybe a day off, if he’s lucky, so he can go home to Ealdor and see his mum, maybe lay some flowers on Will’s grave while he’s there.

What he gets is a surprise party with the biggest cake he’s ever seen and the clearest night sky in living memory. Merlin thinks he can live without the day off, especially when Gwaine points to a star in the inky black sky and leans in to whisper, chin resting on his shoulder, make a wish, birthday boy.

Merlin closes his eyes and obliges, the sound of his friends’ laughter fading with his vision. He never really bothers with wishes, knows from experience how pointless they are, but right now, he knows exactly what he wants and when he opens his eyes and meets Gwaine’s intent gaze, he thinks he might even get it.

One day.

viii: that they are beautiful.
One day turns out not to be as far in the future as Merlin was expecting it to be, as it happens. The king’s health has massively deteriorated so Gaius is tending to him, and Arthur’s so worried about his father he’s given Merlin and all the knights the day off, so Merlin’s taking the opportunity to spend some uninterrupted time with Gwaine.

They’re squashed together onto Merlin’s tiny bed, Merlin with a book in his lap and Gwaine with a tankard of mead in his hand. Merlin says something he won’t even remember in a few hours and Gwaine laughs, his rich, mellow laugh that stirs something low in Merlin’s belly every time he hears it.

Merlin glances up, one corner of his mouth hitched up in a smile, and Gwaine stops laughing.

You’ve got- Gwaine clears his throat, starts again. Your scarf, it’s slipping off your neck. He chuckles, shaking his head, and Merlin wonders absently how empty his tankard is. Can see your collarbones.

Confused, Merlin moves to adjust his scarf but Gwaine grabs his hand and tugs it away, shaking his head. Don’t, he says, tongue darting out to wet his lips. His fingers are warm where they’re clutching Merlin’s wrist. Like it like this. You have... pretty collarbones.

Gwaine-

Gwaine leans forward and crushes their lips together in a sloppy, half-drunken kiss and Merlin- Merlin wants, has wanted this so much for so long that he doesn’t even care if it’s just the mead or if this will ruin them come the morning. He wants, and for once he can actually have, so he doesn’t think twice before tugging Gwaine down onto the bed and kissing him back.

Gwaine tugs his scarf all the way off, pressing his lips to the skin as it’s bared. Dunno why you wear these things, Merlin catches, the words mumbled against his skin. Pretty collarbones. Pretty. He arches up when Gwaine’s tongue licks over them, unconsciously rolling his hips against Gwaine’s when he bites down, and the other man moans into his mouth before grinding back down so hard Merlin sees stars.

You should be naked, Gwaine whispers, tilting his hips slightly to change the angle, line them up better, why are you not naked?

You’re not – ah – naked, Merlin points out. Gwaine bites his neck again, as if in rebuke, and Merlin gasps out, No time. Won’t last.

Next time, Gwaine says firmly, next time we’re taking our time. It sounds like a promise, and Merlin squeezes his eyes shut against the hope that this isn’t just the mead because it’s too strong, to strong for him to bear.

They’re both too far gone to last and it isn’t long before Gwaine bites down hard on Merlin’s neck and comes, and that sends Merlin over the edge as well.

Beautiful, Gwaine whispers, his voice sharp and clear. He pulls Merlin close, settling him in the crook of his elbow, and presses a gentle kiss to the base of his neck. So beautiful.

Merlin settles back against him and closes his eyes, a slow smile spreading on his face.

ix: the things that make them happy.
-the way Gwaine kisses him, soft and gentle like he’s scared of hurting him, slowly building to something hard and bruising and deliciously rough until he’s shaking with need; the way Gwaine touches him like he’s never done it before, like he relishes the experience every time he gets the chance; the way Gwaine looks at him, sometimes, kind of in awe, like he doesn’t know how he ever got so lucky; the way Gwaine laughs and the way Gwaine smiles when he says something funny, or even when he doesn’t; the way Gwaine says you make me want to be better, you make me want to be someone who deserves you-

It’s very possible Merlin has it bad. Maybe.

He isn’t so sure he cares.

x: that they’re going to be okay, someday.
He shakes Gwaine awake one day, not a special day, just a day like every other, and whispers I need to show you something. Gwaine yawns and knuckles the sleep from his eyes, smiling blearily up at him, and Merlin knows without a shadow of a doubt that he’s the one who’s lucky, to have this strange, beautiful man and be able to call him his.

He leans down and kisses him, hard and fast and desperate in case this is the last time he gets to have this, and Gwaine makes a startled sound but kisses back just as hard until Merlin pulls away.

He takes a deep breath and murmurs something soft, watching Gwaine’s eyes go wide out of the corner of his eye. The man sits up suddenly, gaze fixed on Merlin’s hand, on the tiny, glowing ball of energy pulsing in the air above it, and he mumbles something that sounds like a curse. Merlin very determinedly does not look at his face.

When the ball of energy futzes and dies, Merlin drops his hands, head ducking to follow them.
His body is stiff when Gwaine leans forward to kiss the skin underneath Merlin’s jaw and whisper something against the skin, ...you..., but Merlin doesn’t hear the rest.

Me?

Gwaine lifts his mouth to Merlin’s ear, and this time he hears it loud and clear. There’s no accusation in his voice, no cry of betrayal, it’s just awe and wonder and something that sounds like love intermingled with it all. Merlin turns his head and crushes his lips to Gwaine’s, something bright and hopeful blossoming in his chest.