Arthur never intended to write poetry at any point during his life. But, for Merlin, he's willing to try anything once.
Everything is fine until Merlin hangs up and realizes, without a doubt, that he is... In love with Arthur.
Stopping mid-stroke, Arthur took the quill and put it back in the inkwell, looked back up at Merlin with a tired expression and demanded to know what was with that look Merlin always seemed to be giving him these days—because it really was becoming rather annoying and distracting—and, okay, endearing, too, in the right light, not that that was a thought was about to voice.
He was going to ask Merlin to marry him, he'd already decided on that, already had a plan, the ring—everything. Well, everything but the words. The way he would actually ask. And really, the rest of the plan didn't actually matter if he couldn't find the right words to go with it.
"Shut. Up." Arthur growls, cracking his eyes, unable to help the pout on his face when they catch on Merlin's smile. He wonders, for a moment, if he can pass a law forbidding people from smiling before noon.
By the end of the day, the entire school thought him and Arthur had as good as had sex in the middle of third-period history class...
Merlin was a child prodigy, famous the world over for his piano playing, but gave it all up at the tender age of 16. Years later, he finds himself enrolled in a prodigious school for the musically gifted. And all Arthur wanted to do was keep his father happy, but that's easier said than done when he finds himself falling for the stupid prodigy.
Somehow, Merlin could always just seem to tell what Arthur needed to hear.
And okay, maybe Arthur was an arrogant, useless, prat, but… He was attractive, Merlin would give him that. He was an ass, but an attractive one.
Arthur and Merlin meet when they're seven and Merlin's family is moved into the castle. They grow up together, fall in love, build a life, rule a fine kingdom, and everything plays out as it should. "They wouldn't have changed a second of their lives together."
Did Arthur mention that he was not jealous? Not at all? "You're jealous of all the time I've been spending with Lancelot—though I can't imagine why, since most of my day and life is spent with you or doing things for you or thinking about you—honestly, there isn't much of my life that isn't already all about you, so why the hell you would ever need to be jealous is—"
The way he peppered kisses down Merlin's jawline felt like it more than answered all of Merlin's lingering doubts. The way he caught Merlin's lips and kissed him so sweetly and gently felt like it meant something. The way he whimpered and moaned Merlin's name—like a plea some nights, like a promise others—as he fell apart at the seams…Well, it all as good as added up, didn't it?
"Do you love me?" Arthur asked suddenly, his hand coming up once again, fluttering just in front of Merlin's face, his fingers burning Merlin's skin without even touching him.
"When Merlin Emrys buys you roses, you pretty much have to say yes to whatever he wants."
Fragile. That's what Arthur is thinking in this moment—that's what he thinks this moment is: fragile. Fleeting and fragile and precious. And he wants it to last forever.
Arthur would always be there for Merlin. Even in death.
It was just a little rain, Arthur insisted, just a little rain and nothing more. "My lips are turning blue, Arthur!"
So Merlin was content to tell himself, in the beginning of things, that nothing would truly last forever, least of all his torrid love affair with the crown Prince of Camelot.
"Well you'll have to forgive me, Merlin," Arthur began sarcastically, "But not all of us can be sunshine and daisies all the bloody time, you know."
"Are you in love with me?" Merlin interrupted, looking up from Arthur's bed with the question, the demand bubbling from his lips without thought or foresight of what could come of it.