okay keep looking at each other and smiling i guess and riding into camelot side by side bantering is definitely not flirting right 😭

Muggle Technology and Heroism

TommyLane

Chapters: 16/16 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Pansy Parkinson Additional Tags: Slow Burn, Roommates, Pining, Squirt Gun Fights, James Bond Fanboy!Draco Malfoy, Sharing a Bed, Explicit Sexual Content, Drinking and Dancing, A Five Step Plan of Seduction, A Mysterious Absence Of Plot Outside Of Their Relationship, Dialogue Heavy, Angst and Humor Summary:

Draco Malfoy wasn’t exactly the best roommate Harry’s ever had. The man tended to watch way too much James Bond and his obsession with muggle technology not only rivaled Arthur Weasley’s but more often than not ended with Harry trying to assure him that the appliances weren’t out to get him. Then there was the little fact that Harry was hopelessly in love with him while Draco remained completely unaware, bringing nameless men home night after night.

But Harry loved his life and was somewhat (as long as he doesn’t actually think about it) content enough in the way things were going. That is until Draco’s old boyfriend comes sweeping back into town – making Draco breakfast and fixing the remote control before Harry can and forcing him to realize that if he doesn’t do something soon, that he might lose the man he loves before he even gets a chance to ever actually have him.

Excerpt:  

It was odd to think that maybe he had learned the most about the other man by watching him watch James Bond. Learned the most by the things he purchased and how he used them to relate to Harry… “Draco, the thing is…you’re a bit difficult to understand, you know. You always have been, you were always good at keeping me guessing. Even when we were young, but I think it’s worse now. Harder…to really know what you’re thinking.” Draco frowned at his drink, a deep line carved into his forehead. “It’s called having decorum Potter.” Harry shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe you just don’t know how to say what you’re thinking…what your feeling.” The blonde shifted before pulling his bottom lip between his teeth for a second, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “Is this about me fucking around again? Your odd roundabout way of telling me I’m a slut with some sort of emotional complex?” “No.” “Good. I don’t much care for that word.” “Slut?” “Complex, makes me think of fucking shrinks and their idiot views on the way my mind turns.” Draco flicked the cap he had been rolling absentmindedly between his fingers into the grass, a sneer on his lips that hinted that maybe there had been psychiatrists in his past - making him lay on leather couches and trying to analyze him as he glared and told them to fuck off in a number of different languages. The mental image lurched both painful and humorous in his stomach, a small smile contending on his lips as he pictured a younger Draco with his snarky mouth and petulant air. He never would have put himself in therapy, it had to have been a part of his parole after the war. God, Harry almost felt sorry for the men and women who had been assigned to his case. But he was getting sidetracked with his hands sweating against his leg, his heart pounding in his chest, and he needed to stop mentally stalling and gather his courage and do what he should have done days ago. Weeks ago. Months ago. Years ago… He fidgeted as he fingered the bottle and cleared his throat. “Well in any case I’m not talking about all the men. Or about Ethan. I’m talking about you and…and me.” Draco silently shifted his gaze to meet Harry’s, his lips wet from the beer and his eyes heavy, his jaw sliding forward like he was physically blocking his mouth from forming any audible words. He looked determined and lost, confused and uncertain all at the same time. Harry smiled softly, his fingers reaching to lightly touch Draco’s jaw, his courage pumping stronger, pulling him deeper when the other man didn’t pull away - didn’t even look away, not for a second, his gray eyes darkening and drowning out the sound of nature around them. “Harry -” His voice quivered with uncertainly, his eyes darting down as Harry brushed his thumb along the outer swell of the other man’s bottom lip. “I still remember where we were when things changed for me. We were at Pansy’s, I think it was her birthday and you were wearing those navy robes -” “I don’t wear navy.” Draco interjected and Harry grinned as he felt his body tip nearer, his blood pumping hot through his veins and in his ears and he wondered if Draco could hear it. If he could hear the beat of his heart, the thrum in his blood. He wondered if Draco felt it rushing through his own body in a matching rush of nerves and excited anticipation. They were a match in so many things, opposites in everything else, aligning perfectly, complementing wonderfully. Where Harry lacked Draco stood strong and the same was true for the other way around….and in this, Merlin, Harry could only pray they matched. “You did. They were new, you kept tugging at the sleeve when you thought no one was looking and you unbuttoned the top collar as we were talking. You were complaining about the increased price of Chinese chomping cabbage.” The sun had been shining hot, Draco’s face had been flushed a lovely pink, his tone an exasperated huff as he batted at invisible insects and tried to not pull on the collar of his robes that Harry was pretty sure had been a gift from someone. The back garden had been crowded with few people he knew and dozens that Draco did but still the blonde sequestered himself against a tree and chose to lament his potion sells because of the damn fucking cabbage to Harry. They had ended up drinking too much and Draco had smiled sloppily over at him as they snuck round the house and into the wine cellar - where Draco preceded to unburden Pansy’s family of various bottles of prestigious vintage. It was the night Draco vowed to turn Harry into a wine aficionado (or at least not such of an uncultured plebeian who thought wine from a box was quite good). The night Harry had tasted his first Merlot that he actually liked and the night he had shown Draco his first film (Dr. No…which in hindsight probably wasn’t the wisest move). The night he finally admitted to himself as he listened to Draco huff and rant and swat at flies that he had fallen for the other man. “Chomping cabbage?” Draco murmured and Harry could have sworn that the other man’s breath was a little shallower, his cheeks just a little pinker. “That…that was years ago.” Harry nodded and lifted his gaze from Draco’s lips to his eyes. “Yes.” Draco sucked in a breath and blinked quickly, the sun sinking beneath the horizon in one last splash of dying color around them. “You’re being rather enigmatic, Potter. It’s highly unnerving.” He whispered. “No, it’s simply really.” Harry leaned closer as he repeated his words from earlier at the tailors, his thumb brushing along the blondes jaw before slipping his hand down to curve possessively around the back of the man’s neck. He tipped his head, bringing them close enough that their breath mingled and warmed the space between them as he visually traced the sharp angles of his cheeks, the slightly parted fullness of his lips, his impossible gray eyes - the flecks of blue and gold bright up close. “Don’t be with Ethan. Because things have changed. For a long time…I’ve wanted…” He trailed off and swallowed, his courage faltering even though there was no turning back - not with his hand holding his face, his gaze full of the words that weren’t coming off his tongue but with the half confession ringing loud and clear between them anyway. Not with their lips nearly brushing and Draco’s eyelashes fluttering like he couldn’t decide if he should close them or stare wide eyed at him until he inevitably went crossed eyed. “What do you want?” Draco breathed and there was nothing hard or needled about his tone - his voice flayed open and making Harry’s heart constrict as something fluttered in his stomach. “You know. You have to know already…” He murmured in a breathy gush that pushed out of him and before he could ruin it with his own fumbling stutters, Harry breathed deep and did what he’d been dying to do for years now - he leaned in and kissed him, slanting his lips over Draco’s whose parted in a breath of surprise that got muffled and lost inside him. He distantly heard and felt Draco’s drink clatter to the ground as his grip slipped and spilled beer over the ground, his pale hand pressing flat against Harry’s chest like he was going to push him away for all but a moment before his fingers curled tight into his shirt - scratching his skin and heightening his senses further. Using his free hand, Harry’s fingers found their way into Draco’s hair, twisting in the silky locks and pulling gently, his mouth opening wider as Draco’s nails sank deeper, his heart soaring with the feel and taste and reality that he wasn’t being shoved away. He pressed closer, savored Draco’s quiet gasp, his tongue sneaking out to press against his as he kissed him harder, deeper, closer - his hands trying to tug him ever nearer as Draco let out a strangled broken sound. “Harry…” He whispered in a dizzy sort of manner, his hand that wasn’t squished between them coming up to rest tentatively against Harry’s cheek - first one finger, then two, the third tapping in an offbeat rhythm. Trembling. “Don’t be with him. Or anyone else.” Harry muttered between kisses with Draco’s eyes squeezed tightly closed, his lashes dusting his cheeks. “Be with me.” There were more words on his tongue, things that needed to be said, that needed to be made clear, but the man’s lips were like a drug and he was instantly addicted - every nerve in his body catching fire as the other man tensed, let out another soft sound that cracked in the middle, and pressed closer on his own accord. Kissing him. Draco Malfoy was kissing him and for once Harry wasn’t dreaming.

♡*(ू•‧̫•ू⑅)♡⋆*ೃ:.✧

THE ONCE AND FUTURE FIC

Yet another resurrection fic (sorry???). ARTHUR RETURNS IN CHAPTER 2. Lots of feeeeels, and overdue conversations (at last!) between our precious King and Warlock. Title might change as this goes along, but this has always been the work title in my head since I started thinking about writing it, so… Starts right when 5.13 ends. WARNING FOR SUICIDAL THOUGHTS IN CHAPTER ONE.

Excerpt PART III:

If this is a waking dream then Merlin never wants to leave it. This is solid enough, real enough, for the rest of his maybe neverending life. "You're here. You're well. That's all that matters, Arthur; I swear that's all that has ever mattered to me."

Arthur holds his gaze for a long, long time; as if waiting for Merlin's clear eyes to betray his words. And when he finally seems confident enough that they are indeed genuine, he whispers, but it sounds like a pledge: "And you're here, Merlin, and you're *you*; and I swear that's all that will matter to me from now on."

(PREVIOUS CHAPTERS UNDER CHAPTER III)

@clone-number-1

III. (MERLIN POV)

"I'm fine, Merlin. I'm fine."

And not only the voice is perfect, but the language is the one Merlin hasn't heard for over a millenium...

"Arthur?" is all Merlin can let out - no more than a somewhat hiccuped whisper as he still has no breath, no voice, to start with; but an obvious plea coming from the depths of his soul. A world of wonder, and longing, and ache, and disbelief, and hope - because no matter what, Merlin can't help but want; can't help but hope - in those two syllabs that own his heart. Magic *does* exist, after all; and Merlin would give it all - all the magic he possesses, all his pain, all his hopes, everything - for this vision to turn real.

Arthur's already fragile smile falters: "Don't you remember, Merlin. No man is worth your tears." The reproach is nothing but badly fake though, and Arthur's voice somehow breaks as it ends: "Especially not me."

And then suddenly - and so quickly Merlin doesn't register any of it before it has actually happened, and so it is too late for him to move backwards to prevent it from happening - Arthur brings his hands on Merlin's face, gloved fingers brushing his tears away under his eyes - and Merlin can *feel* them!?

Merlin is lost; lost in what he sees, lost in what he hears, and lost in what he feels. Can this be true? Can it truly be true?

But then Arthur starts speaking again - rushed out words leaving Merlin stunned.

"I apologize, Merlin. The way I reacted- (sigh) I deserve all the names you've ever called me and more. I'm thick, and dumb, and *such* an idiot, and a complete dollophead, and a cabbage head, and a prat, and a royal *ass*, and I still don't know what a clotpole exactly is but I'm certain I am the definition for one indeed too. I may have seen anyone with magic turning against me; but I should never have doubted *you*, Merlin."

Merlin just cannot believe what he's hearing. It's everything he has ever wanted to hear; everything he has ever hoped to hear - so how can it be real?

"But more than anything, I think, I'm sorry because I should have known, Merlin. I called you a liar; looked at you like you had betrayed me. But you've told it. You actually shouted it for everyone to hear; and I believe you nearly told it to me, privately, at least once, and presumably more... But I just didn't want to hear it, did I? So I'm sorry I was such a coward; a *coward*, Merlin. And I'm so sorry, and so ashamed - and honestly I really can't blame you for not trusting me to understand: because you were right; and it guts me, Merlin."

Merlin shakes his head, about to interject - real or not just cannot matter anymore; not when Arthur's gaze is boring into his very core, pleading and honest and full of a guilt Merlin just can't bear to witness: "Arthur-"

Arthur silences him though, cutting him off by shaking him once by the shoulders: "But what counts is that I know, now, Merlin. Your magic is not only part of who you are; it also makes you who you are. And I will trust it; because I trust *you*. You must believe- No, let me rephrase this before you obey me again - because you *always* obey me, don't you Merlin; even when whatever I say in anger or despair isn't intended nor meant to be an order; and I've done it so often, haven't I... 'Do not put me into that position again'? 'Tell me it's gone'? (AN) So. Can you believe me; Merlin? It's not an order; I definitely do not deserve to give you any order at all to start with anyway. And you don't even have to forgive me; you shouldn't forgive me. But please, at least, can you b-"

"Of course I believe you. And there is nothing to forgive, Arthur. Nothing." Merlin half shouts, ancient words flowing instinctively, head skaking 'no' for emphasis, bringing his hands up to Arthur's wrists and pushing downwards, keeping Arthur's hands in place on his shoulders. If this is a waking dream then Merlin never wants to leave it. This is solid enough, real enough, for the rest of his maybe neverending life. "You're here. You're well. That's all that matters, Arthur; I swear that's all that has ever mattered to me."

Arthur holds his gaze for a long, long time; as if waiting for Merlin's clear eyes to betray his words. And when he finally seems confident enough that they are indeed genuine, he whispers, but it sounds like a pledge: "And you're here, Merlin, and you're *you*; and I swear that's all that will matter to me from now on."

.

AN: Tiny quote from my Body Swap fic; sorry, I just couldn't NOT put it there, it just FITS...

(Also, just imagine they speak in old brittonic... but please don't expect me to write it? sorry?)

.

(PREVIOUS CHAPTERS)

(Warning for this chapter: suicidal thoughts)

I. (MERLIN POV)

Merlin holds Mordred's sword in his right hand, appraising it. He still can't believe he has found it; still can't believe it's actually in his hands.

Over sixty years now - nothing; yet far too long - Merlin has been waiting for this moment. Since he has begged Freya, and threathened (and apologised - he couldn't blame Freya for not listening; he wouldn't have either, if their roles had been reversed), and begged again - in vain, for Excalibur. Since he has finally understood that he was a fool to hold onto hope for something that couldn't, wouldn't come to pass. Arthur was *never* coming back: Merlin had simply witnessed enough - he had witnessed too much; and too many times; and definitely one time too much one time too many - to ignore it any longer.

/

It was not that Merlin had grown too tired of waiting - too tired of the ache, the longing, the loneliness... For Arthur? Merlin would *always* wait; however long it might take.

It was not that Merlin had come to believe mankind didn't deserve Arthur to rise again to start with - even though it *was* an easy conclusion, when it was at its worst, when it turned its anger against itself - too many horrors, atrocities, bloodshed. But mankind could be beautiful, when loving, in any form; and marvelous, too, when it was at its best; when it turned its anger towards its limits: the medical progress over the ages would have had Gaius exhilarated, and proud; and what about its general neverending thirst for discovery, for explorations, for quests? - of course Arthur would come back: if only he could.

It was just that Merlin had finally understood that he had been played - not even because Albion (the name has since long fallen out of use and its people had been scattered through the globe, so it might mean nowadays something else than it had used to to start with) had got united without Arthur (and even if it still only meant Great Britain, well, it might after all need to be united again); but simply because the list of unending reasons why Arthur should have come back to save the day and yet hadn't (to mention only the very top of the list: half of humanity wiped out in a finger snap by the Black Death? the whole world collapsing in chaos, bend on destroying itself - World War?) had turned out suspiciously too long, and finally impossibly too long, as mankind had truly reached the lowest point not only ever but even possible without Arthur rising yet again (organised experiments and torture on toddlers, honestly?).

So.

Arthur wasn't ever coming back from the dead, simply because no one ever came back from the dead (except as a shade - and that would be even worse, wouldn't it? - or at a cost too great to burden anyway). It had been easy to believe in the prophecy; simply because it had been what Merlin had wanted. A distant promise of Arthur returning was still way better than no Arthur at all, and so Merlin had willingly taken the bait. But the fake prophecy had obviously been made up; as revenge, or entertainment - or both; and Merlin had felt stupid for not having realized this ages ago - The Sidhe were proud indeed; and Merlin had thwarted them. (It had been easy to forget it at first - to tell himself that they hadn't known Arthur was THE Arthur at the time, whatever...) Merlin wasn't sure about what Kilgharrah might have exactly known or not (On the one hand, Kilgharrah had forged Excalibur, who had always truly helped them. And Merlin had been warned by the Great Dragon, right from the start, and repeatedly; so wouldn't it all have worked out just fine if he had listened. On the other hand, if he had listened? Wouldn't he have been a monster, punishing people for crimes they had not yet committed? So maybe giving him the truth had in fact been the sure way to have him not acting on it. After all, Kilgharrah had hated the Pendragons - at least Uther - enough to have tried to wipe out Camelot. And he hadn't been exactly pleased either to discover Merlin was a Dragonlord, even if he had seemed to soften when he had realized that Merlin would not control him as a puppet. And last but not least, Kilgharrah hadn't taken care of Aithusa as Merlin had thought he would; and that's how Aithusa had ended up with Morgana - and had forged the sword that had killed Arthur), but it didn't change anything anyway...

Well, you bet Merlin hadn't been willing to indulge them any longer. Not that anger was what was driving Merlin, of course. There was simply *no point* anymore in waiting. Nor in living, to be honest - especially as it might be what kept him from actually finding Arthur again somehow; next life, paradise, wherever and however and whenever? Merlin was no religious man, but even he had no answer about what happened after death after all. Maybe it was worth a shot? It was a very, very thin chance indeed; but it was still more of a chance than just staying here waiting for *nothing*... So. Merlin had begged Freya for Excalibur. But as she had kept absent, it had dawned on him at some point that Excalibur wasn't the only blade he could use... Merlin had searched for that other mighty weapon through his magic for years; then had sent his creature to retrieve it when he had successfully localized it.

/

And here, now, finally, is Mordred's sword.

And Merlin feels no dread, no fear, while holding it. If anything, he feels calm - calmer than he has ever been, probably. And that's how Merlin knows that his decision is indeed right: even his magic agrees.

He should do it in the lake though. Magical artifacts just shouldn't linger around in the open, huh...

Yes.

Let Mordred's blade rest along Excalibur.

And let Merlin rest along Arthur.

Freya will make sure they all lay undisturbed.

Merlin blindly pulls at the cord around his neck, taking it out from under his tunic and sliding his left hand along it until it closes around Arthur's mother sigil (AN) and Camelot's ruler's ring (Gwen had it brought to him, so he could give it back to its true owner on his return: Camelot in the meantime was to be ruled by a Concil of Knights and a Guardian, until Arthur would come back to sit on his kept empty throne and his kept empty seat at the Round Table).

Merlin closes his eyes; makes a silent promise.

I'm coming, Arthur.

He takes a first step into the lake.

.

Backstory: +1500 years in short - because it hurts and I just don't have the heart to fully write the prologue I had intended to write:

Merlin has never left the lake. He kept waiting. He couldn’t, wouldn’t leave, (nor SLEEP even for that matter by the way) no matter for how short - imagine if Arthur came back just when he was NOT there, huh. And of course he wouldn’t trust his magic to warn him somehow - it had failed Arthur when he needed it the most after all. So no. Merlin has never left the lake. But Gaius has mentioned to him (Merlin got visitors, in the beginning (and his mother came to live with him until she died); before he cut himself off the world) how maybe the time he was given without Arthur was to LEARN more about magic; so that he would be prepared when Arthur came back to face whatever ordeal they were supposed to face. Because even if Merlin is hyper *aware* - he feels *everything*, through his magic - practice is necessary too.  So Merlin mastered the art of molding sand/clay and animating it with his magic (basically, he walks the Earth as Old Merlin - because people tends to let old grumpy men on their own - whenever he needs anything physically). He can speak, hear, see, learn, through him, following the world as it expands (America, Australia, etc etc, because even if he was aware they existed, he couldn’t physically *go* there before they were ‘found’). And he can touch, and carry (for example you bet he brought back something red for Arthur to wear every time - Merlin sort of owns a ‘male red mode through the ages’ museum by now - and he hates it, of course).  The first time Merlin has truly thought Arthur *would* come back has been The Great Plague. The second time has been WWI. The last drop has been the Nazis and Unit 731 experimentations.  So Merlin sent its creature to fetch Mordred’s sword after having localized it though his magic - and that’s what Old Merlin is bringing back to him when this all starts (aka that shot at the end of 5.13)…

(AN: Just so you know, Merlin's magically pierced in the thickness of Ygraine's sigil to pass a cord - he  wouldn 't make a hole in the front design of course!)

(Also... A resurrection fic!? What am I getting myself into!? I'm still a newbie around here so I definitely haven't read enough Merlin fics to ever claim making something original (so by the way, please feel free to let me know your all time favourites resurrection fics! So far I’ve read The Change Trilogy and Like the cycle of the year we begin again (and they’re both gorgeous reads so run and read them if you haven’t yet!) but I haven't seen (yet?) my take, both on the waiting and on the getting along after Arthur's return, in the fics I've read so far, so I thought I might as well write this down ?)

.

II. (ALTERNATE POV)

Arthur regains consciousness under water.

He's cold; so cold he's shaking - helpless, steady spasms he just can't put an end to (being past half dead apparently has repercussions?). But it's bright, up over him, and he instinctivally pushes himself up towards the light; towards the air.

The moment he breaks the water, Arthur registers that he's not only alive but that he feels *just right*. No pain in his side, no weakness, no dizzinesss, no strain: nothing wrong at all - except from the convulsions from the cold, but you bet he's not going to complain, all considered. The sun is veiled by clouds, but feels nonetheless like a welcomed warmth on his face, and Arthur breathes deep, bringing his arms up and turning his palms towards the warmth too as the tremors start to subdue; he's alive!; and well! He doesn't need to pat his absent wound in wonder, nor to look at the water, transparent clear instead of bloodened red, to know that what he feels is true.

Merlin's done it.

He *has* saved his life.

Again.

It's both unexpected (Arthur had been so sure he had taken his last breath, when all had finally faded to black, no matter how much he had been trying to stay with him, as Merlin had pleaded; to hold onto Merlin, to his voice, to the way he was holding him) - and yet somehow expected. Magical waters and a sorcerer who knows how to work its power would do wonders, obviously. It has happened before after all, bringing his beloved Guinevere's spirit back?

A sudden realization; and Arthur can't help but laugh. And it feels so exhilarating - alive! alive! - the laugh turns into a howl; and Arthur relishes on it, throwing his head back. Honestly? How could he have ever been *so* blind - of course it had been Merlin then too by the water edge, disguised as an old woman!

/

Somewhere on his right, a buoying laugh erupts.

And Merlin knows that laugh. So hearing the exact right tone of that entirely unexpected laughter at once feels as if a vicious invisible hand is squeezing at his heart.

He had forgotten it; he realizes. But he would recognize that howling laugh amongst any other...

Merlin doesn't dare to *believe*. Cruel hope nonetheless blooms unbidden in his heart, and his eyes can't help but zero in on the source of that sound.

And it is exactly as it should be; exactly as it has used to be...

There *is* ARTHUR; standing in the lake, water reaching his hips, chainmail glistening, head thrown back as he laughs. (Has anyone ever looked more simply breathtakingly majestic no matter what they did and even without trying?) Merlin can only see his back, but you bet he would recognize the shape of that back amongst any other too.

Merlin's breath is knocked out of him; and Mordred's sword falls from his hand.

Merlin knows what he hears and sees *cannot* be true. He has seen the world in a much, MUCH more desperate state without Arthur coming back then. There is absolutely no reason for Arthur to come back right now. So. He is being granted a vision; that's all. But of course Merlin wouldn't, couldn't, try to take his own life anymore, not after having had even just a glimpse... Besides, he has just handed over the last sword that could end him anyway. Merlin has to acknowledge The Sidhe's thinking; they know exactly well how to play him. But damn, they are vicious.

But no matter the abysmal pain from such a low blow, Merlin still considers this to be a gift, and is determined to draw it out for as long as he will be allowed to. Those few seconds might sustain him for another fifteen centuries to come, and maybe more...

/

Arthur quiets down after a while. Thinking about his savior: where is he?

Arthur scans his surroundings; and the warmth he feels when he finally spots Merlin definitely eclipses the sun.

/

The laughing stops, and Arthur turns, eyes searching; and a bright smile appears on Arthur's face the moment they find him.

"Merlin!"

Merlin's knees give out. His name through Arthur's lips has sounded *exactly* right - righter than in any memory Merlin has relied on to live on hanging onto. And it hurts. The shame, and guilt - to realize he had forgotten *this* too? It shouldn't have been possible - to have something so dear going misformed; a pale, withered, incomplete, erroneous copy, so far from the original that its truth has disintegrated? Oh yes, it hurts.

And Merlin's fingers dig; hard, deep into the sand. He cannot reach out. He longs for; he *aches* to - both physically and emotionnally. But he cannot. As long as it's only his eyes and ears that are deceived, then he can pretend it is true...

Merlin starts to cry. He can't help it; he cries - as he hasn't cried since, well, all those years ago: silent tears endlessly streaming down his face, unabached, treacherous; and Merlin hates them - hates the way they blur his vision when he has to - HAS TO - *see*. He is powerless to stop them though.

It is *blinding*.

Merlin has tried, so hard, to keep remembering, to NOT forget. But his memories, even sustained with his magic, have so obviously failed him; haven't done Arthur any justice at all. Merlin has forgotten so, SO much; and being proven just how much he has actually forgotten slices through him like a knife. The exact darker shade of Arthur's blond hair when wet. The exact way Arthur stands and moves. The exact sharpness of Arthur's features - his nose, his cheeckbones, his jawline. The exact shape of that smile - that particular, undeniably fond smile following his name Merlin has used to live for and from. Guilt slashes through him again. How could he have *forgotten* the exact shape of *that* smile; the most precious to him amongst the myriad of each and every of Arthur's smiles?

/

But then Merlin collapses, instead of cheering with him - he has thought him gone for good? And Arthur suddenly feels like there is still after all a gaping aching wound on his body; but this one deep in his chest, and of his own making. He owes Merlin *everything*, doesn't he? Yet he has hurt him - and so very severely. Despite it, though, Merlin obviously still cares for him; and so very much... His own behaviour puts Arthur to shame. So. Arthur hadn't had the time nor the strength to plainly apologize before. But he has now; and he won't run away from the words that he needs to say - and even more important, that Merlin needs to hear...

/

Arthur is now rushing through the water towards him - so fierce!, so strong!; alive and well!? His smile is gone though; replaced by worry - because of Merlin's tears, no doubt: yet another reason to hate them then...

And then Arthur is plopping down in front of him, out of breath; and Merlin gets proof again of just how much he had forgotten - the exact colours and depths of Arthur's eyes! There is now a fragile smile back on Arthur's face - a soothing smile, meant only for Merlin's sake; and it's going to break Merlin's heart, no doubt.