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The first time. It's a clash of fists.
Merlin's frustration manifests in a rage that makes his limbs ache, that blackens his vision. Arthur's smile is smug, condescending. A spoiled brat that Merlin wants to take apart at the seams; wants to twists the bones in his body to set him straight.
Fresh off saving Arthur's life, adrenaline in his blood, anger on his tongue. Arthur lets the attack happen, pity or amusement or obligation. Merlin surges forward, nails claw at Arthur's tunic, punches blocked, never any force retaliated. Merlin knows Arthur could stop this if he actually wanted.
But he doesn't, and Merlin hates him all the more.
"I don't want this!" he yells. Arthur deflects, instigates another swing, ducks, challenge bright in his eyes.
It's a large swipe—Merlin's reach longer than Arthur anticipates. His knuckles slam against Arthur's chin, the force propels him backward. Arthur hisses when he towers over Merlin, boot thick and hard as it presses against his throat, as Arthur leans down and grabs a fistful of Merlin's hair, tugs him upward.
"I didn't ask for this either." His words cut. Merlin flinches with the infliction. There's a spot on is chin that's bright pink, the exact shape of Merlin's fist. The anger in Arthur's eyes spell out execution. Merlin glares back, propels himself forward, knocks Arthur over in a roll.
The sound Arthur makes reminds Merlin of the wild, of the beasts that kept him awake as a child, clinging to his mother's skirt, crying through the night. Arthur slams Merlin against the floor, pins his wrists with one hand, makes the bones grind together. He yanks Merlin's head to the side, bites his neck, squeezes. Merlin shouts in pain, goes stone still.
Arthur releases slowly, drains the fight from Merlin's body, leaves him feeling empty and thin, transparent like water. Arthur pushes himself off Merlin, looks down with a soft sigh, holds out his hand. Merlin grasps it tight; Arthur pulls him up with ease.
"Thank you for saving my life."
It's the first time. Merlin nods, feels his throat constrict and his heart swell. His neck throbs and the mark stays for days.
--
There's protocol and procedure and Arthur abandons it all when they're within the confines of his room, when they're just two young men with nothing in common but everything to gain, two parts to a destiny.
Arthur shows him the secret passages and ways to bypass the guards in the east wing. Merlin shows him how to brew a potion that turns a person's tongue bright yellow. They train because Arthur wants to and they spend a day in the field behind the west wing when Merlin feels homesick.
Arthur berates his performance as a servant, his insubordination, but only cuffs him on the shoulder and tugs his ear with the empty threat of the stocks to keep him in line. He smiles whenever Merlin mockingly bows or snidely refers to him as 'sire', tugs just a little harder. Merlin rubs at his ear, laughs freely.
It happens without either realizing, with Merlin shouting at Arthur's bad judgments, ends with Arthur apologizing softly. Arthur looks for Merlin's eyes whenever he makes a decision, smiles bright enough to rival the sun when Merlin refrains from the insults and nods approvingly.
Their friendship is easy.
It's when Arthur holds him against the soft grass and kisses him, bites at the fading bruise low on his neck, clutches him until Merlin whimpers and grabs at his back, arches his neck.
That's when it gets complicated.
--
Uther takes ill on the first snowfall, has Gaius in and out of his chambers, liquids in different sized bottles, herbs that leave their stink in the air long after they passed. He refuses Arthur's presence, only his manservant and Morgana allowed access on the most urgent of occasions.
Arthur takes his anger out on Merlin's body, his aggression with his teeth, his hurt with his nails. Merlin holds on, only cries out when necessary. Arthur catches himself, mostly, apologizes with long kisses that make Merlin shake.
He never minds, not when Arthur looks at him the way he does, as if falling into his body can strip the pain from his chest, can ease his suffering.
"I don't want to be king," Arthur says one night, face pressed against Merlin's throat, lips ghosting the welts he placed there earlier. Merlin's wrapped in his arms, warm and comfortable, the dull reverberation of pleasure still languid in his body.
"It's our destiny, Arthur." Merlin turns, faces him. Arthur's hair is longer now, curls around his ears. He strokes his cheeks, over the thick beard, the scratch of it rough against his sensitive skin. Arthur growls, Merlin's finds it harder to breathe. He still has the stubble burns on his thighs from the last time Arthur looked at him like that.
"He can't die, Merlin." Arthur's hands slide down his sides, hold his hips. Merlin squirms, arches up as Arthur reaches for his ass, moans as Arthur spreads him open, grazes thick fingers against his hole, dips inside. He's still wet with oil and Arthur's release, shivers in Arthur's arms when he presses another finger inside, slides them in and out in leisurely motions.
Merlin chokes on his want, shakes as his muscles tense to the point of pain, as Arthur sucks on his neck, drives him out of his mind. Arthur likes it when Merlin begs, when he works himself into a frenzy that only the hard burn of his cock can sate.
It's Merlin's nineteenth winter when Uther Pendragon dies.
Arthur becomes the king of Camelot with his cock buried to the hilt in Merlin's ass.
--
The crown sits heavily on his head, Uther's memory and his ideas. Merlin does what he can, offers Arthur everything he has to give, feels cherished when Arthur takes and takes until they're pressed so tightly together Merlin can feel their souls bleed.
In times like these, the effort to keep his magic contained begins to crumble. He tells Arthur of the empty ache in his stomach, of the pain. He has to squeeze his eyes shut when they're together, he bites his lips and tongue, can feel the hum of power float beneath his skin, the sting of needed release. He doesn't want to hurt Arthur, knows just like he knows how deep their bond runs, that his magic will ruin them.
It happens one night, Arthur above him, thrusts deliberate, strong. Merlin slides up the bed with every snap of Arthur's hips, groans helplessly. Arthur's on a mission, takes his time in ways he's never done before, touches him in a manner that strips him right to the bone.
He moans when Arthur slides out of him, still hard, Arthur's face shows his discomfort. Merlin's voice dissolved around the time Arthur's mouth left his cock, right before he pushed his knees to his chest and made Merlin rethink his stance on perfection.
"You've no idea what you do to me," Arthur hisses, open mouthed and heavy against his stomach. "Of the things I wish to do to you."
"Arthur—"
"I can feel it in you," he moans loudly against Merlin's ear, kisses him with the strength of a king. "I can feel it in me when I'm inside of you."
Merlin shudders, the magic coils in his throat, tightens.
"It'll hurt you."
"I don't care." He kisses Merlin, holds his jaw in his large hands, forces his tongue inside, is met with Merlin's eagerness. He can taste his magic in his mouth, bitter and sharp, sweet. Arthur shudders, grabs himself, presses into Merlin again. The shock and sensation send Merlin's magic streamlining through his veins.
Arthur strokes him once, thrusts with a force that bends Merlin's back. When he screams, Merlin feels everything rush out of him in a dizzying whirl. Arthur's arms hold him tighter, painfully tight, his agony evident in the tight pull of his back and shoulders.
Merlin slumps against the sheets, pants through the tears that blur his vision. He feels empty and warm and calm, weakly rubs Arthur's back through the spasm, kisses his broad shoulder with quivering lips.
Arthur whimpers. Merlin nudges his face up enough for a kiss, loses himself. Arthur doesn't say anything, but, for the first time since Uther's pyre burned to cinders, he sleeps; curled around Merlin.
--
He sits by Arthur's side at feasts, dressed in robes that hang off his thin form, in vibrant reds and royal blues that Arthur tears off him like the crests of rival countries. He takes over the apothecary once Gaius dies, blends magic with elixirs that servants distribute to every peasant in the land.
Arthur never lets him leave Camelot, keeps him tucked away nice and tidy in the protection of the castle walls, safely kept in his bed. Whenever Arthur returns from minor scuffles and battles, Merlin licks at the cuts, watches as the skin knits itself back together as flawless as it was before.
Merlin doesn't mind the confinement. Arthur's temper aren't any better then when they were both barely men, when they would spend hours with their heads pressed together, making Gwen's hair turn blue or letting spiders loose in Morgana's bed. Merlin finds himself forcefully slammed against the nearest wall whenever a fellow knight talks to him, whenever a peasant woman presses a thankful kiss against his cheek for the medication that'll protect her children.
Arthur leaves his teeth a visible mark on Merlin's neck, tells him over and over in a low voice that makes his knees weak, just how much he likes it when others can see the ring of teeth.
When others can see the brand of the king of Camelot.