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“You’re a sorcerer!” Arthur accuses, the words out of his mouth without a moment’s consideration. He paces the length of his quarters, and in the midst of all his frustrated anger and confusion, he doesn’t see the way Merlin freezes and the ashen hue of his face as the blood drains from it.
“N-no, I am not,” Merlin defends weakly. His nervous stuttering and wide eyes going unnoticed by Arthur.
“You have to be; there is no other reasonable explanation.”
“Arthur, I do– I’m–”
“You cast a spell on me.” Arthur comes to a stop in front of Merlin, barely registering anything Merlin is saying.
“I would never do that!” The fierceness of Merlin’s voice finally breaks through some of the fog of Arthur’s mind. His eyes scan Merlin’s face and take in the hurt anger burning in his eyes, the firm set of his lips. He lingers on Merlin’s mouth, and that only further proves his theory.
“Then someone else did.”
“You believe you’ve been enchanted?” Merlin looks genuinely confused at this, a frown weighing down his brows. “Why?”
Arthur meets his eyes. Usually, he would be apprehensive of admitting anything of the sort, but he has been enchanted, therefore it is hardly his fault and he doesn’t allow himself to think on it too hard before saying, “because I cannot get you out of my mind. I do not know for what purpose, but someone has used magic to evoke all these….feelings for you in me.”
“You cannot get me off your mind?” Merlin sounds as stunned as he looks. His voice is breathy and low, full of disbelief.
“I think of you whenever I am awake, and I dream of you and nothing else in my sleep. It’s a spell, I know it is. Just as it was with Sophia.”
Merlin blinks slowly, then clears his throat before responding. “You were unable to question the...infatuation with Sophia, but you seem to be thinking quite critically at the moment.” He tilts his head and squints at Arthur. “...or as much as you’re ever able to, in any case.”
Arthur glares at him but doesn’t acknowledge the jab beyond that. “Perhaps it is a different spell, I don’t know. I am not familiar with the specifics of sorcery.”
“Clearly,” Merlin taunts with an unimpressed raise of his eyebrows.
“Do shut up, Merlin.”
Merlin acts theatrically affronted at that, gesturing to Arthur with a disordered movement of his hand. “This is the worst profession of love ever. Gwaine, at least, waxes poetry at me every chance he gets.”
“I am not professing my love for you, you idiot. We need to find the sorcerer that did this to me,” Arthur explains exaggeratedly, as though that might help Merlin and his slow brain keep up. Then his own enchantment-addled mind catches onto what Merlin has just said. “Gwaine recites you poetry?”
Merlin throws his head back in laughter at the sour edge of Arthur’s voice, shoulders quaking with the effort. Still, shaking with laughter, he says, “recite me poetry? No. No, Gwaine doesn’t recite me poetry.”
Arthur doesn’t even have a chance to be comforted by this before Merlin continues.
“Gwaine writes me poetry.”
Unbidden, images of stationing Gwaine by the Ridge of Ascetir flash through Arthur’s mind. He scoffs. “I’ve heard him speak, I bet it is awful.”
Merlin shrugs. “I like it.”
“I could write poetry. And it’d certainly be better than whatever garbage Gwaine has been writing,” Arthur grumbles. He loathes himself for caring, for being threatened by Gwaine and poetry. He shudders; he needs to rid himself of the godawful effects of this spell immediately.
“Excitedly anticipating your work, Sire,” Merlin chuckles, eyes alight with amusement, a pleased flush making its way across his skin. It’s terribly distracting, the sight of him in such a state.
“Shut up.”
“So you said.”
“You’d be wise to do as your told. For once.”
“As you’ve pointed out on many – many – occasions, I am not very wise.”
“I’m about to do so again.”
“Mhm,” Merlin hums happily. His eyes shine with mirth, his smile widening, and Arthur is preemptively groaning internally over whatever he is about to say. “Soooo, you can’t stop thinking about me and you can’t stop dreaming about me. What are you thinking and dreaming about me? Be specific.”
Arthur stares at him blankly for a moment, the flush heating up his cheeks going adamantly unacknowledged. Then, wordlessly, he turns on his heel and leaves his rooms. The sound of Merlin’s laughter follows him out. If Arthur’s lips twitch in response to the carefree sound, that is truly of no concern to anyone but himself.
He has barely made it to the stairs before Merlin is catching up to him, a wide grin still glued onto his stupid face. “Where are we going?”
“To see Gaius. He’ll be able to help us deal with all of this. And maybe even to locate the sorcerer that cast this spell.”
Merlin makes an agreeable sound and follows along thoughtlessly. His lips smack as he opens his mouth to speak. “So, if you’re suddenly in love with me, why aren’t you being uncharacteristically nice to me?”
“I’m always nice,” Arthur defends himself with indignation. To prove his point, Arthur pushes Merlin, but immediately regrets it when Merlin stumbles back a bit farther than he meant to. The space between them feels awkward, and Arthur shifts uncomfortably, relieved when Merlin steps back to his side without a word, closing the gap as though nothing had happened.
Merlin shakes his head as they turn towards the infirmary. “No. You pretend to be nice to other nobles, but it’s all an act. You’re brusque and rude,” Merlin says as he steps ahead of Arthur, turning his back to the door of Gaius’ chambers and pushing his way into the space. “You threw a pillow at me this morning.”
“Yes. A pillow. How is that not nice? It could have been a vambrace.”
Merlin doesn’t move from the entryway and Arthur pushes his way inside, the narrow portal a tight fit for the two of them. Arthur’s throat goes dry at the proximity, their chests touching as he passes. He keeps walking until he is in the center of the room, keeping his back to Merlin, hoping to compose himself. His heart rattles beneath his chest and his deep breaths do little to make him forget about the warmth of Merlin’s body against him. Clearing his throat, he spins, looking around for Gaius.
Pushing away from the door, Merlin approaches him. “He’s on his rounds,” he tells Arthur nonchalantly.
Arthur freezes and slowly shifts his gaze to Merlin. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“You didn’t ask.” Merlin shrugs carelessly, mirth brightening his eyes.
Arthur watches him with a stony expression on his face. “I’m going to kill you,” he threatens, not that it does him any good.
Merlin only shakes his head, face scrunching up in clear disbelief, no trace of fear. “Nah, you’d miss me too much. The grief would kill you.”
Merlin leans against Gaius’ worktable, his hands resting on either side of him, wrapping around the edge of it. Arthur swallows as his gaze rakes over the length of him, forgetting whatever retort had been about to leave him, and Merlin’s eyes shine, his lips twitching with pleased amusement.
“Shut up,” Arthur demands, rubbing a bashful hand over his head.
“I didn’t say anything,” Merlin says gently. He watches Arthur with such a softness that it causes an ache to run through Arthur. Their gazes lock and Arthur becomes immersed in the blue depths of Merlin’s eyes, chest moving raggedly around his labored breathing. If Gaius doesn’t show up soon, he really can’t be held responsible for what this spell might compel him to do. It’s strong, nearly indomitable, and he’s only a man.
Merlin’s fingers tapping against the underside of the table draw Arthur’s attention. Yeah, he’s dreamt of those too. His gaze trails up Merlin’s bare forearm to the scrunched-up fabric of his coat and shirt by his elbow, travels the expanse of his throat, the pale skin contrasted tantalizingly by the red neckerchief. Merlin’s face isn’t much better, with his plush lips and sharp and alluring cheekbones. There’s no trace of amusement left on it as Merlin looks back at him.
“It has to be a spell?” Merlin asks, voice roughened by something Arthur doesn’t dare name.
“Of course,” Arthur answers, crossing his arms over his chest and straightening his posture. “What else could it be?”
Merlin averts his gaze, disappointment pulling at his lips, but he nods, slow and deliberate. The unhappy look on his face pulls at something in Arthur, but he dismisses it, puts it down to the effects of the spell. It isn’t long before Merlin composes himself, his face carefully stolid as he turns back to Arthur.
“Why would someone do that?” Merlin asks levelly, unassuming, but Arthur hears the undertone even though it isn’t audibly present.
Arthur huffs, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. “To distract me.”
“So why me?”
This one’s easy. “Because you’re always around. It’d be the most effective.”
Merlin nods placatingly, humoring him like Arthur is some child believing a ludicrous fable. “Alright,” he says slowly and detaches himself from the table. He rounds it and starts throwing things into the mortar, pressing the leaves with more force than Arthur would assume they require.
“You’re offended,” Arthur realizes, his arms dropping to his side as he crosses to the other side of the worktable. The only acknowledgment he gets is a brief flicker of Merlin’s eyes to his before he returns his attention back to...whatever he is making. Arthur isn’t convinced that the different leaves Merlin is pulverizing together have complementary remedial effects; he doesn’t have enough knowledge on the subject to know for sure, but he does have enough sense to not comment. Especially right now, when there’s a frustrated frown creasing Merlin’s forehead and the line of his mouth is set firmly.
“This is childish, Merlin,” he says when the silence between them stretches for far too long. “Besides, why would you care if my feelings are real or not? Surely, it is a relief to know that once the spell is broken, they’ll be gone.”
Merlin’s hands falter in their rhythm almost imperceptibly, but Arthur catches it, understanding what it means instantly.
“Oh.”
The pestle grinds harder against the powder in the mortar and Merlin’s shoulders have gone tense. Arthur opens and closes his mouth futilely multiple times but cannot find any words. The sound of the door opening draws both of their attention and saves him the effort. Gaius enters. If he is surprised by their presence, he doesn’t show it.
“Sire,” he says in greeting, his eyes moving between the two of them, lingering on Merlin briefly. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I–” Arthur cuts himself off, gaze landing on Merlin. His silence drags on for a while.
Patient worn-thin it would seem, Merlin throws his hands in the air before letting them settle on the table, the pestle still in his grip emitting a soft thud as it makes contact with the tabletop. “Arthur believes he’s been ensorcelled.”
Gaius brow lifts in surprise. “I see,” he says, looking slowly to Arthur. “And why do you believe so?”
“I–” Arthur uselessly says again. “Is there anyway to test if I’m under a spell?”
Gaius’ gaze flick to Merlin at the deflection, but his focus returns to Arthur as he speaks. “Did you find a poultice in your chambers, Sire?”
“No.”
“Have you been in contact with any unknown artifacts?”
Arthur shakes his head.
"Have you been experiencing lapses in your memory?"
“Not that I have noticed.”
Gaius eyes Arthur, clearly unconvinced. He turns to Merlin and tilts his head towards Arthur. “Has he been behaving erratically or out of character?”
Merlin’s cold gaze lands on Arthur, a slow, heavy silence passing between them. “No. All the erratic behavior he’s been exhibiting has been terribly in character.”
Gaius’ knowing gaze shifts between the two, but he doesn’t mention the tension crackling in the air. “I’m sorry, Sire. I’m not sure there’s anything I can do at this point. Do you still believe that you are under the effects of a spell?”
Arthur forces his eyes from Merlin’s and shakes his head despite not having been convinced. “No. Thank you, Gaius. That will be all.” His voice tightens. “Merlin, come with me.”
Arthur doesn’t wait for him as he heads towards the door, hears his footfalls drag after him and the unhappy grumbling under his breath. The trip back to his rooms is tense and uncomfortable, Merlin stays three paces behind him the entire way. Arthur hates it.
When they get there, Arthur enters first, leaving the door open for Merlin as he moves further into the main room. Merlin joins him a moment later, but instead of acknowledging Arthur, he heads straight to a pile of Arthur’s clothing and starts folding it. Feeling suddenly restless and uneasy, Arthur starts pacing the length of his chambers.
His gaze strays to Merlin and he feels a swooping sensation. Merlin had feelings for him; he’d been disappointment at the prospect of Arthur’s feelings being the effects of a spell. Thinking back, Merlin had never said anything, and Arthur had never had any inclination of his feeling until now. It must be a recent development.
He comes to a sudden stop as realization dawns on him.
“You’re under the spell, too!” Arthur exclaims looking to Merlin. Of course. What good is half a love spell? It is far more effective if they are both consumed with one another.
Merlin turns slowly, posture stiffer still than it had been. His face conveys a blank, disbelieving incredulity, like he can’t quite settle on how to react. “No,” Merlin denies, staring at him as if Arthur has grown a second head. “I am not.”
“Yes, you are. It is the only reasonable explanation. Why would they enchant me alone, when enchanting us both would be far more...advantageous?” Arthur nods emphatically at Merlin as he speaks, like sheer force of will can make it so.
“It’s not the only–” Merlin cuts off his outburst and inhales deeply through his nose, chest and shoulders rising with it. His lips tuck into his mouth and he pinches the bridge of his nose. Arthur stares at him eagerly, waiting for Merlin to realize the truth, too. “There is no evidence that either of us have been enchanted.”
“I love you and I can think of nothing but kissing you right now. That’s more than enough proof, don’t you think?” Arthur asks pointedly.
Merlin eyes widen, flickering over Arthur’s face wildly, and his lips – that already have far too much of Arthur’s attention – part.
It isn’t long before Merlin’s surprise fades and his face lours. “There’s no spell, Arthur,” Merlin tells him firmly.
“How would you know?”
“I just know.”
“There has to be.”
“Why?” he snaps. “Because it’s so inconceivable that you could possibly love me without you being cursed to do so?”
“Well, yes.”
Fire burns hot and angry in Merlin’s eyes. His jaw clenches so harshly that Arthur’s own aches in sympathy for the joint. Suddenly, Merlin turns, a flurry of movement as he storms to Arthur’s bed. He grabs the pillows on it and fling them to the floor behind him. His hands don’t stop as they grab at the duvet then the sheets, stripping the bed bare. When there is nothing on his bed, he stalks to the drawers, pulling them out fully and upending their contents onto the floor as well. The floor is littered with all his belongings, but Merlin just moves to Arthur’s chest and then the wardrobe emptying them both. Arthur watches horrified as Merlin moves from place to place, making a mess of his rooms.
Finally, Merlin turns to him angrily. “There’s nothing here! No poultices, no charms. No enchantment,” he bites out. His chest is heaving around his labored breaths and he watches Arthur with hard eyes, waiting for him to react with something akin a challenge etched onto his face, just daring Arthur to argue.
“You’ve only managed to confute a few approaches; that doesn’t mean that I am wrong,” Arthur defends stubbornly, but there is an edge of desperation to his words. Merlin misses it in his ire, but Arthur hears it ring out loud and clear.
Watching him for a long moment, Merlin licks at his teeth in anger, then turns, putting some distance between them. Every step pulls at Arthur and he stares at Merlin’s feet as they carry him further away from him, the familiar boots landing softly on the cold, stone floor with every stride. His heart is in his throat and blood roars in his ears. He is not in control of extremities as he trails after him, drawn by something bigger than himself. His hand wraps around Merlin’s arm of its own volition and then Merlin is spinning towards him once more, stumbling into his arms as Arthur envelops his face and drags him in for a searing kiss.
Merlin is tense in his arms, unresponsive for a fraction of a second, before his mouth moves against Arthur’s, and his hands bury into Arthur’s hair, forces him closer. Lingering anger bleeds from Merlin into the kiss, their movements rough and bruising. Arthur can taste it in his mouth, the acrid taste in the back of his throat only heightening the sensations running through him. Groaning into it, he pulls at Merlin, needing to be closer still.
Eventually, the harshness softens, evaporating from Merlin as he deepens the kiss with a sigh. It gives Arthur whiplash, how quickly it turns sweet and delicate. His heart is just as affected, if not more so, at being handled with such care, Merlin’s hands glide over his face with a tenderness that feels reverent.
It isn’t real. It isn’t Arthur’s doing, and it isn’t Merlin’s doing. It’s magic. They’re under a spell. It’s an illusion, a fantasy. Merlin feels warm and steady against him.
Merlin’s lips slow, pressing against Arthur’s until they are unmoving. Shifting, Merlin rolls his forehead against Arthur’s, eyes on Arthur’s tingling lips. His heated breath feels damning on Arthur’s skin. It’s a price Arthur’s spellbound mind is more than willing to pay.
Merlin swallows roughly, the movement of his throat audible in the space between them. “Tell me you don’t believe this is the influence of the spell.” Merlin’s voice is low and pleading.
There is nothing Arthur wishes more in this moment than to be able to tell Merlin what he wants to hear. But he can’t lie, and the truth isn’t what Merlin wants to hear. He tenses in Merlin’s embrace, unable to meet his eyes. Reacting to Arthur’s stiff posture, Merlin sighs and draws away. Cold air rushes to fill every part of Arthur that had been soaking in Merlin’s warmth, sending a chill through him.
“There’s no spell,” Merlin tells him quietly, with a small, tired shake of his head. “Don’t kiss me again until you know that to be true.”
He turns from Arthur again, the shape of him dejected and disappointed. His shoulders droop and his movements are slow, heavy. Arthur watches silently as Merlin starts cleaning the mess he’d created. It takes a long time for his rooms to return to their usual state. Merlin doesn’t look at him once.
♚
It’s a fortnight before they kiss again.
Arthur realizes it hadn’t been a spell on day twelve.
The immensity of his feelings for Merlin had seemed abrupt, as though conjured from thin air. It had taken him some quiet – so unbearably quiet – evenings to recognize they hadn’t been quite so sudden. That they’d always been there, one way or another, simmering beneath the surface, but he’d never been able to acknowledge them before, either too busy, bullheaded or scared. But they were there from the start. There had always been something about Merlin. He’s finally able to put his finger on what that something is.
Merlin has been ignoring him for the past two weeks, which is quite a feat given that he’s been tending to Arthur every day despite it. It is also a testament to Merlin’s obstinate nature. Unbelievably, Arthur is even endeared by that. He would almost have preferred for it to be the effects of a love-spell.
Merlin hasn’t been joining Arthur for his training sessions. It bothers Arthur more than he is willing to admit. He is acutely aware of Merlin’s absence, moreso whenever he finds his gaze seeking out Merlin after displaying some remarkable swordsmanship abilities. He’d been practicing on a particular move for a long time and he had finally, finally, managed to pull it off. His knights had praised him, yet their words had felt empty without Merlin’s put-upon scoffs and his riant eyes bearing his admiration.
On the fourteenth day, he catches sight of something out of the corner of his eye as they train. He turns towards it and finds Merlin watching him intently from the battlements above the gate. Arthur’s chest tightens at his presence, from a distance but there. His gaze fixes on Merlin’s, stays locked with his even as the knights continue their training around him. The sounds of metal meeting metal, of their movements are lost to him. Merlin’s arms are crossed over his chest, but he is looking back at Arthur, meeting his eyes.
Without another second’s thought, Arthur stabs his sword into the grass beside him and moves. He sees Merlin frown, but then he is through the gate and bounding up the steps to him. Merlin turns to him, his arms falling to his sides as he stares at Arthur in confusion.
His brow sinks lower when Arthur stalks to him, rearing back, but Arthur doesn’t allow that to discourage him, not stopping until Merlin is within his reach. As soon as he is, Arthur wraps around him, dragging him in for a kiss that feels like coming home. Merlin melts into it before seemingly remembering himself. Arthur allows him to draw back but doesn’t loosen his arms around him. Dark, blue eyes rake over his face carefully, hesitant caution swimming in the depths of them. The question on Merlin’s face goes unasked, so Arthur takes it upon himself to answer it.
“There was never any spell,” Arthur reassures him, a hand settling at the nape of Merlin’s neck, his fingers trailing softly along the skin there. “Just my boundless love for you which I foolishly failed to understand.”
“I already knew that,” Merlin says pointedly, but his hands land on Arthur’s face, thumbs caressing his cheeks gently.
“Yeah,” Arthur breathes, leaning into the warm touch. “But now I know it, too.”
“I should have known it would take you this long,” Merlin grumbles with no heat and squishes Arthur’s cheeks, making his lips part under the force. Arthur happily lets him. “You are slower than a sloth.”
“Treason,” Arthur says, the word muffled by Merlin’s hold on his face. It brings a sweet smile to Merlin’s lips. Warmth spreads through Arthur at the sight of it. Merlin’s smile doesn’t waver as as he releases Arthur’s cheeks. It softens his face and turn his eyes captivating in the afternoon sunlight.
“I will concede that this is a slight improvement to your last declaration of love,” Merlin teases, leaning in closer, his weight settling more fully against Arthur. Arthur completely melts in turn.
“Yeah, well, you have yet to make any declarations so you’re hardly in a position to judge.”
Merlin’s gaze turns suddenly intense and Arthur’s throat goes dry, the smile fading from his face.
“I was created with you in mind, for you. There isn’t a part of me that doesn’t love you.”
Arthur flushes at the words, at Merlin’s earnest tone, his heart squeezing in delight. He clears his throat. “That’s was–” He nods, slowly. “That was alright.”
A soft laugh leaves Merlin, clearly unconvinced by Arthur’s attempt at composure.
They stand in each other’s arms, basking in the proximity for a long time. Arthur is aware that they are in view of people, that people will undoubtedly talk. He hopes they do. A peace he’s longed for washes over him as Merlin walks his fingers over Arthur’s arms, the playful gesture tugging at something deep within Arthur. He grabs Merlin’s hand and pulls it to his mouth, pressing a light kiss to the back of it. The sound of Merlin’s hitched breathing makes a shiver run down Arthur’s spine.
“I’m still waiting for that poetry, you know,” Merlin tells him, low and heady.
Arthur scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Keep dreaming.”
Merlin sighs theatrically, and Arthur narrows his eyes in suspicion.
“I guess I can live with Gwaine’s poems. They are quite lovely.”
Arthur pulls Merlin firmly against him, tightens the arm around Merlin’s middle a fraction. “Nice try,” he tells him. “And Gwaine will not be writing you any more poetry if he knows what’s good for him.”
“He never does.”
“He’d better learn, and fast,” Arthur warns, earning another mellifluous laugh from Merlin.
“You’re jealous,” Merlin says around a wide grin, reveling in it.
“You’re mine.” It’s neither a denial nor a confirmation. They both know the truth of it. Affection softens Merlin’s smile.
“Yeah,” he agrees, voice touched with emotion. “I am.”
“As I am yours.”