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Arthur had never mentioned Merlin’s scars.
They were faded, but Merlin knew they were still perfectly visible. They were still very much there, and if he was honest, maybe they still screamed a little too loudly; visual reminders that enjoyed mocking him, even after the number of years that had passed since he had painted his skin with them.
If he was honest, maybe he still thought twice before stripping down around anyone else, even after all this time. If he was honest, maybe the marks on his legs had prevented things from moving forward with Arthur for longer than Merlin cared to admit; too afraid of watching Arthur’s eyes trail down his body and zero in on past failures, laid right out on his skin like an essay of reasons Arthur shouldn’t want him.
That hadn’t happened. In fact, the first time Arthur’s hands had dragged at his clothes until there was nothing but heat left between their bodies, nothing had happened at all except Arthur pressing him down into the sheets and mumbling filthy promises mixed with loving endearments until Merlin had lost himself completely in a rush of ecstasy.
But even now, Merlin couldn’t help waiting for it. Every time they fell into bed together, every time Arthur licked and bit his way down Merlin’s body, every time Arthur’s hands skated along Merlin’s thighs—Merlin would hold his breath, just for a few seconds, and wait. Wait for Arthur to pull away in disgust and shock, wait for him to yank his hands away from Merlin’s skin as if it had burned him.
But today, just like every other day, Arthur only held him close like he always did as Merlin came, shuddering against him, wrapped in the fine sheets of Arthur’s bed as soft morning light danced across the surfaces of the room. (It was a Saturday. Arthur was a fan of morning sex on Saturdays, and Merlin was a fan of spending Friday nights at Arthur’s.)
Arthur tipped over the edge shortly afterwards, his fingers digging into Merlin’s hips as his body tensed, and finally collapsed onto Merlin in a shuddering, boneless heap. He pulled out gently a few minutes later, sliding a hand into Merlin’s hair and kissing his forehead as he moved.
(“I’m not going to break, you know,” Merlin had protested after noticing that Arthur had adopted the gesture as a habit.
“Oh, I know,” Arthur had murmured fondly with a wicked smile before pressing his lips again to Merlin’s forehead.)
Arthur shifted to lie beside Merlin and gathered him into his arms, still panting lightly against Merlin’s hair as he tangled their fingers together. Merlin closed his eyes as Arthur’s other hand stroked down his side again, not quite hearing so much as feeling Arthur’s soft mumbling against his skin, and sighed. Despite the rough exterior Arthur seemed to enjoy conveying to the world, it still surprised Merlin sometimes what an affectionate lover Arthur was; how much he liked to touch and kiss and hold, like he was taking care to ensure he knew every inch of Merlin’s body.
Admittedly, that last thought made Merlin’s stomach twist in anxiety.
Suddenly Arthur’s fingers brushed Merlin’s thigh and he froze again, just like he always did, his breath caught on that shameful lump in his throat. He resisted the urge to flinch away from Arthur’s warm hand, to burrow underneath the covers, curl up into himself—anything to cover his skin—and instead let himself be nudged onto his back.
The refreshed exposure of his scars brought fleeting but familiar panic washing over Merlin. His chest tightened as Arthur gazed down at him and, just like always, Merlin waited. A scoff, a disapproving frown, a judgmental glare, even stony anger—any number of things like the vast array of cold reactions Merlin felt he deserved.
But Arthur seemed laid back as ever, simply giving Merlin a lazy smile before dipping his head to kiss a slow trail down Merlin’s chest, and Merlin gradually relaxed as he realized, as always, that the questions and the judgments weren’t coming.
His hands, Merlin realized belatedly, were still fisted anxiously in the sheets. Arthur drew back slightly when he noticed, peering up from where his breath ghosted over Merlin’s skin to look at his face.
“You okay?” Arthur asked, his voice fringed with concern. His lips were turned in a slight frown, eyes soft and questioning; his hands were warm and loose where they curled over Merlin’s hips, and Merlin thought fleetingly that once Arthur finally came to his senses and realized how very unlovable Merlin really was, he would miss the weight of those hands, the light drag of Arthur’s fingernails, the flush they left on Merlin’s pale skin.
Merlin blinked once, then twice, then shook himself out of his daze and nodded, simply sliding his hand around the back of Arthur’s neck to pull him down for another kiss.
He wasn’t sure if his nod hadn’t been convincing, or if it was simply Arthur being Arthur—if Arthur just knew Merlin’s mind regardless of his words—but moments later Arthur’s lips were gone from his and Merlin found himself being drawn close in a tight embrace, the way he always was when Arthur knew Merlin wasn’t okay, and damn Arthur for knowing him so well, for spotting the tension in Merlin’s shoulders even after Merlin denied it was there.
He said nothing, insisted on nothing, simply held Merlin’s body flush against his own and began massaging slow circles into Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin relaxed into the touch, despite the way his mind chanted scars, scars, scars relentlessly; despite the way his legs felt as if they were burning almost as much as when he’d first drawn a blade over them.
Then different words were mingling with those filling his mind—words that he realized were being repeated just as persistently right into his ear, spilling in whispers from Arthur’s lips. I love you. I love you. I love you.
The words nestled themselves into the corners of Merlin’s mind, low and sweet and sincere, a shocking contrast to the hiss and bite of Merlin’s usual thoughts.
Almost against his own will—fully contrary, certainly, to his instinct to keep his guard and his muscles locked stubbornly in place—Merlin soon found himself breathing out a deep, slow sigh of a comfort he hadn’t ever quite felt before, even with Arthur. He could feel the tension melting out of his shoulders, slithering away as Arthur's gentle fingers chased it off with their circular motions.
He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that. He was only aware of Arthur’s hand as it worked slowly down his back and over his hip, still maintaining its tender massaging; the pleasant warmth passing between their bodies; Arthur’s foot running gently against Merlin’s ankle in a light caress. Finally, Arthur spoke softly again into his ear.
“Merlin, what’s wrong?”
Really, Merlin never thought that he would be the one to bring up the subject. Then again, he also had never thought he’d find himself pressed along a loving boyfriend who would never pressure him to talk about it.
And really, how could Merlin not talk about it when it was all right there and Arthur was right there and had been countless times before, and had never seemed to so much as linger over those thin, spidery lines clawing their jagged way across Merlin’s skin? How could he not when Arthur had never, even for a moment, shown him anything but tenderness and adoration as his fingers and lips danced over every bit of Merlin’s body?
Arthur kissed beneath his ear, urging him onto his back and shifting to hover over him again. He paused to meet Merlin’s gaze as Merlin looked up at him. A slow, soft smile curved up Arthur’s lips; his eyes were alight with the ever-present patience which Merlin always found in his gaze. A moment ticked by, then another, and then Arthur was leaning down, catching Merlin’s lips in a kiss that seemed to reignite every promise he’d ever pressed to Merlin’s skin and pour out a thousand more.
Merlin was silent but for a soft sigh as Arthur pulled away and began traveling down his body. His lips were slow, purposeful, sincere as they pressed again and again to Merlin’s warm skin.
For a moment, Merlin gave in to the tired pull surrounding him; he gave in to the warmth of Arthur’s lips, the memory of each time they had been there before, the exhaustion of battling with himself for so long over a war that was long since ended.
Ended, Merlin suddenly found himself thinking. It really was ended, wasn’t it? That war with himself had ended a long time ago.
Perhaps it was okay to stop fighting.
Arthur was drawing careful fingers over Merlin’s stomach now, as if mapping out each dip and curve. He always seemed to like Merlin’s stomach. Merlin took a slow, deep breath, then another, and finally pushed the words out before he could change his mind.
“You’ve never asked about them.”
“Asked about what?” Arthur mumbled, nosing and nipping at the soft skin where Merlin’s thigh met his hip.
Merlin hesitated for a moment. “About the… scars.”
If Arthur froze briefly—if his hand tightened a bit around Merlin’s hip, or if Merlin felt him swallow—he got over it in a matter of seconds, pressing a few more lazy kisses into Merlin’s stomach before moving up Merlin’s body to brush his lips against Merlin’s forehead.
One glimpse into Arthur’s eyes sent a pang through Merlin’s heart, and Merlin was an idiot, because of course Arthur knew, well enough, the story Merlin hadn’t ever told; he’d known perfectly well since their first time together; he had eyes, and he could see the scars just fine, and he could tell Merlin himself had put them there, and it wasn’t difficult to piece together certain dark bits of Merlin’s past from there.
“That’s because it doesn’t matter,” Arthur whispered. His hand ran down Merlin’s arm and closed tight around his wrist as he spoke, the same way it always did when he was telling Merlin something very important.
Merlin swallowed, tears stinging his eyes unexpectedly at the rush of emotion sweeping over him. “It does,” he protested weakly. He felt obligated to do so, really, because perhaps Arthur wasn’t seeing clearly, after all, and it wouldn’t be fair of Merlin to allow him to go on without recognizing the horrible truth of how very damaged Merlin once was, no matter how dearly he himself wanted to believe Arthur’s words. “It—Arthur, it does matter, they’re—”
“They’re what?” Arthur interrupted gently. “They’re scars, Merlin. I know that.” He dropped his eyes to Merlin’s chest again, lips pressing into a thoughtful line as his fingers traced slow patterns over Merlin’s skin. “I mean, so what? I’ve got plenty from rugby over the years, myself.”
Merlin forced himself to continue looking up at Arthur’s face, despite the lingering instinct to look away. “You know it’s different,” he whispered, pained, because clearly Arthur didn’t understand at all. This was something that deserved some degree of disdain, something Arthur was supposed to flinch at, and he wasn’t reacting the way he should have been.
Arthur’s eyes flicked back up to his. “Why should it be?” His gentle voice was threaded with a telltale hint of defense now, the same one he adopted any time someone questioned him or even his loved ones. The tone made Merlin realize, with a jolt of emotion, that this was far from the first time Arthur had given this any thought, and judging by the determined glint in his eye, he was fully prepared for Merlin’s attempts to explain why these scars made him less, why they made him permanently damaged—and he was going to have none of it.
Arthur continued gazing down at him silently for a few moments more before sighing. “Everyone has a past, Merlin.” Then he continued, softer, “Everyone’s had pain. Some…” He paused, took a breath as his fingers skated again over Merlin’s leg. “Some more than others,” he finished quietly. “Why should that change how I feel about you?”
Merlin resisted the urge to shift beneath Arthur’s touch, fearing it and wanting it all at once. “Because it… It just should,” he attempted lamely. He didn’t know how to explain this; all his time imagining and dreading this conversation had made it obvious to him, the way Arthur should at least be questioning whether he wanted someone with this sort of baggage. Never once had he imagined it going like this, and he was struggling to wrap his mind around the idea that it could possibly be this easy.
Arthur lifted his hand to brush Merlin’s fringe away from his eyes, then traced a finger lightly over the side of Merlin’s face. “It doesn’t,” he said firmly. “They’re from your past, Merlin. I love you now. I love everything that brought you to now.”
Merlin opened his mouth to say something—he wasn’t sure what—but Arthur dipped down to catch him in a kiss before he could manage a word.
“I love you,” he repeated, breathing the words out against Merlin’s lips. “Every gorgeous inch of you. And I’ll not be persuaded to feel otherwise.”
Merlin breathed slowly out, remained silent as Arthur kissed the corner of his mouth, his cheekbone, his temple, his bloody forehead—lingering there in a warm, simple press of lips. His words sunk into Merlin further with each passing second, wrapping around the knot in his stomach and slowly loosening it, anxiety beginning to dissolve as he realized its needlessness.
Finally Arthur drew back enough to look into Merlin’s eyes, hands trailing down the sides of his face. “Okay?” Arthur whispered.
Merlin swallowed back the lump in his throat, rising for an entirely different reason from before, and searched Arthur’s eyes for another long moment, before nodding. “Okay,” he whispered, a little breathless, because it was okay. Or maybe it could be. It would be.
Arthur smiled widely in response, eyes gentle, and leaned down for another soft kiss before beginning to kiss down Merlin’s neck, his chest, slow and deliberate. Merlin’s fingers threaded into Arthur’s hair as his eyes slipped shut.
The past was the past, and if Arthur was his present—and, very hopefully, his future—then maybe Arthur was right. Maybe those scars didn’t need to matter. Not even a little.
Maybe it would take time, because Merlin was anything but healed beneath the skin, and healing always took time—but maybe, contrary to what Merlin had always believed, there was, in fact, still hope.
Hope. He wasn’t sure the last time he’d felt real, genuine hope, rooted so deeply within him, glowing with so much promise. Merlin’s lips curved into a smile, happiness warming him to the tips of his toes.
Arthur trailed his lips up until they brushed Merlin’s again, and this time Merlin didn’t hesitate; he tightened his grip on Arthur, wrapped an arm around Arthur’s shoulders and kissed him back, kissed him with everything he didn’t know how to say, every confession of fear and every explanation and every single thanks he could ever offer. He thought about spending an eternity with Arthur like this, because Arthur was everything he’d ever wanted and more, everything he thought he’d never have—and maybe even everything he ever needed without even realizing it.
Moments later, as Arthur slowly moved down Merlin’s body again, laid reverent kisses down his belly, his hip, even over his awful, telling scars, Merlin felt that last knot loosen in his chest, a coil of tight emotion coming undone. He tightened his fingers in Arthur’s hair, breathing in more freely than he thought he probably had in years, and maybe—just maybe, he thought, as he focused on the healing warmth of each of Arthur’s kisses—he could find it in himself to forgive every single scar.