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writingbyebonio ([personal profile] writingbyebonio) wrote2010-11-05 01:23 pm

Fanfic – Merlin: Eyes Like Home (R, Slash: Gwaine/Merlin)

Title: Eyes Like Home
Author: [livejournal.com profile] eboniorchid
Fandom: Merlin
Characters: Gwaine/Merlin (hints of Arthur/Merlin)
Word Count: 422 words.
Rating: R for sexuality.
Warnings/Spoilers: Angst! Dreamfic. Hurt/comfort. Coda!fic and vague spoilers for S3.E8 "Eye of the Phoenix".
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing.
Summary: Gwaine struggles with what feels like a neverending journey, dreaming that it's not as lonely as it is.
Soundtrack: "Feels Like Home" by Chantal Kreviazuk
Author's Notes: Needed Gwaine/Merlin, stat! And don't knock the soundtrack, dudes.

If Gwaine was more an honest man, he'd say "come with me," but he wasn't and he couldn't, least of all when he knew the answer was "no." Watching Merlin ride away after Arthur, he didn't need to see the tether between their horses, between their souls, to know that it was there. Still, in the first tavern on his journey south, he sat and drank and drank some more, imagining those eyes dancing with laughter sitting across the table from him, that mouth curving in the most welcoming of smiles.

He blundered his way upstairs, finally, tripping twice on the three top steps and fumbling the key so many times that he finally just broke the door in, slamming it shut behind him. He tried not to be nauseous with emotion even more so than with drink, all from the thought of Merlin under his arm, helping him up the stairs and into his room, of Merlin kindly removing his boots and curling up beside him on the bed. He wanted to imagine that it was someone else when his eyes filled with water and he held it close like a shield, never falling, but the blurry image in his mind was a dark-haired boy with a scarf and eyes that said everything though their secrets glimmered like diamonds.

The lips that kissed him in his dreams were full and warm, the body slotted next to his, slight and lithe, and he gambled his heart to plunder the riches of that mouth, to overcome that strong but awkward body and make it his. Not Arthur's. His. Moaning as his fingers held the face of his lover, as his hips took the offerings of the young man he had so come to admire, the tears that he'd held through years of unrest and aimless, homeless wanderings, fell softly, so quietly, into his lover's hair. If home was nothing to him, was nowhere, was everywhere, then why did it so suddenly feel like home was a kind look, a forgiving word, a hand that would stay him from drinking himself half to death? Why did home feel like friendship, like adventure, like genuine joy? It was only then that he shook apart – his mind, his body, and his soul – because he didn't and couldn't know why, but somewhere along the way, home had become a person and a place to rest his heart.

Merlin. It hung like a tapestry over his dreams and he mumbled it, moaned it, mourned it, in his sleep.

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