跑单的刺客

就是《橡树林》这篇，只不过自己翻成了英文。

感谢无敌安亦的beta！！

Half-past ten, or at least that was what the clock had shown him. Arthur put the book aside, dimmed the light, and then slowly fell back onto pillows.

The room was silent, all but his quiet breathing. It was not a large room, the double bed occupying most of the space, leaving little space for the wardrobe and nightstands, discs and books, just crushing around the two chairs. Still, he wasted most of his days here.

A vase of flowers stood on the windowsill – some lifeless artefacts, with plastic stems and silk-made petals, dusty due to lack of cleaning. Merlin had got tired of watering the real stuff long ago, only to delay throwing the withered blossoms away and replacing them with a new bunch by a few days.

He always longed for something that could last longer, something as eternal as himself.

Arthur turned off the lamp, facing to the right side, with his back to the room door, eyes open and clear in the dark. The streetlight outside pierced through those ever-closed shutters, leaving orange scratcheson the wall. He counted those marks mindlessly.

Merlin would be back at any time. He came and went, disappearing mysteriously: most times to buy groceries downstairs, other times for a few days, as if he was comfortable with the idea of leaving Arthur alone.

It had not always been like this – Merlin had never left his side in the first several months; he had never torn his eyes away from him.

Arthur was not sure which situation was more unsettling.

He heard a cracking sound, outside the bedroom, somewhere further. Arthur remained still, listening to the scuffling of footsteps sway across the living room, not surprised to find that they did not stop in the kitchen, neither did appear the rustling of shopping bags. They finally stopped behind the door a few meters away from him. Arthur was still staring at the wall.

Another crack opened the door, and warm yellow lights and elongated figures flooded into the darkened room. Arthur lay silent; he could smell the familiar bitter-cold scent of Merlin (“The scent of death.”They had once said sarcastically). The warlock's gaze fixated on his back; he was motionless for a moment.

“You know I'm still awake.”Arthur said flatly. In the end, it was he that broke the silence first. He rose from the bed, trying to avoid the other man's eyes.

“My apologies.”Merlin seemed to be chuckling. “Would you like dinner?”

Merlin led him out of the room, his fingers clasping around Arthur's wrist, spoke to him in a low, disordered whisper. The living room was spotless and deserted, with almost no trace of any residents, for they barely used places other than bedroom.

Arthur was not hungry. He had lost weight, both from lack of exercises and a diminished appetite. His cheeks were no longer strangely unaged, plump and lustrous like a young boy, but rather sunken, harshin the cold light of the refrigerator; even those bright lips had become bitter. He was much paler, after having never seen the daylight for a few years, and even his hair – once golden and radiant like summer mornings – had eventually faded into a dim winter sun.

They shared some reheated macaroni, or maybe it was just Arthur eating it, while Merlin was pretending he needed to eat.

“Where have you been?” Arthur asked.

“Just some trifles,” Merlin replied calmly. Ah, knew it. Arthur sneered, turning hisf ork. “There's nothing for you to worry about.”

“You're still wearing that coat.” Arthur shifted the subject, using the fork to point at the warlock's ragged old coat. He continued with a forced teasing tone. “Don't you know you have to change when you back home?”

At last, these words seemed to wake up a part of Merlin deep inside. He smiled sheepishly at Arthur, grunted on his way back to the rack by the door. He was always happy to take any opportunity he could get away with, and after all this time, Arthur still found it was hilarious.

They never spoke during the rest of the dinner, which finished hastily. It was not until Merlin had extinguished all the lights and had returned to bed with him that Arthur finally met his gaze. He could not see Merlin clearly in the dark, but he knew that Merlin could see him, those eyes were glimmering gold in the night, like a beast lurking in woods.

“You went to that lake again, didn't you?”

There was no answer.

“I know you've been to that damned lake again,”Arthur repeated, pulling his hair exasperatedly, “Why? Why would you go there? It's not as if –”

His world suddenly started spinning. Arthur gasped for a moment before he realized that Merlin's bony fingers were closing around his throat, tightening instinctively and crushing him with all his strength. The glowing orange lines from the streetlight were now spreading across the warlock's face, cracking open like bleeding wounds. Arthur wanted to laugh, or maybe sob, but all the noises were locked up in Merlin's freezing iron grip.

Merlin's golden eyes shined like lighthouses above a pitch-black sea, flickering in the whiteness of his vision, but without anger or cruelty. Arthur was about to pass out, when Merlin let go of his hands immediately, as if waking from a long dream. He caressed the bruised skin, panicked, and soothed Arthur gently; his broken whispers rippled through every shadow:

 “I'm sorry…I forgot you were here. I forgot you were waiting for me back home…I'm so sorry, Arthur, Arthur…–”

Arthur shook his head slightly, eyes closing, and let Merlin take as his will, planting kisses on the blonde's chapped lips. His hands twisted into the boundless darkness beneath him, silently enduring the ravishment from the warlock above. His body trembled like a ship in storms, heaving and drowning between the cold waves; a ghostly mock emerged at thecorner of his mouth, almost instinctively, scornful of them both.

He had not always taken it so well. Arthur had continued shouting for the first six months after Merlin had brought him in, fighting and cursing: he had cursed Merlin, cursed this lunatic kidnapper, and cursed those strange dreams which had haunted his whole life. If he had known how things would end up, Arthur would not have smiled politely at the old codger from the park; or stopped for that lanky raven-haired young man on the subway platform, just because those blue eyes looked exactly like someone's in his dreams.

But it had been all in vain, and Merlin would always find him in the end, he would always catch up with Arthur like a hungry bloodhound. You have no idea how long I've been waiting. His voice was a wandering ghost in solitude at night. You don't know how long I've waited. I won't let you leave again. It is our destiny, yours and mine.

Damn your destiny. Arthur had once roared at him. He had tried to kill Merlin, and he had tried to kill himself, but Merlin would not permit it.

Besides, who was he to defy Merlin? Arthur thought with bitter amusement afterwards. There was no man – whether in past or present – nor whatever mystical being, could persuade Merlin to give up.

Therefore, he yielded, knowing that even in the midst of all those vague memories, there was never a time that Arthur had not compromised first. He no longer kept resisting whenever Merlin touched him; instead, Arthur would thank him when Merlin brought him coffee, and a smile would split across the warlock's thin face, both surprisingly young and extremely old.

The clock on the nightstand showed eight forty-one when they woke up. It must be an extraordinarily sunny day outside. The excessive sunlight passed through their locked shutters, dripped down to the floor, condensing into pools of molten gold. Arthur could only guess. He had not seen the world out of the window for a long time.

He crossed out another date on the calendar. Time moved sluggishly in a small space, and this was the only way for Arthur to keep sane. Just another month, and it would be two years since Merlin bought him here. 

Two years. Arthur wondered if there was anyone still searching for him, outside under the cold, pallid light of day.

“But you can't keep me here forever.”He told Merlin that night.

Merlin remained quiet; nothing betrayed him except for his arms – chaining Arthur into a suffocating embrace, as if Merlin wanted to break him, so much that the last piece of Arthur's sobriety gradually dissolved, and he was drowning into Merlin's lake-deep silence, left nought but a sigh.

Because, Merlin. His chaotic mind was still operating, half scoffing, half mourning. What you're doing is no different from watering those plants, barely prolonging the inevitable ending – I can't stay here forever. You cannot make me stay forever.

Somehow, there was an inexplicable panic rushing through him. He felt afraid when Merlin back to the lake repeatedly, as if Arthur was not here, as if he was not himself, and that Merlin was still waiting for someone to sail through the mist.

Arthur had long since given up on escape. Not because he fell into this ridiculous charade whole-heartily, but because he had already forgiven Merlin – he never really had a choice, had he? It was whether to forgive Merlin, or to continue lamenting his fate – also because he had nowhere to return. All these years before Merlin appeared, Arthur had prayed that his childhood dreams were not lunacy but some concrete memories; had foolishly hoped that 'Someone' would help him out of this grey, dreary life, out of the future his father had planned for him, and all the expectations or disappointments in Uther's eyes.

Merlin had fulfilled his wishes, only in the worst imaginable way.

Amid the chaos, he began to feel a burning headache again, as well as a throbbing pain under his left ribcage. Merlin's ice-cold lips and fingertips slid through his chest, down to the abdomen and between his thighs. The warlock was chanting an incomprehensible prayer, pushing Arthur to the peak time after time.

Arthur panted. He was almost going to break at any second, but then Merlin would put him back together piece by piece. He constantly feared for what these blue-gold eyes were searching: whether they were examining him, trying to find the traces of the dead king on thisweakening body, yet only to discover some marks left by anguish and exhaustion which had never been there before.

Words were wasted, for Merlin was long lost in the madness. Arthur had learnt to accept these cruel arrangements, no longer repelled the misfortune that fate had cast upon, nor would he mock the other's short-sighted. Yet sometimes he could not stop sighing under Merlin's torments, mourning for his old friend who had fallen into such a maniacal state. Occasionally the lost resentment would come back upon him, and it made Arthur nervously tug at the imaginary chains around his ankles. Merlin had no need for shackles to chain him down, only the words rolling down his tongue, and a flashing gold inhis eyes.

He thought maybe Merlin felt the same: that he loved and cherished Arthur as well as hated him – hated him for those one thousand and five hundred years, hated him for his reappearance, and for making Merlin another prisoner with nowhere to escape to.

Arthur woke up in the wee hours of the morning. Merlin was lying beside him, warm breathing brushing on his nape. He gently woke Merlin, asked him if they could replace that dusted artefact withsome fresh bouquets, and pleaded him to promise never return to the lake again – at least for this long winter.

-End-