Gwaine writes a letter. He doesn't do that often, because he doesn't think he has anyone to write to: somewhere im the world there are his sister and his mother, but are they really waiting to hear from him? Will they be writing back to him? Gwaine isn't sure.
But still, he writes a letter. It's impulsive, on a whim. He forgets what he put onto the paper as soon as he folds it. All the ale he drank this evening might have something to do with it.
Red sealing wax drips like mulled bloodwine, instantly cooling with a matte film on top. Glancing around on the messy table — a couple of candles, all different height, empty bottles, chainmail, tangled leather laces he forgot even what he picked up for — he tries to find a seal, but it's gone, even though he's sure he just found it and put somewhere nearby to avoid this situation exactly. There is a seal in his room. On this table. He knows it. But some sorcery clearly prevents him from seeing it.
With a sigh, Gwaine succumbs to an impulse and presses his thumb into the hardening wax instead.
It burns. Underneath the seemingly cool top layer there's still molten red wax that bites into the calloused pad of his thumb and makes him hiss, scrunching his nose, after a few delayed seconds — alcohol dulled all senses and slowed his reaction to pain even more than usual. Burns are unpleasant; they burrow deep into the tissue and stay much longer than, say, a knife wound. It will be gone long before he writes another letter or receives a response, though.
Gwaine jumps in his seat, turning around with his whole body. Merlin doesn't linger at the door for too long: with his usual swiftness, he's already crouching by the table in a second and holds Gwaine's hand up by the warm wrist like it's evidence and he's a judge.
"Sealing a letter," slumping back against the rigid chair, Gwaine blows his hair off that one eye it constantly slides into and stares at his accusor with a smirk. "What else does it look like?"
"With your thumb? Like a savage?" Merlin might be trying to look reprimanding, but amusement is written all over his face, eyes squinted in that kind manner Gwaine can never get enough of, every feature lifted. He tries to wrestle his hand free from Merlin's grasp and cup his cheek, but gets stopped halfway. "You're a knight. Use your seal."
"I have no idea where-" A golden glint appears right before his eyes, and Gwaine blinks, surprised, as Merlin presents him with his very own seal that he definitely put on the table and lost just minutes ago.
It makes him laugh — loudly, freely, throwing his head back; of course Merlin somehow found the unfindable.
"You're drunk," says Merlin — affectionately, thinks Gwaine and shrugs, as if to say "so what?". His head is suddenly too heavy to lift from where it rolled onto the chair's backrest.
A cold waft hits his throbbing burnt thumb and makes him look up a bit. Merlin's blowing onto the red skin, and his breath is unnaturally frosty, shimmering in the candlelight like there's winter in his lungs. It soothes the burn, kills the deep-seated pain and softens the redness.
Now Gwaine can freely press his rough palm to Merlin's smooth cheek and touch his lips with the no-longer-burnt thumb.
Merlin's lips are warm. There is no trace of the tiny blizzard he just exhaled; only usual softness and inviting openness. Something Gwaine wishes he could write about in his letters — or maybe he did. He doesn't remember what he wrote.
"Thank you," he says finally, after he realizes his silence slowly washed the drunken smile off his face, taking all the boisterous, loud features and leaving only the quiet intensity of his eyes boring into Merlin's face.
"Don't mention it," Merlin leans into his palm fully and closes his own eyes, like he doesn't feel the need to withstand Gwaine's intensity.
Like he's perfectly contented letting it wash over him and engulf his whole lanky self. Like Gwaine isn't too much and is worth rescuing his stupid burnt thumbs with magic. Like he came into Gwaine's room with no other purpose than to be with him.
Next letter, decides Gwaine, sliding off his chair clumsily to get his arms around Merlin, he's going to write to the person who will definitely respond. Preferably by rushing up the stone stairs into the room and throwing himself into Gwaine's embrace.
And he will even try his best to seal it properly. Merlin is worth it. Merlin is worth everything.
