"No. Don't you dare." Arthur slapped Merlin's face, but there was no reply. "Merlin. Stop it."
There was still no response. Scowling, he hefted the limp body over his shoulder.
"You're being ridiculous," he said, as Gwaine and Leon helped him carefully position Merlin on his horse. "Lazy, that's what you are."
It was not a long ride back to Camelot, during which Merlin didn't pinch him back, didn't dodge the occasional slap to his face, didn't respond to each increasingly desperate plea for him to wake up — what was the point of all his magic, after all, if he could fall victim to a random sorcerer's attack so easily, and keep refusing to wake up, for all that there were no obvious injuries.
He was soon cantering into the courtyard and refusing the guards' help; he carried Merlin up to Gaius' rooms, where he found himself tasked with coaxing some water into Merlin and waiting...
Merlin's eyes remained stubbornly shut, no matter how Arthur shook his shoulder, slapped him, pinched him, even tickled him. Arthur found he could not return to his empty, still, quiet chambers once he'd finished his duties each day, not when no one else did a good enough job of massaging broth and water down Merlin's throat, washing him, and scolding him for staying asleep.
And late at night, when Arthur couldn't sleep, when Gaius had given up on his stacks of books for the day, Arthur knelt on the floor and rested his head against the thick new mattress and …
"You'll wake up before Hunith arrives, won't you, just to make me look like a worrywart."
"You promised Gwen and Lancelot you'd be there for her birth. And you promised me — you promised me you'd serve me rat stew when — if I ever manage to unite the kingdoms, Merlin — which means you have to be awake for that."
"If you won't wake up for me, wake up for the gods-damned prophecy. How am I supposed to do it without you?"
Moonlight kept shining on too-sharp cheekbones; there were no dimples to be illuminated, no bright, cheerful smile, no mischievous blue eyes to glint in the light. Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, clutching a cool hand, staring at the still face, thinking of all the dreams he'd had of their future — dreams where he and Merlin were always laughing, always teasing, always together.
"You have to wake up. I don't want to — there's always a chance, isn't there? A hope?" He'd repeated those words endlessly that day.
He leaned forwards, long-held-back tears falling.
"Merlin," he whispered. "Don't make me bury you. I'm the knight. I was always meant to die first."
He couldn't help himself — he let himself brush his lips across Merlin's, knowing perfectly well Merlin would've jerked back in horror, disgust, rejection if he'd been conscious. Eyes closed, he rested his forehead against Merlin's, heart too heavy for him to move.
"Prat. Kiss me properly, damnit."
@merthurmicrofic prompt: manhandle. 500 words.
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