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Merlin comes with a sneeze. He comes, and he has the audacity to look smug. Like this was some grand plan of his, to splatter Arthur’s chest with a little huff of his nose. But he comes and he sneezes, and the whole world inside their bedroom blinks. Grass, where the shag rug once lay, pearlescent snow falling from a cloudy ceiling. The walls ripple like disturbed ponds, fish flying through the cloud-ceiling while birds splash about. The bed, blessedly, remains untouched save for a small golden fox resting by Arthur’s head.
Arthur can do nothing about this, about the oddity his lover sneezed into life. Nothing, except to lean up, to grab bluff-edge cheeks in his hands, startled at the warmth given the snow steadily making everything damp. But he grabs those cheeks and he stares down that smirk. Then he tangles his hands in dark hair and pulls that smug face down. He kisses him like it’s his last breath. Wind howls around them and birds burst into snapdragons, into daylilies, into swirling constellations. They burst into fragrant flowers whose petals drop from a starry-night and kiss the grass-rug, puffing our like dandelion wishes.
Arthur kisses him, and Merlin sighes into it, and everything settles. The walls are beige, the rug is grey, the ceiling popcorned. The room is still a little cold, a little damp, but they’re clean and sated and nestled together in their own private universe.