I’ve heard quite a few people speculate that George wasn’t born, just molded into the perfect servant out of brass and cleaning supplies, and I can’t tell if they’re joking or not.”
Gwaine shrugged. “Sounds like a solid theory to me.
There’s a brief moment where Gwaine wishes he were still in love with this bright, beautiful twig of a man. Even though it had been anything but easy, it seems easier in retrospect. Merlin has always been all comfort and kindness, clumsy ease and affection, and even now, Gwaine feels a sudden rush of adoration for all that he is and how he gives and gives and gives.
When Merlin’s done with him, Gwaine watches him go to Arthur, catches the way their knuckles brush as weapons transfer hands, something quiet and steady in their eyes. It’s the kind of look that latches on tight and doesn’t let go, cannot let go, and Gwaine turns away because it’s not his to witness.
It’s not a big deal, I’ve seen Merlin’s stuff, like, a million times.
Why haven’t I seen it?
Why do you want to see it?
He’s my best friend! What if Merlin gets into an accident? What if he's horribly disfigured and I have to identify him, and all that remains are his private parts? And I'm standing there saying, "Sorry sir, I can't help you. Because no, I haven't seen his penis." And boom, he's buried in an unmarked grave.