He wasn’t supposed to find him here.

The weapons room was empty most nights — cold stone, stale air, the clang of metal still humming through it. But the sound Gwaine heard wasn’t metal.

It was breathing. Rough, tight. Like someone trying not to be heard.

He stepped inside.

“Merlin?”

No answer. Just a sharp inhale — too late to hide.

He spotted him, hunched between two racks of swords, like he was trying to disappear into the wall. Shoulders trembling. Hands clenched in his lap.

Gwaine’s stomach twisted.

He didn’t ask what happened. He’d seen it — Arthur’s voice echoing down the corridor, cruel in that quick, careless way he got when he was tired and too proud to admit it. Yelling about chores, about Merlin being useless. Like it meant nothing.

But Gwaine had seen the way Merlin flinched.

And now this.

He crossed the room slowly, then sank to the floor beside him, shoulder to shoulder. Merlin wouldn’t look up.

“You don’t have to talk,” Gwaine said quietly. “I just didn’t want you to be alone.”

Silence.

Then —

“I dropped one thing,” Merlin muttered. “One. He looked at me like—like I was dirt.”

Gwaine’s jaw tightened. “He was out of line.”

“It’s not the first time.”

Gwaine exhaled slowly. He reached out, carefully, and brushed his knuckles against Merlin’s sleeve. “Doesn’t mean it hurts less.”

Merlin finally turned, eyes red, lashes damp. “Why does it get to me?”

Gwaine swallowed. “Because it’s him. Because you care.”

Merlin blinked fast, like he was trying not to cry again — but his breath stuttered.

Gwaine opened his arms wordlessly.

Merlin hesitated, then leaned into him — all at once, like he couldn’t hold himself up anymore.

Gwaine wrapped his arms around him, pulling him in tight. One hand to the back of his head, the other over his spine, protective.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you, Merls. Let it out.”

Merlin clutched at him like he might fall apart.

“He doesn’t see it. But I do. Everything you carry. Everything you keep quiet.”

He pressed a kiss to Merlin’s temple — quick, instinctive.

“You don’t deserve any of it, love.”