Archive of Our Own

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Arthur Pendragon, 27, senior account manager at Pendragon & Gorlois Investments, was thoroughly convinced that the only way to survive something as unpredictable and unruly as life was by implementing strict, uncompromising discipline to every possible aspect of it.

He woke up every morning precisely at 6:15 a.m., put on his running gear, and went running for precisely 40 minutes – two circles around the park and one more around his building. Afterwards, he put his clothes in the washer and set it on a predetermined cycle. He showered for exactly 7 minutes with a double serving of shampoo, rinse, repeat; shaved for another three minutes – Arthur was very thorough – and then got dressed for work.

Arthur wore business suits four days a week. They were all various (two) shades of grey, slightly bigger around his frame than necessary, and made of heavy, conservative fabric. Putting them on felt not unlike donning a suit of armour. His ties were similarly subdued; Arthur bought them at Harrods, whose employees understood how to treat a customer and never bothered him with fashion advice.

On Fridays, Arthur wore trousers and a jumper over a button-down and a tie, because Fridays were casual. His jumpers were a lighter shade of grey, and one of them was even a rather risky dark blue.

Arthur handled the oldest accounts at Pendragon & Gorlois, which was a huge responsibility (and an honour). He spent his working hours assessing risks, studying the ever-changing market infrastructures, and optimizing the investments to the best of his (not inconsiderable) abilities in financial analysis.

At exactly 6 p.m. (an hour later than his assistant and most of his colleagues), unless there was a meeting planned or a presentation to attend, Arthur closed down his office and went home.

He didn’t always go straight home, though.

Playing chess at Oxford and Cambridge Club was one option when Arthur needed to unwind. He also went to the club’s affiliated fitness centre in lower Regent Street three times a week, because working out was important. He held a very significant position and it was his duty to keep himself healthy and fit so as not to let anyone down. Arthur always took flu shots, was at all times aware of his cholesterol levels, worked out with due diligence but didn’t allow himself to get carried away, and could proudly say that he hadn’t taken a single day of sick leave since he started at Pendragon & Gorlois six years ago.

Sometimes, after the gym, Arthur lingered at the sports bar in the company of one or two other blokes who kept his hours and also held very important positions. Strangely, Arthur never could remember what they talked about, unless it was football.

It must be said, though that despite his sworn allegiance to the vital importance of discipline, Arthur did have indulgencies. He was human, after all.

Once a month, usually on a Friday night, he could be found in the mysterious darkness of one West End theatre or other, staring at the stage in carefully concealed fascination. Arthur’s heart longed for the classics, but he made it a point to see every controversial play that was on that season, no matter how much it shocked (and sometimes disgusted) him. Sometimes, in pursuit of this, he ended up in pretentious ‘new art studios’ that could be anything from a barely marked street corner to a damp basement with horrible acoustics, where young, aspiring actors tried to impress equally young and aspiring play writes, generally by being as far from conventional and mainstream as humanly possible.

Arthur came back from those performances feeling mildly unsatisfied and often confused as all hell, but there was also a sense of satisfaction, a touch of being pleased with himself for braving something so... oftentimes of questionable taste, if not downright unsanitary, in order to stay in touch with contemporary culture.

On Saturdays, Arthur did his shopping. He showed up at the Sainsbury’s earlier than most people would even contemplate getting out of bed on a weekend and proceeded along a well-planned and logical route across the lanes, meticulously completing his list. Arthur hated shopping and always stayed on a mission, trying to spend as little time as possible in an environment where he could be confronted by crying children and bickering couples.

(A couple of years back, he was temporarily hypnotized by the Try something new today slogan printed on a cheesy orange plastic bag, returned to the shop, and was stared down by a toddler over a pack of lemon sponge pudding. Arthur didn’t like to think about that.)

Shopping completed, Arthur took care of his dry cleaning, and then returned to his flat for a session of tidying up. Arthur had an automatic iRobot vacuum cleaner that he regarded with severe distrust and always ended up following with a mop, just in case. He could have easily hired a cleaning lady, of course, but Arthur hated the idea of a stranger in his home, touching his things and possibly even looking at his dirty socks and boxer-briefs when he wasn’t there.

Sometimes, if the weather allowed, he took walks across the neighbourhood on Saturday nights, ending up more often than not in a little pub two blocks down the street, where they always had reruns of famous footie matches on the cute little tellies that nobody really owned anymore, because they showed 16 colours instead of 16 hundred and didn’t look like something beamed down from outer space. Arthur ordered a pint or two, watching England vs. the Netherlands from the UEFA run of 1996 and engaging in philosophical reflections with a few other regulars about what would have happened if not for that first penalty shot.

Sundays were the hardest, because Arthur didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He tried the local library, but that didn’t work out, because he was bored out of his mind and besides, the librarian tried to flirt with him. Women frequently tried to do that around him, and Arthur had never quite figured out what to do about it. It always ended in either immediate tears, because he managed to say something rude without meaning to, or later tears, after three disastrous dates in expensive restaurants where Arthur tried to politely work into the conversation that he was gay without actually saying the word and got eventually yelled at or had drinks thrown in his face. Either way, there was crying and inconvenience.

He tried renting films, but, because Arthur had never bothered to form a preference, he ended up being hostage to whatever the clerk advised. More often than not it led to Arthur feeling miserable and stupid as he tried to digest things like All About My Mother, or falling asleep in the middle of Avatar and waking up thinking he was watching The Lord of the Rings instead.

Sometimes there would be a family function to attend, or a charity auction that Arthur considered it his duty to take part in, but mostly Sundays existed to torture his active nature with the sheer lack of anything to do. The problem was eventually solved by bringing work home and spending the afternoon and evening bent over the diagrams and developing tension headaches while contemplating the moral implications of closing another factory in some faraway Indian province.

On the question of whether Arthur Pendragon, 27, with his steady job and relative youth and undeniably handsome face, was happy, there were two different opinions. People who met Arthur either envied and cowered before him, or shot him pitying glances and offered gratuitous alcohol.

Arthur ignored both groups, and, as for his own view on the matter, he settled it by never posing that question to himself. If people asked him (and they hadn’t in years), Arthur shrugged and said that, realistically, he had everything anyone could want and therefore couldn’t complain.

Still, even he had to admit when pressured that, at certain points, boredom was the bane of his existence. And it was that infernal, inescapable boredom that, in the end, Arthur blamed for what happened next, throwing his carefully paced, meticulously well-managed life into a whirlpool of chaos and confusion.

His step-sister Morgana had dragged him out for tea on a Sunday afternoon, and Arthur had sensed a favour coming to knock on his door a mile away. Morgana normally couldn’t stand his company for long because, in her own words, he made her unbearably sad. She surprised him with lunch dates and impromptu meetings a couple of times a month, but that was it.

To Arthur, Morgana had always been an alien. She came to live with them when Arthur was ten, and they didn’t get along at all at first. Arthur didn’t hate her, but he didn’t understand her. He couldn’t grasp why she couldn’t live a single day without rebelling against every single reasonable and unreasonable rule Uther imposed on his children – or, really, anything the world threw at her. She, in turn, despised Arthur for doing everything his father asked of him. (It wasn’t true, but then, Morgana wasn’t one for details.)

Morgana had only warmed up to him a couple of years later, when Arthur had had a shouting match with his father and then sneaked out of the house to visit his mother’s grave, despite the pouring rain. The obscene demonstration of illogical behaviour and a shameful loss of control proved to be a winning combination in the quest for Morgana’s favour, though he’d never exactly sought it to begin with.

Arthur admired Morgana and, in some ways, even envied her for always doing what she wanted, despite it being the exact same thing that irritated him about her. Words like ‘duty’ and ‘family obligations’ made her snort. She was selfish, self-centred, and had very little patience for people or things deemed unworthy of her attention.

But it was Morgana who stood beside him, holding his hand, when Arthur came out. Morgana who was as relentless in her support, as she was intolerant of idiots, narrow-minded bigots, and self-righteous defenders of ‘decency.’ It was Morgana who threw Arthur a mind-blowing party for his 18th birthday that had included a visit to a strip club, a lap dance, lots of alcohol, and some hugely embarrassing attempts at karaoke.

Morgana was spoiled, but not unkind, and utterly magnificent in everything she did. Arthur loved her dearly, even though he would rather eat raw fish masquerading as a Japanese delicacy than admit as much to her face.

But that was one of the reasons why he didn’t immediately turn her down when she mentioned that a friend of hers needed a place to stay (the other reason being the aforementioned boredom).

“We went to uni together,” Morgana explained, pouring milk into her green tea as though it was something sane people did. “He’s a good friend. His flat is being renovated and he’s temporarily homeless. I know you have a second bedroom that you never use, so I promised him I’d ask you if you’d be willing to sublet.”

“He has a job?” Arthur half-asked, half-stated, unsure of the situation’s protocol.

“Oh yes, of course.” Morgana laughed. “He works in advertising. Keeps some insane hours, mind you; it’s a demanding position. He’s been sleeping in his office for the last three nights, poor thing, because he has no time to even book a hotel room.”

“Is that so,” Arthur said dryly. He didn’t know much about advertising as a business. For some reason, there was a mental image in his head of a bunch of pre-schoolers running around with crayons.

“Don’t worry,” Morgana said, leaning over and patting Arthur’s hand. “I roomed with Merlin in uni for a couple of terms. He’s a good roommate – cleans after himself, doesn’t throw wild parties when you need to study, doesn’t complain when you do.”

Arthur wasn’t sure that was such a stellar recommendation. “Um—”

“He’s really very sweet.” Morgana smiled. “And he’s a really good friend, Arthur.”

She looked at him imploringly, and Arthur caved. “All right, fine,” he said, toying with his cufflink. “It’s only for a few months, right?”

Morgana beamed at him. “Of course. You’re a dear for doing this, Arthur, thank you. I’ll let him know then, yeah?”

“Tell him” – Arthur cleared his throat – “tell him I don’t need him to pay me. He can just stay, I don’t need his money.”

Morgana’s grin turned sly. “You realise he’s not a charity case, right? Arthur, he’s a creative director at Ogilvy London. He probably makes more in a month than you do.”

Arthur scoffed. He didn’t quite believe that a job in something as – as not-serious as advertising could pay more than his, but that wasn’t the point. “Regardless,” he said arrogantly. “I’m happy with what I make, and for God’s sake, I don’t need a tenant. He’s your friend, so he can stay. Provided he behaves in a decent manner, of course,” he added as an afterthought.

Morgana laughed and ruffled his hair. “You’re a pompous arse, brother dear, but I love you anyway. Thanks.” She kissed his cheek and stood up. “I’m going to call Merlin now, let him know.”

Arthur watched her go, anticipation building in his chest against his will. He tried to tone it down. There was nothing exciting about getting a flatmate, especially as weird as this friend Morgana described.

Nothing at all.

--

Arthur went back home in a hurry. It occurred to him that if this Merlin person had spent the last three nights sleeping in his office, he would probably want to move in right away. His hypothesis was confirmed shortly after by a call from Morgana, who told him to expect Merlin sometime around five.

Strangely nervous, Arthur started cleaning. The flat was in pristine condition, but cleaning was what people did when they were about to have houseguests, wasn’t it? It was only polite – a simple courtesy, really – to check that there was no dust in the spare bedroom, and that the linen closet was stocked with fresh sheets, and that... well, that everything was in order.

Originally, Arthur had chosen a two-bedroom flat out of practicality. What if a friend came to visit, or Morgana was evicted for keeping snakes in her bathroom again, or there was some kind of sleepover? But the truth was, Arthur hadn’t spoken to any of his friends since graduation (unless once-a-year birthday calls counted), could no more tolerate Morgana’s snakes than her previous five landlords, and no one in the history of ever had stayed at his flat for a sleepover.

The spare bedroom remained in its untouched pristine condition. Virginal, Arthur thought, and resolved in a fit of giggles, taking in the quiet greenish tones of the wallpaper and the coverlet. He shook himself mentally, scowling. This was way too much already, and that Merlin fellow wasn’t even here yet. Unacceptable.

Thus scolded, Arthur retreated back to the living room that he often used as his study and dutifully immersed himself in the latest stock predictions from their Hong Kong analysts. He was uncomfortably aware of each passing minute, but that couldn’t be helped.

Finally, at half past five, the buzzer went off. Irritated, Arthur pressed the button without talking, and wiped his suddenly sweaty palms on his trousers. This was ridiculous. He couldn’t explain it even to himself, but he was actually nervous, looking around to make sure everything was in order, as though it was he who had to impress Merlin and not the other way around.

Ridiculous.

Arthur forced out a laugh, because it really was absurd. Maybe there was some truth to Morgana’s usual insults, and he really should socialise more.

There was a knock on the door. Arthur opened it, a polite smile on his face—

—and his breath caught in his throat so abruptly that he choked, covering it quickly with a shaky cough.

Scarf, was his first thought. His second thought was followed the first so closely that they clashed crossing his mental finish line:

Fuck, he’s bloody gorgeous.

The man smiled at Arthur a little hesitantly. “Hello.”

He was tall, with dark hair styled in an artfully windswept way; his cheekbones were insane and could probably cut glass. He was wearing dark skinny jeans, ripped strategically on his knees and even daringly up his thighs; knee-high black leather boots; a fitted t-shirt that ironically stated Ogilvy had it wrong in bold lettering across his chest; and a soft-looking charcoal jacket. The scarf that had stolen Arthur’s attention at first glance was generous and blood red, and somehow managed to expose more of the creamy pale column of the man’s long, elegant neck than it shielded.

“Hello,” Arthur said, frowning at the sound of his own voice. He cleared his throat. “You must be Merlin.”

Internally, he winced at the way it came out, too standoffish and possibly even arrogant. But Merlin – for he couldn’t possibly be anyone else – just smiled wider.

“I must be,” he agreed, his tone lightly teasing. “And you’re Arthur, Morgana’s brother and my knight in shining armour. Pleased to meet you.”

He stuck out his hand, and Arthur shook it automatically, blinking at the leather braid tied around Merlin’s wrist. His hand looked almost frail compared to Arthur’s, but his handshake was strong and optimistic. Arthur didn’t know handshakes could be optimistic.

“Please, come on in,” he offered.

Merlin moved past him, dragging a rather battered-looking suitcase and peering around with trusting curiosity, eyes so bright, the room felt lighter for having them on it. Arthur slapped himself mentally and closed the door.

“Is this all you brought, then?” he asked, pointing at the suitcase.

“Oh, um. Yeah.” Merlin gave him a somewhat sheepish smile. “My landlord sort of surprised me with his announcement. Actually, he said he’d been trying to tell me for about a month, but I was never home, and um, well, it’s possible he had a point. Anyway, I had no idea, so when he showed up with the crew, telling me to clear out, I just stuffed this with whatever was clean and within reach.” He patted the suitcase and laughed a little. “To be honest, I’m not even sure I have a spare pair of pants in there or, like, a toothbrush.”

Arthur stared. His mind boggled. “But... how are you going to—” He wasn’t even able to finish the question. The thought that anyone could be so completely disorganised had him reeling.

“Figured I’d just run to the shops for whatever I need,” Merlin said, grinning in an astoundingly carefree manner. “And pick up my stuff when I actually have a place to live.”

“Right.” Arthur nodded dumbly. “Naturally.”

Suddenly, it occurred to him that Merlin was probably one of those people who went shopping without a shopping list. The thought made him dizzy.

“Right,” he said again. “Well, this is the place. This is the living room; make use of it however you like. That, through there, is my bedroom, and this is yours. I hope it’s all right.”

Merlin was taking everything in with child-like fascination. “Wow, it’s really, um... really classy. And, um... space-y.”

“You hate it,” Arthur said, surprised as his heart sank. He didn’t realise he wanted Merlin to like his flat, to like him so much. He really was being absurd. He barely even knew Merlin.

“No!” Merlin shook his head, quickly. “It’s different from where I lived, but I like it in here. It’s very quiet.”

Arthur’s mouth twisted. “Yeah.”

“Look,” Merlin said and he was suddenly in Arthur’s space, wrapping his fingers around Arthur’s wrist, startling him. “You don’t have to do this. I know Morgana pretty well, and she could steamroll anyone into doing her bidding. If you don’t want me here, just say the word, mate. I’ll take no offense. I know how she can be, and it’s no problem for me to find somewhere else. Really. I mean, you don’t know me, and—”

“No, no,” Arthur breathed out, disoriented and confused by Merlin’s proximity. The lack of respect for his personal space was extremely off-putting. He could smell Merlin’s aftershave or shampoo or hair product or whatever that elusive-but-vaguely-alluring scent was.

Arthur swallowed, his throat dry and his heart beating rabbit-fast in his chest.

“It’s no trouble. Morgana didn’t bully me into this,” he pushed out. “It – it is too quiet here sometimes, like you said. I wouldn’t – mind having company.”

“Really?” Merlin beamed and let him go, whirling in place to take another look at the room. “Well then, I think this is going to work out brilliantly.”

Arthur couldn’t help it – Merlin’s grin was infectious, and before he knew it, he was grinning back.

Arthur gave him a proper tour, relieved when Merlin remained politely cheerful and didn’t ask any potentially hazardous questions, like if it was all right for him to keep his stash of coke in the living room. Arthur felt a bit guilty for stereotyping Morgana’s friends and subconsciously expecting another nutjob like that Alvarr character from a few years back.

Merlin wasn’t anything like Alvarr, with his sunny smiles and easy laugh and the outgoing manner of the guy next door. Overall, he seemed like a nice enough bloke, certainly not crazy – even if he was dressed in a manner that guaranteed him everyone’s attention.

Arthur couldn’t fault him for taste, even if he did wonder exactly how Merlin’s jeans even stayed on him. Whenever he moved his arms, the hem of his t-shirt went up half an inch, revealing a tantalizing sliver of skin and the jut of hipbones peeking just above his belt. Arthur had some difficulty looking away – honestly, the very thought of wearing something so... forward was making him hot.

In the kitchen, Merlin whooped loudly at the sight of Arthur’s expensive monster of a coffee maker. “Oh,” he intoned in confusion, having taken a good look at it. “It’s brand new. Don’t you use it?”

“I’m more of a tea person,” Arthur said, staring at the menacing-looking machine with deep suspicion. “Besides, I could never quite get over the impression that this thing would launch nuclear missiles if I pressed the wrong button.”

Merlin laughed. “You mind if I gave it a go? I can’t live without an hourly intake of caffeine, so coffee makers everywhere and I are usually instant friends.”

Arthur made a magnanimous gesture with his hands. “Be my guest.”

Merlin beamed. “I make a mean cup of coffee, I’ll have you know. Might even convert you, once I have this beauty going.”

He continued to chat animatedly as he weaved his magic over the machine. Arthur tried to follow the head-spinning motions of his hands or the equally rapid flow of his conversation, but it was becoming clear to him that he didn’t have much of a chance at succeeding at either.

He felt sad suddenly, deeply upset at his own inability to say anything interesting or, in fact, anything at all. Merlin was... Cliché as the comparison was, Merlin reminded him of an exotic bird stuck in the wrong hemisphere. Any minute now, he was sure, Merlin would sing him a cheerful goodbye and disappear in a whirlwind of colours, back to his magical tropical land.

“Sorry,” Merlin said suddenly, reaching out to touch Arthur’s arm – a gesture that came as naturally to him as breathing. “I talk too much, don’t I?”

“No,” Arthur replied, staring down at Merlin’s fingers. “No, I just—”

“I’m really sorry.” Merlin looked sincerely apologetic. “I tend to babble when I’m nervous.”

Arthur stared. “You’re nervous?”

Merlin’s face suddenly acquired a set of dimples as he dropped his gaze to the floor, and blushed, his lashes fluttering.

If Arthur had entertained any kind of illusions about it before, he knew with certainty, at that moment, that he was truly and utterly done for.

“I might be,” Merlin admitted, looking up, his eyes dancing.

He was flirting.

Arthur tried to swallow, but couldn’t; realised his mouth was open, closed it, and tried again, blushing something awful.

Merlin seemed to enjoy seeing him flustered, because there was laughter in his voice as he said, “You’re so very serious, Arthur. It’s a bit intimidating.”

It wasn’t as though Arthur was prone to stammering, or in the habit to of lacking words. He could talk for hours about the economical growth in China or the prospects of Dow if the Americans would start yet another war. He could deliver speeches – had, in fact, delivered speeches – in front of very important people, the kind who held the financial future of the globe in their hands. He made a presentation (once) for George fucking Soros and got a job offer out of it.

He was capable of sensible speech – of very sensible speech, in point of fact.

He couldn’t for the life of him come up with anything to say.

Fortunately, at that moment, Merlin’s mobile went off. Merlin looked at the caller ID and grimaced, then flashed Arthur an apologetic smile, and stood up to take the call.

Arthur busied himself with rinsing their cups (Merlin’s coffee was indeed quite good, as promised), moving a bit mechanically. Merlin popped up back into the kitchen just as Arthur was drying his hands with a towel.

“Listen, Arthur, do you have plans?”

Arthur frowned. “Plans?”

“For tonight. I know it’s short notice, and you’re probably tired of me already, but I noticed that painting on your living room wall, and – you’re an art nut, aren’t you?”

Arthur looked away. He hated that painting – it was a grotesque still life that reminded him mostly of vomiting aubergines and was, in all actuality, incredibly ugly. Arthur had bought it at one of the charity auctions because the young artist had looked so desperate. He’d wanted to get rid of it on numerous occasions, but discovered that it had one saving grace – it annoyed the life out of Morgana.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Well…” Merlin rubbed the back of his neck absently – he’d gotten rid of his scarf, Arthur noticed. “A friend of mine is an artist. Contemporary art,” he added with a strange expression. “She has an opening tonight, and I usually don’t, but I promised... Do you by any chance want to go?”

Arthur blinked. “Right now?”

“Well, yes. If you don’t have other plans, that is.”

“Um… Not as such. I suppose.”

Merlin smiled, and his whole face transformed into such genuine, unguarded hope that Arthur felt horrified at the thought of crushing it. “Then you’ll come?”

“Yes,” Arthur said, his heart sinking. It wasn’t as though he had any choice, right?

For a moment, Arthur thought that Merlin would hug him – he seemed the hugging type – and even stilled himself for the further expression of impropriety and complete lack of respect for personal boundaries.

But Merlin just beamed at him and said, “Brilliant,” in a tone of voice that made Arthur’s stomach leap.

In his mind’s eye, he had a vision of himself jumping off a cliff into the darkness. Arthur shuddered.

What an unpleasant thought.

--

Merlin had conjured a Black Cab out of thin air, and forty minutes later, Arthur was stalking gloomily across the halls of the Whitechapel Gallery, feeling distinctly out of place. Contemporary art had always had the unfortunate effect of creeping him out, and nothing he saw around him was making it any better.

There was a huge, cage-like thing in the middle of the hall. It was split into many little cages, each of which hosted a light bulb in them. They went on and off at no predictable intervals, and the whole thing emitted a rather unnerving, low-frequency whine that made Arthur acutely aware of every nerve string in his body.

There was a huge, spherical lamp made entirely out of litter. Visitors were supposed to lie underneath it and contemplate. Whether they were supposed to contemplate the ever-suffering environment or their own stupidity, Arthur wasn’t sure.

In the corner, there were a few dozen books lying on the floor. They were all opened somewhere in the middle, and the fan standing at the side made the pages turn with artificial wind. It was called ‘The Whisper,’ for whatever reason, and was a close call between lame and creepy.

And those were some of the most harmless ones.

With a barely-suppressed shudder, Arthur tore his eyes away from a bizarre wooden figure sitting on a stool that was either a gigantic octopus split in half and painted over or several pairs of too-long rabbit ears dressed in stockings. He looked around the room, searching for a bit of sanity to come deliver him from all this.

Although, at this point? Arthur would have gladly taken divine intervention.

Merlin was standing by some kind of metallic sculpture thing, talking to the artist herself, a young woman called Elena. She would have been quite lovely, Arthur thought vaguely, if she introduced her blond locks to a comb and wore some shoes.

Merlin, as Arthur noticed with a measure of surprise, was doing more listening than talking, nodding a lot and laughing in presumably the right places. However, he did acquire a strangely constipated look upon his face every time Elena dragged him over to one exhibit or another.

Whatever his deal was, though, it was clear as a day that Merlin was an inherent part of this crowd. Every few minutes, someone would stop him to greet with a kiss or a hug, men and women alike, and Merlin seemed to have a broad smile for everyone and some words at the ready that probably weren’t painfully tortured small talk.

The crowd even looked different. There were a few men and women in somewhat regular looking smart-casual, but some of the visitors made Merlin’s outfit seem downright tame, and Arthur couldn’t help but stare. He also couldn’t help the feeling that, in his slacks and jumper, he looked like somebody’s grandfather who refused to acknowledge that the ‘50s had passed.

No one was giving him looks or anything, but Arthur felt distinctly uncomfortable.

He’d asked Merlin before they left his flat if he ought to change, but Merlin just shook his head and said that it wasn’t ‘that kind of thing,’ whatever that meant. Arthur must have looked dubious, because Merlin grinned at him and said, ‘Lose the tie, if you’re that worried.’

Arthur did and was intensely glad that he did (nobody here was wearing ties as if they were going out of style), but that didn’t help him feel any more at home.

But he couldn’t just leave, even though he wanted to really badly. For one, he didn’t want to seem ungrateful to Merlin, who had brought him to a clearly exclusive event. For another, Arthur didn’t want to seem ignorant and confess that not only did he not understand the whole shtick of ‘modern,’ ‘postmodern,’ and especially ‘conceptual,’ but he actually hated the lot with a passion.

For some reason, imagining the disappointed look on Merlin’s face sent cold shivers down Arthur’s spine. It didn’t make any sense – Arthur barely knew the guy, for God’s sake.

But there was something chemical about Merlin’s smiles, something that made Arthur instinctively crave his approval.

That didn’t stop him from looking for escape routes, all the same.

“Young man.” A voice startled him, and Arthur turned around to see a couple of old ladies standing behind him, their arms linked in a touching manner. They would have looked classically prim if one of them wasn’t wearing trousers that seemed to be made of tinsel and the other wasn’t sporting one wig on top of the other. “Would you mind explaining the meaning of this piece to us?”

Arthur blinked. Did they think he worked here? He didn’t know if he should be horrified or insulted, so he turned to look at the piece in question, because, whatever issues his upbringing had, he wasn’t raised to be rude to his elders.

“Um.”

He was looking at what could only be a baboon’s arse made (hopefully) of papier mâché. It was bright pink, heart-shaped, with a hole in the middle that had an ice cream cone sticking out of it.

“Well.” Arthur stared at it blankly. “It probably symbolises creative methods of courtship,” he said at long last. “You know, unconventional, um, ways to – woo one’s intended.”

The old ladies blinked at him. “Yes, obviously,” one of them said as though Arthur was dim, “but why is it called Dubious Consent?”

Arthur looked at the ice cream cone and shuddered. “I can’t know for sure, but I think the baboon objected.”

There was a loud snort behind them, and Arthur turned around to see Merlin trying unsuccessfully to smother a laugh as the old ladies stared at Arthur, scandalised.

Arthur cursed under his breath. It figured that Merlin would come to find him when he was making a fool of himself.

“Sorry I disappeared on you,” Merlin said, grinning openly, once the old ladies were out of sight. “Ellie is a bit of a disaster zone during things like this, and she’s in-between boyfriends now, so I’m her only moral support.”

“It’s fine,” Arthur said magnanimously. “Do you need to go back to her? I can entertain myself well enough.”

Merlin snorted again. “So I see.” His eyes twinkled. “But no, she’s pumped with champagne, and the critics are gone, so she’s good. And frankly, I’m starving; I haven’t had anything since breakfast. You want to go grab a quick bite? There’s a cute Moroccan restaurant near here; I have a mad craving for some shawarma.” Merlin finally paused to take a breath and peered at Arthur warily. “That is, unless you want to stay and buy something?”

Arthur winced. “No.”

Merlin laughed. “Follow me, then.”

Arthur did, relieved beyond belief to leave the gallery. He never actually ate so late in the evening, but he felt that, after a night like this, he could use the extra calories.

It had started to rain while they were inside, and the wind didn’t make it any more pleasant. They didn’t talk much on the way to the restaurant; Merlin was too busy keeping the collar of his jacket up against the onslaught of the elements, and Arthur was shocked into silence, having left his flat without a brolly for the first time in as long as he could remember. He was unable to explain the mental lapse.

The restaurant wasn’t as near as Merlin had made it sound, and by the time they found it, they were both shivering. Merlin was babbling apologies, and Arthur only managed to answer every third one, trying to convey that it was fine around his chattering teeth.

It was a lovely place, even if Arthur didn’t usually appreciate the smell of incense that was permeating the air rather generously. He did appreciate the incredible cosiness of the low divans that replaced chairs, although the idea that someone might take a meal while lying down and in public seemed rather appalling.

Merlin smiled at him across the table, which was lit intimately (but somehow not aggressively so) in candlelight. “Trust me?”

Arthur lifted an eyebrow, but nodded. Watching as Merlin chatted at the waiter in halting Arabic (somehow not surprising after everything), Arthur wondered faintly about himself. He couldn’t remember a single time in his adult life that he’d allowed anyone to order for him, and yet now he gave Merlin – a bloke he barely even knew – free rein without a fight.

Arthur must be really, really tired.

Or something.

“So,” Merlin started sometime after their food had arrived, his tone unnaturally neutral. “What did you think of the exposition?”

Arthur chewed on a piece of couscous thoughtfully, staving off the inevitable. Weird or no, his trust in Merlin hadn’t been misplaced, because the lamb Merlin had ordered was melting on his tongue.

“It was... interesting.”

Merlin squinted at him. “In what way?”

“Well—” Arthur made an ambiguous gesture with his hand, praying for words to come. The baboon’s arse was a persistent vision in his mind’s eye; it wasn’t helping matters. “It was very, um... progressive.”

“Progressive,” Merlin repeated slowly. Suddenly, his eyes went wide. “Oh my God. You hated it!”

There was so much undisguised delight in his exclamation that Arthur instantly admitted, “You have no idea.”

Merlin dropped his fork and laughed, his whole body breathing with mirth. “Oh God,” Merlin pushed out through his laughter. “I thought you, what with your flat, and your Oxbridge accent, and that hideous pretentious painting on your wall – I thought you were one of them, a yuppie, drawn to everything new and shiny so long as someone tells you it’s trendy.”

“I’m really not.” Arthur was laughing, too. “And I hate that painting.”

“It’s horrible,” Merlin said gleefully.

“Completely revolting.”

“Why do you keep it?”

“It annoys Morgana.”

“Man.” Merlin’s eyes glowed with admiration. “The universe appreciates your suffering for the greater good.”

“I’m sure.” Arthur snorted. “So you’re not a fan of modern art, either?”

“God, no.” Merlin chuckled. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m a bit old-fashioned, you know? Picasso and Monet are as modern as I’m willing to get. Well, and of course Dali, but honestly, one has to appreciate him. But all those garbage sculptures and plastic bag ‘paintings’ really aren’t my kind of thing.”

“Oh. I thought you were really into it, what with being all... artsy. And stuff.”

“Artsy?” Merlin lifted his eyebrows, still chuckling. “If Elena heard you, she’d be horribly offended, Arthur – and not on my part, mind you. She still hasn’t forgiven me for the Andy Warhol toilet incident.”

“I sense a story.”

“It’s a bit embarrassing,” Merlin admitted, rolling his eyes, but continued anyway. “We were in the States together once, Ellie and me, and she dragged me to the Andy Warhol Museum. You know Andy Warhol, the pop art icon and—”

“Yes, Merlin, I know who Andy Warhol is.”

“Right, anyway. So picture this, Ellie is all high on those inverted post stamps and carton boxes, just going on and on about the grand philosophy and vision. And I’m just sort of wandering there, thinking that if I see another sloppily painted red triangle or blue cube, I’m going to kill somebody or jump off a cliff like a bloody lemming. So I stalk off, mind, and I’m a bit high myself on all that monstrosity, and suddenly there’s a bathroom.”

“A bathroom?”

“A bathroom. With tiled walls and everything. There’s a stall and a toilet – seriously, just a white, regular-looking toilet. There’s no door, but there’s a rope hanging across and a sign ‘Out of order.’ And” – Merlin started laughing as if he could help himself – “get this, Arthur. I’m standing there, staring at it, and thinking: Is this another exhibit—”

Arthur began to laugh.

“—or is this just a bloody toilet and I’m being an idiot?”

“What happened?” Arthur choked.

“Ellie came and yelled at me,” Merlin said reminiscently. “She thought I was going to pee in it.”

Arthur couldn’t help it – he threw his head back and roared with laughter. He could just see it so clearly in his mind, Merlin standing in front of a toilet of all things, searching for some deep philosophy behind it.

He looked at Merlin, who couldn’t laugh anymore and was just sitting there, sprawled boneless against the back of the divan, chuckling feebly and gazing at Arthur with bright, mischievous eyes.

Suddenly Arthur felt a swell of overwhelming affection for the other man. Sure, Merlin still looked like some moody rock star’s understudy and flirted with waiters in Arabic (to no small success, if the complimentary desserts were any indication). But somehow, unexpectedly, he seemed a lot more approachable and down-to-earth than Arthur ever thought he could be.

Maybe he and Merlin would get along just fine after all.

“You’re a snob,” Arthur accused him, delighted. “Picasso and Monet, my arse.”

Merlin threw his hands up in the air. “I have good taste, I can’t help it.”

“You poor sod.”

“Seriously, do you know what I studied at uni? History. Some days I’ve no idea what I’m doing in this business.”

“Clearly you’re doing quite well for yourself. You like it, right?”

Merlin’s face split into a grin. “I love it,” he said. “God help me, but I do. It’s completely horrible sometimes, and I’m honestly not sure I know what morality is anymore, but—”

“More like what shame is.”

Merlin’s grin turned wicked. “That, too, though I have to tell you, Arthur” – he batted his lashes, proving the point – “shame is overrated.”

Arthur just shook his head, but he couldn’t keep a stern expression on his face, either.

They got home at two in the morning, and some part of Arthur was vaguely horrified at his own lack of discipline. He had to get up for work in just a few hours, and it was vastly irresponsible to stay out so late.

He was going to regret it come morning, but, for now, he chalked it up to the inevitable conundrum of greeting a houseguest, and fell asleep with a smile still tugging stubbornly at the corners of his mouth.

--

As it turned out, living with Merlin was easier than Arthur had ever imagined sharing living space with another person would be, except for the fact that Merlin too bloody weird.

It wasn’t bad weird, just... weird.

He did clean after himself, but he frequently forgot his sketches and left bizarre working notes all over the place. Arthur found a napkin with a messy scribble of ‘Star Wars meet Jane Eyre. Speed dating on Luna. For b. Kraft Foods’ stuffed into an open cereal box, and doodles of a vomiting cow on a milk carton were regular occurrences.

Merlin also appeared prone to stealing Arthur’s milk and cheese, and when he replaced them, he always bought a different brand. At first, Arthur had thought that it was merely Merlin’s inability to remember the correct one, but he later discovered that Merlin did that on purpose – meticulously cleaning the fridge of anything produced by one of his clients. Apparently, seeing their logos first thing in the morning made him grumpy and fed his delusions of persecution.

Arthur just shrugged, because arguing with crazy people was dangerous, and besides, there were wild strawberries sitting next to his yogurts in all their tempting glory. God only knew where Merlin had found them, but as peace offerings went, they were pretty sweet. Literally.

For another thing, Arthur couldn’t fathom Merlin’s work schedule. He was oftentimes soundly asleep when Arthur left for work, and the only few times he was awake early was because he hadn’t gone to bed yet.

“Perks of being in creative,” Merlin said with a shrug when Arthur asked him tentatively if his boss minded Merlin ‘dropping by’ the office whenever he pleased. “They know that making us sit on our arses from nine to five won’t do anyone any good. As long as we come up with ideas to keep the clients happy and meet the deadlines, nobody cares.”

Arthur must have looked sufficiently befuddled, because Merlin grinned and patted his arm. “Don’t worry. In a few weeks, we’re probably going to have another of those crazy moments when we’ll be brainstorming for six new pitches while trying not to fuck up the existing client list too badly, and I’ll be living in the office 24/7 and won’t be underfoot anymore.”

“You’re not underfoot,” Arthur said automatically.

Merlin just grinned wider.

Aside from his odd schedule (or lack thereof), there was also the matter of Merlin’s wardrobe. Arthur continued to be mesmerised, scandalised, and generally on the verge of awed, because whenever he ran into Merlin, he always looked as though he’d just jumped off the cover of some horribly trendy magazine. Sometimes Arthur imagined it to be hipster, sometimes geeky chic, and sometimes even lifestyle, especially when Merlin wore one of his sharply cut suits. All of them had about as much in common with Arthur’s as Arthur himself had with, say, an amoeba – as in they were both living organisms originating from the same planet.

Before Merlin, Arthur had never met another person who looked entirely too shaggable at any given time. (Well, with the possible exception of Morgana, but Arthur definitely didn’t think of her in that context.) It was unclear exactly how Merlin was doing it, but the point remained that, early in the morning or late at night, tired or pissed, scruffy or cleaned up, Merlin always looked enticing or endearing or both, with a fine edge to him. It looked like, for him, there were no bad angles or wrong light.

Living with him was a little bit like what Arthur imagined living with a swimsuit model would be for a straight bloke, except that Merlin didn’t have the ‘don’t look at me without my makeup on’ moments.

Arthur had never thought much about his own appearance. He knew he was handsome, but he had always believed himself to be a little on the bland side, with a classical English palette and averagely cut figure.

Merlin, on the other hand, wasn’t beautiful in the classical sense of the word, but he was striking and had that intangible je ne sais quoi about him that made people follow him with their eyes and wonder what those collarbones would taste like or what kind of noise he’d make if they pulled his hair or if he was a screamer.

Of course, it was not impossible that Arthur was extrapolating his own reactions onto the unsuspecting and entirely innocent population of the City. Somehow, though, he didn’t think so.

There was also the notable incident with the shirt.

Just as Merlin had said, sometime after he settled in Arthur’s flat, the rest of his things had arrived in boxes and had piled up in his room. Merlin only opened one when he ran out of clean clothes and didn’t have time to do laundry. He was a bit of a slob, leaving his possessions all over the flat and forgetting about them. It should have been utterly infuriating, but, strangely, Arthur found he didn’t actually mind.

There was a warm feeling in his chest when he would come home and find Merlin’s hoodie draped over the back of the couch in the living room, which meant that it was one of the mornings when Merlin had the time to dose in front of the telly before he went to work. Arthur would pick it up and fold it, and then unfold it and put it back. He couldn’t explain it, but he liked chasing Merlin’s bizarre notes and wayward scarves around the flat, or having reason to playfully gripe at him when Arthur discovered another book split open and abandoned.

He even liked the war zone that was now the fridge, and the fact that Merlin used Arthur’s shampoo as often as his own. The latter wasn’t surprising, given that Merlin was often comatose and monosyllabic when he first woke up, the only word that could provoke any kind of response being ‘coffee.’(The first time Arthur timed a fresh pot to be brewed by the time Merlin got up, Merlin actually hugged him, sleep-warm and soft, murmuring thanks into Arthur’s neck.)

It wasn’t a surprise to find a shirt forgotten in the bathroom, and Arthur smiled as he picked it up and stared at it, wondering quietly.

The shirt was deep, emerald-green, the colour muted so as not to assault the eye but still vivid enough to stand out. Arthur didn’t remember Merlin actually wearing it, and it looked fresh from the laundry. It was almost classically cut, except for some smart tailoring, and the wrinkled material.

Arthur didn’t know what possessed him to try it on. One moment he was standing there, thinking that he should go drop it in Merlin’s room, and the next he was doing up the buttons, staring at himself in the mirror.

For a minute or two, he couldn’t figure out what he was seeing. It was him, but also – not. Arthur’s fingers moved slowly, sliding along the surprisingly soft fabric, creeping toward the collar.

“It suits you,” a voice sounded suddenly, and Arthur jumped.

He didn’t close the bathroom door, and Merlin was standing in the doorway, watching him. Arthur blushed, horribly embarrassed. He hadn’t heard Merlin come home.

“I was only – I just –”

Merlin shook his head, stepping forward, a strangely intense expression on his face. “Hush, it’s all right.”

He batted Arthur’s hands away from the upper button, undoing the next one as well. He smoothed the fabric across Arthur’s shoulders while Arthur held his breath, unable to look away. Then Merlin nudged him gently to face the mirror.

“Look,” he said, voice lower than usual, seeping into Arthur’s ear. “It never really fit me right, but you – it does things to you.”

It did. It highlighted the stark relief of muscles on his arms, brought out his strong, broad chest, and trimmed his waistline. The colour was a beautiful contrast with Arthur’s skin tone, and while the open collar made him feel naked, it also brought attention to the firm, uncompromising line of his jaw. The whole impression was one of sensuality and power, spiked with an edge of danger.

Behind him, Merlin blinked, shaking himself slightly as though bringing himself out of a stupor. His hand hovered over Arthur’s shoulder once more, but didn’t touch. He smiled at last, but it was a shadow of his usual sunny grin.

“Please keep it.”

“I can’t.”

“Of course you can. I have more clothes than I know what to do with, and this shirt looks like it was made for you. Keep it, Arthur. You look great in it. Just promise you’ll wear it.”

Arthur nodded, a bit numbly, not exactly aware of what he was agreeing to – he was too mesmerised by the glassy, dazed look in Merlin’s eyes as he stared at Arthur’s reflection.

The weird moment was broken by the now-familiar tune of Merlin’s mobile. Merlin quickly excused himself and stepped out, leaving Arthur alone, confused and strangely… excited.

Merlin’s phone was never silent. Arthur could hear him talking to someone as late as the middle of the night, laughter filtering from under his door along with the soft, warm glimmer of the nightlight. Merlin assured him that it was all work-related, and apologised for disturbing the peace. It was only then that Arthur realised he wasn’t at all annoyed about it, except that Merlin was still speaking too softly for him to hear what exactly was being said.

It couldn’t be healthy, Arthur realised with chagrin. He was painfully curious about this weird, seemingly chaotic life Merlin lived, and it just wasn’t… right. Merlin probably wouldn’t be angry with him if he ever discovered the extent of Arthur’s fascination. Merlin was entirely too blasé about all kinds of boundaries, but that didn’t make Arthur’s interest right.

Arthur struggled.

Apart from the incessant calls and messages, there were also things like beautiful boxes with desserts from Four Seasons, seasonal opera tickets, and exquisitely groomed bonsai trees that appeared at the flat at random intervals.

“Is someone... courting you?” Arthur asked cautiously after Merlin shoved at him a pair of crystal wineglasses, mumbling that if he kept them he would only break them anyway, and Arthur seemed like the kind of person who was careful with expensive things.

Merlin’s eyebrows rose, an amused smirk appearing on his lips. “‘Courting’ me?”

“You know,” Arthur said, fighting down a blush. “With all the gifts?”

“Ah.” Merlin grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, yes, I guess you could say that. I have a great number of... what are they called? Suitors?”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” Arthur wasn’t sure what he said wrong, but Merlin was clearly upset, even if he was still smiling. “It’s none of my business.”

Merlin shook his head. “Arthur, these are all – bribes, if you please. Or threats. Or just outright self-promotion. This is what happens when your counterparts in other agencies hate you because you beat them, and their bosses get upset that you don’t work for them.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes, trying to understand. “So they are like... job offers?”

Merlin nodded. “Something like that.”

“You don’t like it?”

Merlin sighed, took the box back from Arthur’s hands and put it on the counter, tracing the pattern on the plastic with his finger. “I don’t like to be reminded about how material this side of business is,” he said at last. “I don’t like the feeling that I’m – leading them on, so to speak. I know that it’s just business etiquette, and that no one really expects anything, and that they have this kind of thing included in their yearly budgets, for God’s sake. I know.” He bit his lip. “But I still feel like a whore, sometimes.”

“Oh,” Arthur exhaled.

Merlin shrugged a bit helplessly. “I got into this business because I like creative media, because I like smart ads. The other things just came along with it. I felt flattered at first, but now...” He trailed off, looking despondent.

“You must be really good then,” Arthur said, trying to cheer him up. He didn’t like that look on Merlin one bit.

Merlin laughed sarcastically, but his eyes seemed less haunted as he looked at Arthur. “Oh, I’m bloody brilliant. Why do you think they’re trying so hard?” He poked at the case with the glasses again. “These are exact replicas of ones in the Queen’s collection.”

He bit his lip again, teasing Arthur with the imprint of teeth. “You’d think I’d get used to it by now.”

Arthur searched desperately for anything to say, but he wasn’t certain he quite understood Merlin’s problem. Arthur grew up with the notion that there was nothing wrong with making money, the more the better. Not to the point where it became the single goal of life, of course, but it wasn’t something to be ashamed of, either.

Creative, Arthur reminded himself, studying Merlin’s chiselled profile. Who knew what that even meant? Except, apparently, emotionally delicate and morally sensitive.

Arthur suddenly felt like an old, fat boar standing next to a baby gazelle.

“Listen, are you staying in tonight?” he asked, wincing at his own lack of subtlety at changing the subject. “I was going to cook.”

Merlin blinked, looking up at him. The smile he gave Arthur was slow, but with its usual teasing glint. “You cook? How did I get so lucky again?”

“Morgana.”

“Of course. Got to send her some of those flowers.”

“Not unless you want your head bitten off by one of her snakes, you won’t.”

Merlin laughed.

Arthur liked it best when Merlin stayed in, which didn’t happen all too often. Arthur, who had been conditioned from an early age to hide his real feelings lest they’d be used against him, found it surprisingly easy to talk to Merlin, who didn’t seem to have a single judgmental bone in his body. He liked to tease Arthur, but never in a mean way.

Teasing, Arthur could deal with. What was much, much worse was that Merlin was a natural flirt to the point where he wasn’t doing it on purpose (mostly) and still left Arthur breathless and blushing.

Arthur had no chance at winning that one. He was slow with his words, and Merlin was fast. He weighed each compliment thoroughly before speaking, so as not to be misinterpreted or show too much. Merlin went on saying things that normal people, mates, didn’t say to each other, with the kind of casual sincerity that was impossible to dismiss and seemed to cost him nothing.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Arthur blurted out one night as they were finishing their wine. The question came out of nowhere. Arthur blamed it on the fact that Merlin looked particularly fetching in a royal blue button-down that brought out his eyes. (And on the wine. He should never have drunk that wine.)

Merlin’s expression changed from relaxed to relaxed and sly, as he dragged his mind away from the story he had only just finished telling and focused his full attention on Arthur.

Arthur fought against the urge to fidget.

“Why?” Merlin asked, because he was a bastard who couldn’t give Arthur a break.

“It’s just – well, you never have anyone over,” Arthur said, trying to appear poised when he was feeling anything but. “I just wanted to tell you that you can, if you want to. Bring your boyfriend over, that is.”

“Really.” Merlin tilted his head back slightly, studying Arthur through narrowed eyes, a smirk curving his lips. “What if my boyfriend was a professional boxer in super heavyweight?”

“That’s fine,” Arthur said quickly, sweat breaking on the back of his neck.

“What if he liked to have really loud sex with me? Fuck me stupid against the wall?”

“That’s—”

“Your bedroom wall, even?”

Arthur swallowed, his cheeks aflame. “I would have to invest in some headphones, obviously.”

Merlin laughed softly, shaking his head. “Arthur...” He trailed off, looking at Arthur with an expression that was half-fond, half-puzzled as though Arthur was a fascinating riddle to be cracked that had been eluding Merlin by some kind of miracle.

“What?” Arthur grunted, defensively.

“It’s like you’re – not from this century,” Merlin intoned slowly as though he was deducing it as he went. “You’re so... chivalrous. You give shelter to a stranger, a person you know nothing about, just because your sister asks you to. I could have been an axe murderer or a drug addict, and you gave me access to your home, without a word.”

“Well, Morgana—

“You hate incompetence, but you wouldn’t fire that girl from the Hong Kong desk that you told me about because she’s got a sick sister to care for. You actually do half her work for her just so no one else has reasons to fire her.”

“That’s not exactly how—”

“And just now, you told me that I can have over whoever, even though it could make your flat pretty much unliveable, out of pure hospitality. Arthur—” Merlin bit his lip, his look turning gentle. “You’re kind of wonderful, but it’s kind of dangerous. What if I took you up on your word? The headphones would be the least of your troubles.”

“Would you?” Arthur asked, petulantly.

Merlin stared at him a moment longer and sighed. “No. I don’t have a boyfriend, and if I happened to pull someone in the meantime, I certainly wouldn’t bring them here. I respect you, Arthur, and I respect your home, and your generosity. But not everyone would, if you go all out like that.”

“I know that, Merlin,” Arthur said irritably. “I’m not a baby. I just – I feel I can trust you, that’s all.”

“I’m flattered.”

“So why do you say such things?” Arthur continued, feeling a bit braver. “Why do you have to be so vulgar if you had no intention of going through with it?”

Merlin looked him straight in the eye and smiled. “Because you have beautiful eyes, Arthur, and they go dark when you’re shocked or affronted. It’s a good look on you.”

Arthur sputtered.

Merlin laughed. “That’s the one. And look at you – now you’re mad. It’s cute.”

“You’re a git, you know that?”

“I’ve been called worse.”

It all continued in some similar fashion. The trouble was, with Merlin’s flirting being a near-constant thing, it was impossible to tell if he meant any of it – or if he was, in fact, flirting at all. Arthur had the most persistent impression that Merlin actually meant all of those unthinkable things he said. It was extremely disconcerting, but also – if Arthur was being truthful with himself – exhilarating.

And if he spent fewer evenings playing chess at the club and cut down on his workout hours slightly in the hopes that Merlin would be home when Arthur got off work, no one had to be the wiser.

--

“Arthur! Oh my God, you can’t be asleep – please get up, get dressed, I need your help!”

“What the –? Merlin?”

Arthur sat up on the bed abruptly, grabbing for the covers that Merlin had so unceremoniously jerked off of him. He missed, or Merlin had anticipated his actions, because he pulled the duvet further away from Arthur’s reach, standing at the foot of the bed, wide-eyed and panting.

“Merlin, do you mind? I’m not dressed!”

“I can see that – that’s the problem!”

“Merlin – what the hell is going on?”

It was Friday night, and, granted, it was only 10 p.m., but Merlin was never home on Friday nights. Never. Realising he was prone to sulking, Arthur had doubled his workout load on Fridays so that he could come home and go straight to bed, leaving himself a minimum amount of time for possible (sadly, very likely) moping.

“Arthur, I’m sorry about this, but I’m desperate and you’ve got to save me!”

With that extraordinary statement, Merlin actually fell down on his knees beside the bed, effectively changing the angle of eye contact between them and making Arthur wish he wore something more than his boxer briefs to bed. Reflexively, Arthur went for the covers again, but Merlin checked his motion, quick as a viper, without even looking.

“Save you from what?” Arthur asked warily, heart beating too fast with surprise and – yeah, he was sticking to surprise.

“You have to model for us.”

“…What?”

“We have this photo shoot, very, very important, and our model bailed at the last minute. The agency can’t send me anyone who’d remotely fit the profile in time, and if we don’t make it to production this weekend, we fuck up the deadline, and it’s a major client, Arthur – and my neck. Please. Please, Arthur I know you’re already doing me this huge favour by letting me live here, and I hate to ask, but I really can’t think of anyone else. Please.”

Arthur shook his head, trying to break through Merlin’s one hundred words per second gibberish. But the only thing that stuck with him was:

“You want me to model for you? Are you out of your mind? I can’t model!”

“Of course you can. I’m not asking you to walk the runway; it’s a photo shoot. All you have to do is stand there and look pretty.”

“You’re really mental, mate. I’m not doing this—”

“It’s not like anyone will know it’s you,” Merlin told him impatiently. “It’s a body reference shot – no one will be able to see your face.”

“Then why can’t you use someone—”

“Because there’s a concept – there’s this samurai warrior legend to go with that. The modelling agency is useless, and you’re the only person I know who’s both in the City right now and has the body type we need.”

“But—”

“Please, Arthur.” Merlin’s fingers landed on his knee, squeezing lightly. Everything was in his eyes – enormously big at that moment and staring up at Arthur imploringly. “Please, I promise you no one will know. I promise.”

Arthur swallowed. Merlin’s eyes turned liquid. “Please,” he breathed out quietly.

It was like looking down at Bambi pleading with you not to kill his mother.

“Dammit.” Arthur closed his eyes. “This is crazy.”

“You’ll do it? Say you’ll do it. Oh, Arthur, you’d be a friend for life.”

Arthur opened his eyes and glared at him, but it was harder by the moment, and the corners of Merlin’s mouth were already lifting. His fingers were warm and solid on Arthur’s knee.

“I have no idea what I’ve done to deserve this,” Arthur sighed, torn between resigned and incredulous. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Oh, Arthur.” Merlin’s smile was blinding. “You’re so—”

“Just, shut up. How do you even know I have the ‘body type’ you need anyway?”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Please – I’m a gay guy who works in advertising. That’s like a textbook definition of ‘not blind.’”

His words had the curious effect of bringing their attention to the physical reality of their positions. Arthur blushed; Merlin snatched his hand away as if burned.

“I, um.” He stood up, eyes anywhere but on Arthur. “I’ll let you get dressed.”

“Merlin?” Arthur called after him, swinging his feet to the floor. “What should I wear?”

Merlin turned in the doorway, his smirk only just visible in the murky light. “Clothes would be good.”

“Bastard,” Arthur said, walking over to his wardrobe.

Merlin’s laughter trickled in from the corridor.

--

The shock of his own decision began to sink in slowly, and Arthur spent the cab ride in a mild stupor. He stared out the window without seeing anything, and listening but not hearing a word of Merlin’s explanation about the client, the juice they were supposed to promote, and the cunning plan to change their casting agency for one that would finally stop screwing them up whenever it felt like it.

It was at this point only that Arthur had begun to suspect that he might possibly – possibly – have a bit of a thing for Merlin. There seemed to be no other explanation for this insanity.

Merlin became visibly more nervous as they got closer to the office. Or maybe nervous was the wrong word, Arthur mused. Merlin looked... charged, as though he was drawing energy from the air around him. He was almost crackling with it. Arthur sniffed the air surreptitiously for ozone.

“Come on,” Merlin said, pushing Arthur into the lobby, pressing him forward with a persistent hand on the small of his back. “We really need to hurry before—”

“Hey, Merlin?” the receptionist called out to him. “The Dragon’s looking for you.”

“Fuck,” Merlin swore, grabbing Arthur’s wrist and pulling him away from the elevators toward the staircase instead.

Arthur allowed himself to be dragged, turning his head to take in his surroundings. It was extremely confusing to see an office bursting with life this late in the evening. Everywhere people were moving, talking loudly, gulping down coffee and energy drinks, running up and down the stairs with printouts and rather desperate expressions. A lot of them stopped to say a few words to Merlin, all of them along the same lines as the receptionist. Most of them shot curious glances at Arthur, but no one offered any kind of comment.

“Who’s the Dragon?” Arthur asked quietly.

“Chief Accountant,” Merlin replied, shooting a wary glance around. “I think I might be in trouble.”

“There’s no ‘I think’ about it, Emrys.” A petite, frail-looking brunette wedged herself between Merlin and the next flight of stairs. She was holding a clipboard and wore lipstick a shade too bright along with a disapproving expression.

Merlin stopped and grabbed her shoulders. “Did you get hold of the production team?”

“No,” she said petulantly. “I was a little too busy trying to keep the Dragon off your trail. I told you, Merlin, your Paris trip will get us all in trouble. Why can’t you just fax receipts like a normal person I’ll never—”

“Freya.” Merlin shook her lightly. “Forget about the Paris trip, okay? I need you to go to production.”

“They’re still stuck at that stupid briefing with Simon.”

“Then get them unstuck. Tell them they’re not to leave the building, sit on them if you have to, but no one is going home until we get those bloody mock-ups done, understood?”

Ignoring his impassioned plea, Freya was looking curiously at Arthur. “Who’s this?”

Merlin let go of her with a sigh. “Freya, this is Arthur, who very kindly agreed to model for us. Arthur, this is Freya, my personal assistant.”

“His personal guardian angel more like,” she said, smiling flirtatiously at Arthur as she shook his hand. Suddenly her eyes narrowed. “Wait a second. Arthur – as in your flatmate Arthur? Shit, Merlin, you didn’t tell me he was gorgeous.”

“And why would I want to advertise that?” Merlin rolled his eyes. “Please excuse Freya, Arthur, she’s—”

“—been saving your arse from the Dragon’s wrath all day.” She winked at Arthur and licked her lips. “She’s earned a treat.”

“She’s getting fired in the morning if she keeps this up,” Merlin deadpanned, making Freya scowl at him. “Production team. Go.”

“See you later, Arthur.” Freya beamed at him and set off down the stairs at an alarming speed.

“Come on,” Merlin urged him on impatiently. “We’re really late.”

They ended up in a huge room that occupied an entire floor. There were desks gathered in groups along the glass walls, quite a few people still working at them. Arthur’s attention, however, was seized by the tall, brightly lit construction in the middle that looked like someone had sliced a piece of a photo studio and teleported it into the workroom. There were lamps and odd-looking equipment everywhere, and in the midst of it was a man setting a camera on the tripod, glancing at the laptop set nearby from time to time and making adjustments.

Merlin pulled Arthur straight toward him. “Thanks for waiting, Gwaine. I found us a model.”

The man turned around and Arthur couldn’t help but stare though he wasn’t certain where to look first. There were the cargo pants slung low on his hips (seriously, didn’t any of these people hear about trousers with normal waistlines?); a khaki tank, clinging flatteringly to his abs – a rippled six-pack that made Arthur’s stomach twinge in jealousy; bare arms, generous on the muscle side; and a shock of thick, shiny hair that reflected light at every turn.

“So I see,” Gwaine drawled with an infuriatingly lazy smirk, checking Arthur out blatantly. “He’ll do.”

Arthur blushed and drew in a breath to put that – that rascal – back in his place, but Merlin laid a hand on his arm, effectively derailing Arthur’s focus.

“Arthur, this is Gwaine Macken, you may have heard of him. He’s got his own studio in Cardiff, and occasionally works for us when we ask nicely.”

Gwaine flashed him a toothy smile. “Merlin, I told you a million times, for you – anything.”

Merlin’s smile was equally charming. “How about we get on with the shoot, then?”

Gwaine pressed his hands to his chest with a rather convincing crestfallen expression. “Break my heart, why don’t you? Right, Arthur. You go behind that screen, there are clothes there – put them on. Then I’ll get one of the girls to do your hair.”

Arthur blinked and glanced at Merlin, who nodded. “Trust me,” he said quietly.

Gwaine was watching them without even trying to hide it. Unwilling to feed his curiosity, Arthur nodded brusquely and walked behind the screen.

It wasn’t exactly a secured area, but Arthur didn’t care. He wasn’t actually shy or self-conscious about his body. He wouldn’t want to put a show for whoever might be looking, but he’d be damned if he let his discomfort show. Not in front of Gwaine, in any case.

The screen wasn’t too far away from where Gwaine was fawning over his camera. Through the crack, Arthur could see him perfectly well, and watched surreptitiously even as he shed his clothes to exchange them for a pair of soft black trousers and a matching tunic-thing.

The first thing that caught his attention was that Gwaine and Merlin were standing entirely too close to each other.

“You’ve been dodging my calls,” Gwaine was saying, his hands resting on Merlin’s hips, turning him gently from side to side.

Merlin gave him a tired smile. “I haven’t. It’s been that kind of week.”

Gwaine leaned closer, eyes half-closed, as though breathing him in. “I know a few ways to make it better,” he purred.

Merlin laughed and pushed him away, but his motion was intent more than effort. “I know you do. Now listen to me, would you? Arthur isn’t a professional model. He’s a friend who’s doing me a huge favour.” He rested a hand on Gwaine’s shoulder. “So play nice, okay?”

Gwaine caught Merlin’s hand in both his own. “I always play nice, sweetheart.”

“Gwaine.”

“Oh, stop fretting. I won’t molest him. Well, maybe a little bit.”

Merlin rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. “I need to go take care of a few things, but I’ll be back later, and Arthur had better not have reasons to complain.”

“Don’t you go worrying your pretty head, Merlin,” Gwaine called after him, smirking.

Merlin flipped him off, walking away.

“All right, princess,” Gwaine said, noticing that Arthur had stepped out from behind the screen. “Let’s see what we have here. Natalie, be a dear and work your magic over this one, aye? He’s way too tanned, do something about it.”

Before Arthur could come up with a retort, a thin but surprisingly strong young woman was manhandling him into a chair.

“Sit still,” she ordered, tilting his chin up toward the light.

Arthur gritted his teeth and tried not to snap. He wanted to remind them all that he was not a bloody model, thank you very much. He itched to tell them that he earned more in a year than their entire agency put together; that his uncle was a member of parliament; that he played chess with members of the government on a regular basis.

But then he caught sight of Merlin making his way across the room, and the words died on his tongue, their importance fading away into obscurity.

Gwaine was watching Merlin, too, Arthur noticed. Half the room was clamouring for Merlin’s attention as he moved from desk to desk, commenting on the sketches, reading off people’s screens, asking and answering questions, talking and laughing. It wasn’t only that he was, in all likelihood, their boss, given that this was the creative department (and Arthur was having a hard time digesting the idea that Merlin, who was waltzing around the room in bloody Converse shoes, for God’s sake, could be anybody’s boss, but that was beside the point.)

It was more than that. Watching his progress, while Natalie tried to pick his eyes out with a hairbrush, Arthur thought that Merlin wasn’t the most beautiful person in the room, or the loudest, or the most intimidating. But he was the person who compelled everyone’s attention like a magnet, leaving smiles and almost visibly lighter air in his wake.

He was a walking inspiration, and everyone wanted to touch him, feeling empowered when he so much as smiled their way.

“Yeah, he does that,” Gwaine said suddenly, and Arthur jumped, realising he’d been an object of scrutiny himself. He stared, and Gwaine quickly raised a quelling hand. “Don’t worry, you didn’t say it. I’ve just seen that look plenty of times before.”

“What look?” Arthur asked stubbornly, but Gwaine just shook his head.

“If you’re ready, princess? We do have a deadline to meet.”

The shoot itself wasn’t as bad as Arthur thought it might be. He had cursed himself a million times over on their way here for having agreed to something so... undignified, if not downright degrading. Not to mention something he knew nothing about.

But the actual process, as it turned out, wasn’t too horrible. As soon as they began, the room around faded away, and there were only Gwaine’s instructions, bright light, the sound of the camera, and occasionally Natalie’s hands on him, adjusting his hair or clothes.

They gave him a fake sword and instructed to hold several classic fencing positions. Arthur had fenced back at school, and it wasn’t difficult. Gwaine was running a streaming commentary of everything Arthur did, and most of his observations were completely infuriating.

“Looking good there, princess. Just like that – very pretty. Do you mind tucking your arse in a bit? This is going to be on juice cartons, we don’t want to give kids the wrong idea. Very nice. Does your jaw ever hurt from sticking it out like that?”

It was all Arthur could do not to attack him with the stupid plastic sword he was holding. Fortunately, his anger seemed to translate into the right visual, if Gwaine’s mutterings of ‘great body lines, very aggressive, give me more of that’ were any indication.

“How are we doing?” Merlin’s voice cut in suddenly, and Arthur’s head snapped up. He hadn’t noticed Merlin return. “Wow, Gwaine, those look fantastic.”

He was pointing at the laptop screen. Arthur pursed his lips in annoyance, not really certain why he was feeling so peculiar.

“Yeah,” Gwaine said a bit absently, glancing over Merlin’s shoulder. “If I could just get him to—”

Suddenly he was moving, climbing over the reflector to join Arthur in the shooting zone. Arthur glanced at him warily, and Gwaine smirked at him.

“Relax, princess.” He came up close to Arthur from behind, laying his hands confidently on Arthur’s hips, moving them for him and murmuring rather filthily into Arthur’s ear: “I just need to put you in one more position. Do these knees actually bend?”

Arthur gritted his teeth, blushing furiously. He was tense as hell, but he allowed Gwaine to manhandle him to his satisfaction, refusing to give him the pleasure of knowing how embarrassed (and reluctantly turned on) Arthur was.

“That’s it.” Gwaine’s whisper came hot in his ear. “Don’t move.”

Arthur could hear him retreating hastily back toward the camera and stood stubbornly still. Natalie appeared at his side to mop the sweat off his forehead, and Arthur wanted to die a little bit from the sheer humiliation. The clicks of the camera seemed endless, his arms and shoulders beginning to ache.

“And we’re done!” Gwaine called out finally, just as Arthur was about to break. “Thanks everyone, good job.”

Arthur dropped the sword as if it had burned his hands and straightened up, wishing nothing more than to leave as soon as possible.

But the next moment he forgot all about it, because Merlin was suddenly right beside him, in his space, pulling Arthur – sweat-soaked shirt and all – into a hug.

“Don’t, I’m gross,” Arthur mumbled, heat pooling low in his belly.

Merlin just laughed and hugged him a bit tighter. “You’re perfect. That was perfect. Thank you.”

And Arthur must have been stinking by now, but Merlin smelled awesome, like every good thing Arthur had ever tasted, and he was loath to let go.

Natalie had shown him the way to the men’s room, which earned her Arthur’s eternal gratitude, even if he was convinced that the woman was a menace with makeup brushes. He cleaned up as best he could, trying not to look too much at his hair. There was product in it.

When Arthur came back into the workroom, he found Merlin, Gwaine, and Freya gathered around the laptop. Gwaine was still standing way too close to Merlin to be casual or even friendly, touching him frequently to get his attention. Arthur frowned for no reason at all, but Merlin shot out a hand and pulled Arthur close in by the elbow, so that they could all decide which pictures to choose.

Arthur wasn’t an expert, so he kept quiet as Merlin and Gwaine discussed angles and light. The photos all seemed surreal to him, and although it was clearly his own face staring back at him (it would be taken care of later in editing, Merlin assured him), he couldn’t quite recognise himself. It made him feel relieved, but also strangely discomfited. He wondered if Gwaine was one of those photographers that stole people’s souls.

He wasn’t needed here anymore, strictly speaking, but Merlin’s hand was still on his elbow, and so Arthur remained, ignoring Gwaine’s occasional scathing comments on his appearance.

Gwaine’s job was done, and it turned out that, after the final shots were selected and Merlin (or rather Freya) made certain that the production team started to work on them right away, Merlin’s presence wasn’t required to supervise the process for quite a few hours.

“It’s Friday night, for fuck’s sake,” Freya said, without looking up from where she was texting seemingly every person on the planet. “I have no life as it is, thanks to you people. The least you can do is buy me a drink.”

Merlin turned toward him with a smile. “Arthur?”

Arthur just blinked, staring at him. “Hm?”

Gwaine laughed. “He’s still high from the shoot, Merlin – remember your first time? Get him a bloody drink.”

Which was how Arthur found himself being escorted through a maze of dark corridors to a back door, into a miniscule backyard, through a hole in the fence, and finally into the backyard of what looked like the City’s least-known pub. The backdoor opened after Freya had knocked in a particular way, and they made their way through a small kitchen, where a couple of dim silhouettes were bickering over a stove, and into a softly lit pub room. In a few moments, they were settled in a booth in a far corner, and a smiling giant in a polka dot apron was beaming down at them.

“Um,” Arthur said, blinking. The man looked like he could bend steel.

“Arthur, meet Percy.” Merlin said. “This is his pub. He keeps it open at all hours, and without him, the agency would have died out by now.”

“Nice to meet you,” Arthur said, because there wasn’t anything else to it.

Gwaine snorted, and Freya scowled at them all. “We’ll be doing shots, Percy,” she declared in a no-nonsense tone that reminded strongly Arthur of Morgana. “Better just bring us the bottle.”

Arthur wasn’t normally one for heavy drinking, but after watching Freya, who looked like he could knock her over with a loud breath, knock back a shot without batting an eyelash, he felt he couldn’t back down.

In the end, he wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the whole experience of being out with Merlin doing strange and unusual things, but eventually Arthur felt the tension bleed out of him. He suddenly felt wide awake and interested in everything. Merlin, Gwaine, and Freya had clearly known each other a long time and gleefully grabbed at the opportunity to tease each other for Arthur’s benefit, telling him all the embarrassing tales about each other they had in their collections.

Arthur just laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

“So you did a photo shoot, too, huh?” Arthur asked Merlin at some point.

“Oooh, this is precious,” Freya crowed, leaning forward in her eagerness, her elbows slipping on the spilled tequila. “Merlin pitched a photo ad campaign to Calvin Klein that year, and the brand manager was sweet on him—”

“He was not!” Merlin sputtered.

“—and said that the only way they’d give us the account was if Merlin was also the model.”

Merlin buried his face in his hands. “Oh my God.”

Gwaine was laughing. “Mordred was so into you, Merlin. I did the actual shoot, but he directed it. I can tell you, the bloke’s got some fantasy life.”

“I think I know what you’re talking about,” Arthur said suddenly, surprising everyone at the table, though no one as much as himself.

“No, you don’t,” Merlin said hoarsely, horror splashing in his eyes.

Arthur began to smile. “Yeah, I do. It was all over the City; even I couldn’t miss it. I just didn’t know it was you, obviously.”

“You didn’t—”

“A black and white photo; a skinny guy wearing jeans and, well, briefs; another bloke behind him, his hands in his – your, I guess – front pockets; and another one in front of you, sort of just watching?” Merlin’s eyes were wide and desperate, and Arthur laughed triumphantly. “You were the skinny guy!”

Gwaine and Freya were cackling. Merlin, beet-red and huffing, glared at them. “I hate you all.”

“Oh, come on, Merlin,” Gwaine managed through the laughter. “That was one hot ad! I got an award for it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Merlin drawled sarcastically. “Gay Times favourite. Not exactly a Cannes Lion, was it?”

Freya had tears in her eyes. “Merlin couldn’t go anywhere for months after that one. I mean, if you remember the photo, they had all that hair in his face, and his head was sort of turned, but everyone knew it was him anyway.”

“It’s your bone structure,” Gwaine said, blatantly staring. “Can’t fake it.”

“See if I invite you to do more projects for us,” Merlin threatened, pointing an unsteady finger at Gwaine.

“Don’t worry.” Freya patted Gwaine’s arm soothingly. “If he won’t, I will.”

Arthur had pretty much lost track of time, which didn’t happen to him. Ever. At some point, he glanced out the window and realised the sky was beginning to turn grey. Idly he wondered why Percy didn’t kick them out, but it seemed that Merlin hadn’t been joking when he’d said the pub was open at all hours.

Gwaine had to catch a train to Cardiff and had bid them goodbye first. Merlin walked him to the door, the two of them talking quietly, heads bent close together. As Arthur watched, Gwaine took Merlin’s face in his hands gently and kissed him with clear affection, ruffling his hair as he walked outside. When Merlin returned to the table, he was smiling, but didn’t meet Arthur’s eyes.

Sometime later, Percy had brought them coffee, which Freya declined. Merlin nodded approvingly. “Go home, get some sleep,” he said, patting his jacket in a vaguely concerned manner. “You have money for the cab?”

She grinned and kissed his forehead. “Way ahead of you, Emrys. I’ll ring you later today, yeah?”

“Be sure to check—”

“God, Merlin. I know.” She collected her bag and smiled at Arthur. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too.”

They sat in companionable silence as Merlin finished his coffee, and Arthur stared at his own.

“You really need to get back to work, huh?” Arthur asked at last, a little incredulously. Merlin already resembled a zombie. In Arthur’s recollection, he hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, either.

“Yeah.” Merlin grinned. “Don’t worry, I’m used to it. I have time to walk you to the cab, though.”

“Jesus, Merlin, I’m not a girl. I can get a bloody cab on my own.”

“You’re drunk and spent,” Merlin pointed out. “You were riding on adrenaline, and now it’s worn off. I know these things, Arthur. Besides, I could use some fresh air.”

Percy’s front door led to a perfectly respectable-looking street, and there was a Black Cab within sight, as though waiting. Arthur began to suspect that Merlin had some kind of cab-drawing magic.

Just as the car pulled over and Arthur turned around to say some kind of goodbye, Merlin leaned in close and pressed a quick, gentle kiss to Arthur’s cheek.

“I – um...” Arthur blushed, blindsided and hot all over.

Merlin was smiling. “Go home, Arthur; get some sleep. I’ll see you later.”

He was back inside before Arthur could come up with a reply.

Back home, he took a long shower, drank two glasses of water, and fell into his bed, his whole body abuzz with pleasant fatigue. Arthur fell asleep to the beginnings of a mild headache, with a smile on his face.

--

Arthur woke up sometime after ten in the morning – scandalously late, but he savoured the feeling. Contrary to his expectations, he was feeling fine – better than fine, in fact. He was pumped up with energy after only five hours in a way he couldn’t remember being after his regular eight.

The flat was silent. Arthur winced, realising that Merlin probably didn’t even know the night was over, still stuck in that dark, windowless room Arthur saw in passing yesterday. But the sun was too bright to dwell on anyone’s misfortunes, and Arthur went for his usual run, grinning at everyone he met.

Exhilarating as that was, it didn’t feel like enough, somehow. Arthur wanted to do something, to get out. The idea of losing this wonderful day to watching the iRobot clean felt like sacrilege. In any other circumstances, Arthur probably would have never, but last night had changed something in him, giving him the impulse to reach out and dial a number.

Leon was one of Arthur’s old mates from uni. The last time Arthur had spoken to him was two months ago, when Arthur had heard about Leon’s promotion and wanted to congratulate him. Somewhere in their painfully awkward small talk, it came up that Leon was captain of an amateur football team, playing every Saturday or so.

Arthur called him to ask, quite tentatively, if he could come watch them play sometimes, and maybe even join the team if they had an opening.

There was a long, startled pause. Arthur had already drawn in a breath to tell Leon to just forget about it when the speaker exploded in his ear.

“Are you kidding me?” Leon practically yelled. “Hell, Arthur, this is like bloody fate or something. We have a friendly today, and we’re one CB down, so if there’s any chance you can come and join us right now—”

“Woah, Leon, hold it. I’d be happy to, but if it’s an important match – I mean, I haven’t played in ages.”

“Arthur, if you’re half as good as you were at uni – quarter as good, even, you’d save all our arses.”

“Well—”

“How soon can you get to Willesden?”

Arthur glanced at the clock. “Forty minutes?”

Leon laughed. “Make it an hour; wouldn’t want you breaking your neck before the game. The match starts at two; we’ll have just enough time to have your registration sorted and well, meet the team.”

“Excellent,” Arthur said. “I’ll see you there.”

It went even better than Arthur had imagined. Leon was beaming with enthusiasm as he introduced Arthur around, and it was a pleasant surprise to see some familiar faces there. No one asked him about his sudden interest, which suited Arthur just fine. He was nervous just before the game, but as soon as he heard the opening whistle, he was in his element. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed this.

It only got better when they won. Arthur didn’t score, but he made three rather spectacular assists, two of which resulted in actual goals. The team warmed up to him instantly, and Leon was quite beside himself. They more or less confiscated the nearest pub from its regulars, and Arthur didn’t even try to protest.

He came home at some point after six, still humming with happy energy, and immediately tripped over something. At closer inspection, it turned out to be Merlin’s shoe, lying, for some unfathomable reason, just within the doorway, all by itself. Its brother was soon discovered at the other end of the corridor.

Smirking, Arthur crawled over to Merlin’s half-open door and peered inside his bedroom.

Merlin was sprawled facedown on the bed, still wearing his clothes from yesterday, dead to the world.

Arthur tutted and moved to close the door, when an idea occurred to him. Merlin’s mobile was peeking out from his jeans pocket, and Arthur coaxed it out, watching Merlin the whole time like a hawk, but Merlin didn’t even stir. Arthur resisted the urge to push his fringe out of his eyes for him and tiptoed out of the room.

After a quick but informative conversation with Freya, Arthur had quickly weighed his options. He went into the kitchen and studied the contents of the fridge thoughtfully.

Not only wasn’t Merlin an organised shopper, he rarely managed to eat his food even when he did shop. Arthur checked the date on a pack of shrimp suspiciously and poked at the avocado. Taking stock of all the food that was about to turn bad if not dealt with immediately, Arthur googled the list. The results were quite satisfactory.

An hour later, the kitchen was filled with delicious smells, if Arthur said so himself. There was a bottle of pinot grigio cooling in the fridge, and Arthur was humming quietly as he moved around the breakfast aisle, setting the table.

He was debating whether he should go wake Merlin before he threw the pasta in to boil when the object of his reflections wandered into the kitchen under his own power, sleep-ruffled and blinking way too much.

“Wow, something smells nice,” Merlin muttered, looking around owlishly. “What time is it?”

Arthur glanced at his watch. “Half past eight. Did you get enough sleep?”

Merlin groaned, rubbing his face. “Not nearly. What are you making?”

“Shrimp pasta with asparagus.”

Merlin stared at the stove wistfully. “Sounds nice.” He glanced over at the dining table set for two. “Um, are you expecting someone? Should I leave before they show up?”

Arthur shot a glance at the pot, assessing. “You have about ten minutes before the pasta is ready. I mean, if you want to take a shower or something before we eat.” He looked over at Merlin’s baffled expression and bit his lip to hold back a smile. “Not that I mind, but you look like you could use a shower.”

“Riiiight,” Merlin drawled, still staring at Arthur as though he was speaking a different language. “You mean you cooked for... I mean that I, um... Arthur?”

He was adorable. With his hair sticking out every which way, pillow creases across his cheek, rumpled clothes, and a completely confused expression, he was endearing like a puzzled puppy, and it was all Arthur could do not to say that out loud.

“I talked to Freya while you were sleeping,” Arthur said, taking pity on him. “She said they didn’t need you back tonight, and I thought you could use a decent meal. Besides, it was either cooking everything you’d stuffed in the fridge or throwing it out before it became a health hazard.”

There was a long silence.

“I’m going to go take a shower now,” Merlin announced in a strangled voice, spinning a bit unsteadily on his heel and stalking off.

“Don’t drown!” Arthur called after him, laughing.

Payback was a bitch.

--

The only problem with payback was that Arthur had forgotten he was dealing with Merlin, and Merlin seemed to possess the ability to gain the upper hand when he wasn’t even trying.

He came back freshly showered, awake, and a little bit breathtaking in his jeans, worn into softness, and a flannel shirt that was clearly old and loved. Merlin’s hair wasn’t styled for once and was drying quickly, curling gently around his ears that were suddenly noticeable and pink from the steam.

Merlin himself looked soft, less edgy. All of a sudden, he wasn’t the ever-glamorous social butterfly or a creative guru. He was the bloke next door who smiled at you every morning. He was someone’s friend, someone’s boyfriend. A real person, living a real life – approachable, touchable, close.

Arthur sighed and poured them both more wine as he graced Merlin with the story of his football successes. Arthur seemed to have lost his appetite sometime during cooking, and besides, it was much more fun watching Merlin eat. He looked like he needed it.

“Arthur, this is delicious,” Merlin said, twirling more pasta around his fork. “Seriously, you’re wasted on your day job.”

Arthur coughed, flattered and struggling to hide it. “I’ll have you know that I’m very good at my day job.”

Merlin glanced around and nodded. “Yes, it looks like you are,” he said softly. “Do you like it, though?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a simple question, Arthur.” Merlin took a sip of his wine. “My job, for one. Sure, it drives me crazy some days – most days even, and I’ll probably quit it at some point if I want to keep whatever’s left of my soul, but there are reasons why I’m doing it now. I love the people I work with; I love being smarter than the competition; hell, I even love the crazy clients, because they make me pull out everything I have and find ways to make it work somehow. And so I like my job, even though there’s probably some special hell down there for people like me.”

Merlin shook his head, grinning, and tipped his wineglass in Arthur’s direction. “So how about you? Do you like your job?”

Arthur frowned. “My job isn’t about liking it. It’s a huge responsibility.”

“And you like handling it?”

“I can handle it. Not so many people can.”

“Yes,” Merlin allowed. “But not quite so few, either. So why does it have to be you, specifically?”

“Because—” Arthur felt lost for a moment. “Because that’s what I do. That’s what our family does.”

“Really?” Merlin’s eyebrows arched. “Because I’m pretty sure Morgana is in Brazil right now, hunting down new specimens for her terrarium.”

“Well, we can’t all be as selfish as Morgana,” Arthur snapped. Merlin was gazing at him calmly, and Arthur felt ashamed of his outburst. “Sorry. It’s just – my father has a heart condition. He can’t endure any stress – any stress at all. And this company was his life’s work.”

“But surely your father is still a shareholder?”

“He is, we all are, but it’s not the same. He needs to be involved, and he can’t.”

“And so you do it for him.”

“…Fuck, Merlin, stop looking at me like that. I like my job fine.”

“Really? So who’d you want to be when you were a child?”

“What does it have to do—”

“I’m just curious. I find it difficult to imagine any kid thinking ‘I’m gonna be a financial analyst or a risks manager when I grow up.’”

“Yeah, well, not all of us get to make a living posing for pretty pictures and flirting with everything that moves.”

Instead of being offended, Merlin laughed out loud. “You could,” he pointed out, grinning.

Arthur’s lips twitched. “Shut up.”

The rest of the meal was spent talking about more neutral subjects, for which Arthur was grateful. Merlin was the kind of person who didn’t let anyone get away with anything, no matter how important or powerful that ‘anyone’ was. Arthur admired that about him, but it was unnerving to have the ability directed at himself. Merlin was too perceptive for his own good.

After the dishes were cleared, Arthur and Merlin migrated to the living room couch, though not without a round of bickering. Merlin tried to check in with the office to see how the mock-ups were coming along, but Arthur was under strict instructions from Freya to not let Merlin anywhere near his laptop. Merlin accused him of being intimidated by a girl, but Arthur ignored him. He’d grown up with Morgana and had a very healthy appreciation of all the numerous and painful ways ‘a girl’ could screw him over.

Besides, there was something almost... fierce about Freya, her quiet would-be shy ways notwithstanding. Arthur had the distinct feeling that he’d rather have a wrestling match with Percy than cross her.

They ended up watching Air Crash Investigations – Arthur was a fan of the series. Merlin gave him a strange look but didn’t object otherwise, curling up on the couch instead, wrapped in a soft fleece quilt that Arthur kept there mostly because it had come with the furniture. Merlin, who was perpetually cold and probably still tired, hogged it and didn’t think twice about it. He seemed relaxed and engrossed in the show.

But Arthur was still feeling prickly.

“So, you and Gwaine?” he started finally, when he couldn’t fight the urge any longer.

“What about us?”

“Are you and he, um...”

Merlin turned to look at him, one eyebrow rising. “Am I and he – what?”

He was smirking, and Arthur suppressed a groan. Merlin knew perfectly well what Arthur was asking – Arthur was certain of it. He just wanted to be a bastard about it and make Arthur say it.

“Lovers,” Arthur blurted out, irritated.

“Wow.” Merlin’s gaze flickered away for a moment. “You don’t mince words, huh?”

Arthur waited.

At long last, Merlin sighed, shifting under the quilt uncomfortably. “Gwaine and I are friends,” he said quietly. “We used to be more.”

“Didn’t work out?”

“Not so much, no.”

“He... seems to like you a great deal.”

“Oh, he does like me; that wasn’t the problem.”

Arthur couldn’t bring himself to say the words out loud, but his expression must have spoken for him, because Merlin sighed and elaborated.

“We’re too different, he and I. He’s a free spirit, and I admire that, but I couldn’t...” Merlin trailed off, frowning. “He got me a stripper for my birthday once. The kind that wasn’t just a stripper, you know?”

“Oh.” Arthur swallowed. “Did you—”

“Yeah.” Merlin closed his eyes. “I did a lot of things trying not to disappoint Gwaine, trying to impress him. I really liked him and thought that maybe if I went with it all, I’d... adapt. Or something.”

“You didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” Merlin smiled a bit sadly. “It’s not that I can’t figure out what three or more people could do in bed, it’s just that I don’t think that a gangbang is a great way to build up intimacy.” He sighed. “I’m not a prude, and I don’t judge. It’s just not for me.”

Arthur resolutely stomped on the images that flooded his mind at Merlin’s words. Because he had absolutely no problem seeing what three or more people could do in bed with Merlin, to Merlin, and it was making Arthur’s insides churn with stinging jealousy and white-hot desire.

Also, he really wanted to punch Gwaine. A lot.

Arthur cleared his throat. “So you broke up with him.”

Merlin made a face. “He likes to play the victim, but it was a mutual decision. Funny thing is, we became better friends afterwards. Helped each other out of quite a few tight spots, and I don’t think I trust anyone as much as I trust Gwaine. We work better as friends.”

“So you don’t have sex with him anymore?”

Merlin cocked his head to the side, studying Arthur from under his lashes. “Never pegged you for the observant type,” he said around a slow smile. “But actually, yeah, we do sometimes.”

Arthur’s stomach dropped. “Like fuck buddies?”

“No. Well, not really. And it’s not often, it’s just... Look, in this business, there are these days, you know? Normally, I can handle it fine, but sometimes it all just gets to me. I just – wind myself up into a frenzy, and I need to snap out of it, and I can’t. Some days I just can’t – not by myself.” Merlin glanced at Arthur uncertainly and sighed. “Look, this is going to sound vulgar again, but some days, Arthur, I really need for someone to—”

“What?”

“Well, frankly? To hold me down and make me take it until I stop thinking.”

Arthur’s heart was hammering somewhere in his throat. “You’re not vulgar,” he managed. “And I do understand.”

He did. He knew exactly the kind of days Merlin was talking about. He’d lived through them himself more often than he would have liked to admit.

The only difference was that, in Arthur’s case, he wanted to hold someone down and lose himself in them until he forgot about everything else, until he stopped feeling trapped inside his own head.

That was why he haunted certain places in the City every other month. Arthur was huge on self-discipline, but sometimes even his control wasn’t enough. He wasn’t proud of himself for that, and if he could help it at all, he tried not to think about it.

He gritted his teeth. Jealousy had been stirring in him throughout the whole conversation, but it flared up the brightest at Merlin’s last admission. It wasn’t so much about Gwaine having sex with Merlin as it was about the intimate knowledge of him that the man possessed. That Gwaine knew Merlin well enough to tell when he’d be needing that kind of... assistance. That he’d know exactly how to give it to him.

“Arthur?” Merlin was looking at him warily, his teeth torturing his lower lip in absent worry. “I’m sorry. I made you uncomfortable.”

“No,” Arthur said at once. “No, Merlin, you didn’t. I’m not a – I’m not a prude, either.”

“Because you look a little like—”

--I’m having trouble keeping my hands to myself when you’re just sitting there, smelling of my shower gel and rolling filthy words off your tongue and I just really want to—

“I’m just not used to discussing it,” Arthur said firmly, clasping his hands in his lap in a white-knuckled grip. “But it’s fine. Really.”

Merlin looked at him for a moment longer, either wary or waiting for something. Finally he nodded, smiling softly, soothing, again.

“Oh, good. Because you wanted to know, and I wanted to tell you, but not if it cuts my access to the culinary delights you dish out.”

Arthur laughed. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he said, grinning. Then, because he couldn’t help himself any longer, he reached out and tweaked Merlin’s ear.

“Prat,” Merlin muttered, sinking back into the cushions, hiding his grin. “Shut up now. I’m watching the film.”

Arthur shook his head and turned back toward the telly.

He could see a very, very cold shower in his near future.

--

It was Friday a week later that Arthur’s assistant walked into his office shortly after he arrived to work, carrying a steaming mug in her hand. She placed it on the desk in front of Arthur, as though inviting him to admire the cheery smiley face on its side.

Arthur blinked. “What is that?”

Mithian was gazing at him serenely, like Arthur was a not particularly bright toddler. She was ten years older than him and completely and utterly unflappable.

“Coffee.”

Arthur blinked again. “But you’ve never brought me coffee before.”

It was true. The only time Arthur asked her for coffee or tea was when he had visitors, and even then, all Mithian was supposed to do was place a call down to catering. Serving Arthur drinks was way beneath her station.

This didn’t look like servitude, though, and the way she was staring down at him in a mildly interested but mostly condescending manner wasn’t, either. Not to mention that the mug clearly looked like someone’s personal possession and not at all like the fragile china branded with Pendragon and Gorlois crests.

“You never looked like you needed it before,” Mithian told him dryly. “Now it almost seems as if you actually have a life outside these walls. It’s nice.”

Arthur stared at her. For a moment, he had a mad thought that he had somehow switched places with Merlin, and it was Freya standing in front of him, not his own assistant. Merlin and Freya acted in a fashion more appropriate for siblings than colleagues. Arthur’s workplace had always been a stronghold of strict formality and subordination.

Or so he’d thought.

“I like the tie,” Mithian added pensively. Her eyes flickered up to Arthur’s face, and she sighed. “Do drink the coffee, sir. You have a conference call in ten minutes.”

Arthur stared after her as she glided with dignity toward the door, his eyes drawn to the impeccable 3-inch heels she was wearing. Arthur shuddered and grabbed at the mug reflexively.

He hadn’t realised the change was so noticeable, but now that he thought about it, it probably shouldn’t have been so shocking. His nights were quite late these days, because Arthur couldn’t say no when Merlin called and invited him for drinks after work. They met at Percy’s pub, The Rising Sun, and Arthur was becoming steadily fonder of the place.

Percy, as it turned out, was an Arsenal fan, which made Arthur warm up to him instantly – football talk was the most genuine of them all. Plus, Arthur wasn’t above admitting (out loud to Merlin, no less) that Percy was kind of nice to look at, with his remarkable biceps and easy smiles. He wasn’t as quick at grasping the smartarse jokes Merlin and Gwaine fired at each other, but he laughed readily when Freya explained.

Arthur knew he’d never be really fond of Gwaine, who kept calling him Princess and continued to touch Merlin in all sorts of inappropriate ways. Still, Arthur couldn’t deny that the man was fun to be around, and, deep down inside, Arthur went as far as to acknowledge that his dislike stemmed from envy. Gwaine was easy in all senses of the word, and sometimes Arthur couldn’t help but wish for a little bit of that for himself.

Freya was the quiet one, preferring to listen rather than talk. When she did talk – normally several stiff drinks in – her words were all cutting humour and sharp-witted sarcasm. It was a bit humiliating but also undeniably hot to watch her wipe the floor with all of them when she was in the mood, starting with her own boss and ending with whoever was in her bad graces that day.

They were occasionally joined by other people, most frequently Gilli and Owain, two interns who followed Merlin around like puppies because (according to Freya) Merlin was the only person in the building who was kind to interns.

Arthur didn’t like Gilli much, but Owain was an okay bloke. Arthur ran into him once while out at lunch, which somehow resulted in Owain picking the tie Arthur was currently wearing (deep, noble red), which in turn led to a lot of teasing later from the rest of the group and Arthur being dared to actually wear it. Arthur put up a fight but knew it was just for show. His colleagues did double takes as he walked into the office, and honestly, Arthur found it... a little exhilarating.

Still, much as he enjoyed pub nights, he preferred the quieter ones when both he and Merlin stayed in. Arthur would cook, having quickly established that Merlin would eat anything put in front of him, but had a weakness for Mexican and generally all things spicy, and disliked of any kind, except for fish and chips.

Merlin was a bit uncomfortable at first, as he seemingly made no contribution to those meals. He couldn’t sit still, itching to help, but, as he was accident-prone, chopping and skinning of any kind was out of the question. Besides, Arthur really loved to cook and hated when someone interfered with the process.

He soon discovered that the easiest way to placate Merlin was to set him with some wine (not too much, or he’d be sloshed before the meal) and light snacks. Arthur found himself preparing those first, so there were things like celery sticks and dip or oven-roasted tomatoes with feta on the table before Merlin got home.

Merlin would sigh guiltily at his perceived uselessness and resolve to provide entertaining conversation, which suited Arthur just fine. He liked listening to Merlin – from the purely aural pleasure of hearing his voice, unexpectedly deep for such a slender person, to the way he talked about his day, his plans, or anything that came up, really. Merlin’s perspective, oftentimes so very different from Arthur’s, was fascinating to explore.

Merlin would ask questions about the dishes Arthur was making, and, while Arthur hated anyone interfering with his cooking, he absolutely loved talking about it, explaining the sequence of the preparation process and all the additions and improvisations he’d made to the original recipe.

“You’re so full of it,” Merlin would tell him occasionally, when Arthur went on a particularly self-righteous tangent about the misuse of garlic.

Arthur would halt in his tracks, but then he’d notice that Merlin was smiling his ‘I’m fond of you, that’s why I tease you’ smile, and Arthur would blush, turn away, and go on mocking Merlin’s ignorance in all things culinary.

The best part of those nights, though, was that they talked. Often staying up later than when they actually went out, conversation drifting from everyday and casual to things Arthur never thought he’d be talking about out loud or sharing with anyone.

Merlin was now the only person, aside from Morgana and Helen, who knew about Arthur’s research into his mother’s work. She’d died in childbirth, and Arthur was initially too little to ask questions. When he was nineteen, Uther had a stroke, and Arthur dared not disturb him with something so obviously still painful after that.

Oddly enough, it was Uther’s then-new wife, Helen, who’d helped Arthur get access to the old family archives and get an understanding of who his mother really was. She was a photographer, Arthur told Merlin proudly one night. She took the cutest, most artful photos of babies Arthur had ever seen. She had a real gift of photographing children.

“She sounds wonderful,” Merlin said softly as Arthur showed him a few photos he’d managed to salvage. There was an undeniable wistfulness, a noticeable sadness in Merlin’s gaze as he cradled the time-yellowed pictures in his hands.

Merlin, too, had been raised by a single parent, his father having left before Merlin could properly remember him. Merlin didn’t seem to harbour ill feelings toward the man, but Arthur couldn’t help a flare of resentment.

Death was one thing. But thinking that someone would willingly miss out on knowing Merlin, being part of his life – Merlin, with his impossible smiles, incorrigible cheek, and gentle nature – the thought that someone would just carelessly dismiss all that and walk out for whatever reason made Arthur sad and angry, even if he realised how ridiculous his reaction was.

Arthur had always had difficulty letting things go. Merlin, on the other hand, wasn’t one to hold a grudge, no matter how deserved. Merlin was... Merlin.

So even if Arthur was seldom getting his eight hours of sleep anymore, he was unwilling to reinstate proper order. Merlin wouldn’t always be there, and Arthur might as well make the best of the time he had.

--

On Saturday, Arthur woke up excited about the upcoming football practice. Afterwards, he spent two hours talking tactics with Leon, which amounted to easily the most exhilarating part of the week.

And after the practice, Arthur came home, packed an overnight bag, and set off on a long drive to see his father.

Arthur enjoyed driving, that feeling of controlling the vehicle – the machine – around him. It wasn’t quite the same, but it reminded him of his old Piper Archer, the familiar, thrilling feeling of holding his life in his hands – an almost physical sensation, a little God-like and a little reckless.

After all these years, he still missed flying, although he rarely admitted as much even to himself. Driving took the edge off, but at the same time, it was a softcore torture of being close but not it, never it. It was alcohol-free beer for an old drunk, or decaf coffee for a caffeine junkie like Merlin.

Still, it was better than nothing.

Arthur hated the City traffic, though, as he seemed to have the worst luck in the world. It took all the fun out of driving, and besides Arthur simply couldn’t afford to risk being late. He only ever drove himself now on rare weekends once every couple of months, when he went to see Uther.

The stroke left Uther’s heart in really bad shape – so bad, in fact, that he didn’t even argue much when he was ordered to leave his own company. He owned a beautiful piece of land in Somerset, just a couple of miles away from Nunney, and the old house that had been standing there for many years untended was renovated and made habitable in record time. Uther and Helen had lived there ever since, in what almost amounted to contemporary-style seclusion.

Arthur drove mostly on autopilot, tired (albeit pleasantly) and humming softly along with the radio that he kept on to fight off sleep. An hour in, it started to drizzle, and the surroundings faded into a vaguely teal, greyish blur, drifting drowsily past the windows. Arthur pumped up the volume and melted into the drive.

By the time he finally pulled over into the wide, gravel-padded driveway, fitted for carriages rather than cars, it was past eleven. The upper floor looked dark and silent, but the windows downstairs were still glowing with warm amber when Arthur stepped out of the car stiffly, his body heavy and wooden after three hours in the same position.

The door opened before Arthur could reach for it, revealing George, his face forever frozen in arrogant subservience (and how he even managed to combine the two remained a mystery).

“Good evening, Mister Pendragon. Allow me to take your bag. Your room is ready and waiting for you, sir. Should I bring you some refreshments?”

Arthur blinked. George was maybe a year or two older than Arthur, but every attempt Arthur had made over the years to get him to drop the act with him had led nowhere. George wouldn’t even budge and call him Arthur, taking the very suggestion as an abominable insult. Mostly, Arthur was used to him, but long absences made the impression fade sometimes, and the reminder still brought him up short.

“Thank you, George.” Arthur smiled tiredly, handing over his bag. “No refreshments, I’m good. Is my father around?”

“Mister Pendragon Senior has already retired for the night. However, Miss Helen is in the living room, if you wish to pay your respects.”

Arthur bit back a grin. “Thanks, I’ll do that. Good night, George.”

“Good night, sir.”

The living room was easily the biggest room in the house, with a huge fireplace and beautiful French windows looking over the garden – the only concession to the Neo-Georgian architecture Uther was so fond of. Arthur stopped in the doorway and smiled to himself.

Helen was curled up on the sofa in front of the fire, knitting and listening to an audiobook. She was counting stitches under her breath, cursing softly from time to time when she had to start anew after she had to stop, yet again, and push her dark fringe out of her eyes.

When she’d met Uther, Helen was an rising singer and composer, her sentimental ballads building her quite a fan base. After the wedding, however, Uther had plucked her from the stage, because no wife of his would demean herself by performing. Arthur was eighteen at the time, Morgana just a year older, and the two of them were definitely less than thrilled with the whole affair.

However, it became clear in time that Helen wasn’t a gold digger. She genuinely loved Uther, and Arthur and Morgana had soon come to appreciate her for taking care of their father in ways they weren’t allowed to. She was wise enough not to try and be their stepmother, but became their friend instead, and Arthur had only the strongest affection for her. She was now teaching music at the elementary school nearby and seemingly had no regrets about leaving behind a more promising career.

“Is that The Red and The Black?”

Helen’s head snapped up at the sound of his voice. “Arthur!” She beamed at him, rising smoothly to her feet to greet him and laughing. “Not even close. It’s Anna Karenina.”

“My bad,” Arthur said, hugging her back. It felt a little awkward, but still good. “The French confused me.”

She laughed. “One would think that, with all your tutors and governesses, you’d be less of a literary urchin. How are you? We lost all hope of seeing you, to be honest.”

He grinned a bit guiltily. “I know, and I’m sorry. Things are a bit... busy right now.”

“Oh?” She lifted her eyebrows, smiling. “Work busy? Or ‘I met someone and we’re too busy shagging’ busy?”

“Helen!” Arthur laughed, blushing and shaking his head. He forgot how much like a schoolgirl she could be sometimes. “When would I possibly have the time to meet someone?”

She made a face. “Don’t give me that – you live in London. You could meet someone any minute of any day.”

“And yet I manage to avoid that fate somehow. How is Father?”

Helen pulled him to sit beside her on the sofa, and stopped the playback. “He’s good. Plays cricket twice a week, edits Father Singler’s sermons, thinks about running for the town council.”

“Whoa, when did all this happen?” Arthur stared at her, mildly alarmed. “Cricket? Town council? What does his cardiologist say?”

“Which one?” Helen parried. “He’s got fourteen of them, and mostly they don’t agree on anything, so whenever one of them forbids him something, he gets the green light from another one.”

“Helen—”

“Arthur, calm down.” She reached over and clasped his hand. “He’s fine. Some physical activity is good for him, and the most serious issue the council deals with is when to put the Christmas decorations on.” She leaned closer, holding his eyes. “I know my husband, Arthur. He’s fine, and these things – they make him happy.”

“Right.” Arthur nodded. “I’m sorry, I just—”

“You’re concerned,” she said, smiling. “It’s okay, Arthur. You’re a good son.”

“I should have come sooner.”

“But things were busy,” she reminded him with a sly smile. “Good busy, at least?”

Arthur thought of Merlin’s loafer, which he discovered this morning under the kitchen table, and couldn’t help a grin. “Yeah.”

“I’ll get the whole story out of you,” Helen threatened. “But I’ve got something to tell you first. It’s a bit overdue, but your father and I thought it would be best to tell you in person.”

Arthur straightened up, instantly alarmed again. “Tell me what?”

Helen visibly steadied herself, biting her lip, but the smile broke through anyway, blindingly happy. “I’m pregnant.”

Arthur’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“I know!” Helen laughed. “Insane, right? We didn’t want to tell anyone till after the first trimester; pregnancy is risky at my age, but that we’re out of the woods and everything is going great, and oh, Arthur, it’s a boy! You’re going to be a big brother!”

Stunned, Arthur hugged her close, his chest heavy with emotion. “Helen, that’s – that’s fantastic news. Fantastic. I’m so happy for you.”

He was, he really was, but it was a huge, enormous thing to digest. His father was having another child. It was fantastic, yes, but also ungraspable. He wanted to call Morgana. He wanted to call Merlin. It seemed impossible for one person to deal with on his own.

Helen made him hot chocolate in the charming, spotlessly clean kitchen, and Arthur told her all about Merlin of his own free will, mostly because talking about the other thing seemed unthinkable just yet. Talking about Merlin was as close a substitute of talking to him as Arthur could get at the time, and he clung to it like a baby would to a security blanket. Helen smiled a lot, but mostly let him be.

--

Arthur didn’t sleep too well and woke up early, his head still buzzing with the news. It was barely past seven, and the sun was timidly up, birds in uproar outside his window.

Swallowing curses not addressed to anyone in particular, Arthur dragged himself into the shower. When he felt more ready to face the world, he went downstairs, walked quietly by the flurry of activity in the kitchen, through the backdoor and into the garden.

The morning air was crisp and the wet grass almost unnaturally bright, little droplets of water glinting in the sunlight like diamonds. Arthur squinted and wrinkled his nose like any self-respecting metropolis-dweller, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and headed along the neatly trimmed lanes toward the rose garden.

The snappy sound of secateurs that had alerted Arthur to his father’s location in the first place was growing steadily louder, until finally, the man handling them was revealed, cutting branches off a dog rose hedge.

Arthur stopped, and, for an indefinitely brief moment, time stood still.

When Arthur was little, the most he’d seen of his father during an average week was during dinners on Sundays and sometimes, less frequently, on Saturdays as well. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d seen Uther wearing something other than an impeccably cut three-piece suit, a shirt ironed to the point where it could probably stand on its own from sheer crispiness, and one of his sharp Italian ties to complete it.

Seeing him as he was now, wearing a faded brown cardigan, baggy trousers, and a sun hat, of all things, was nothing short of surreal, despite the fact that it had been years and Arthur should have gotten used to it.

He shook himself mentally and crossed the remaining distance between them. “Good morning, Father.”

Uther glanced up at him calmly, taking in Arthur’s appearance with a curt, assessing look, and nodded. “Arthur.”

The secateurs began to make their snap, snap, snap noise again.

Arthur shifted from foot to foot, feeling nervous and out of place as he always did when face to face with Uther.

“How are you – um, Helen told me you’re feeling well?”

There was a pause as Uther adjusted the basket on the ground. “Quite well.”

“Good. That’s, um... that’s good.”

Snap. Snap. Snap.

“I’m sorry that I took longer than usual to come visit.”

“You did? Although, yes, now that you mention it. Helen did say it was past time we heard from you.”

“Right. I was... Something came up.”

Snap. Snap. Snap.

This was why they never did this, Arthur thought miserably. Uther wasn’t one of those fathers who came to their sons’ football matches at school or even to A&E when there was an accident or two. By the age of twelve, Arthur had been thoroughly conditioned not to expect to see his father under those or similar circumstances. The only times when Uther took an active interest in Arthur’s life were when Arthur had somehow managed to muck things up too badly to ignore.

Somehow, having lived under his father’s roof until he turned eighteen, Arthur had completely failed to learn how to communicate with him.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Arthur cleared his throat, his palms sweating. “Helen told me about – about your news. The baby. I’d like to offer my congratulations.”

Uther stilled, lowering the shears, an unexpected, soft smile curling on his lips. “Thank you, Arthur.”

Arthur wondered if they were supposed to hug, but he’d never known his father to be the hugging type.

“It’s wonderful, Father. I’m so happy for you both.”

Uther studied the basket full of cut stems thoughtfully, his expression almost dreamy. Arthur blinked.

“I’m painting the nursery green. I wanted it to be Pendragon red, but Helen said it wouldn’t be comfortable for the baby.”

Arthur felt like a cartoon character whose jaw had just hit the floor.

“Something about instinctive response to colour,” Uther added pensively, choosing yet another stem to pluck. “I don’t really understand, but women know these things, I suppose. I ordered him some clothes in red, though.”

“You ordered... Um, Father, isn’t that a bit early?”

“I want to be ready.” Uther glanced at him sternly. “I’m going to have a son, Arthur. A son. Everything must be perfect. I’m reading all the literature for parents now – have you any idea how hard it is to raise a healthy, happy, well-adjusted offspring?”

Arthur swallowed. “I would imagine—”

“Imagine,” Uther mocked, snapping the secateurs almost viciously. “You can’t ‘imagine.’ It’s a huge responsibility. All those things that could happen to children if they aren’t watched – you wouldn’t believe it.”

Arthur stared at the tips of his shoes, biting his lip hard. He would, in fact, believe it. Children needed to be watched, yes. They needed to feel the attention, to have someone they trusted around – to be touched, as sappy as that sounded.

Morgana had had that, for the better part of her childhood, at least, while her mother was still alive. Arthur – Arthur had so many nannies and tutors and servants to look after him, one coming after another, that, to his shame, he couldn’t remember most of their names. None of them had really stayed around long enough to make an impression.

Was he jealous? He didn’t feel jealous. He didn’t feel anything yet toward the tiny person growing inside Helen, except, perhaps, a stray tendril of protectiveness and wonder.

But it hurt; inexplicably, it hurt to hear so much anticipation and caring in his father’s voice.

Was it true after all? Was Arthur a bad person?

Snap. Snap. Snap.

“How is work?” Uther asked in a tone of voice that was much more familiar.

Arthur straightened up instinctively. “It’s good.”

“Is Tristan a good leader? That Chinese deal was very risky. Or was it Agravaine’s doing? You have to watch out for that man, Arthur. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s tried something to ruin us.”

Arthur frowned. Uther’s presumption and unshakable certainty that Arthur was a complete pushover were nothing new but still jarring, especially as Arthur was forbidden by a myriad of doctors to argue the point or risk upsetting his father in any other way. What bothered him most right now, though, wasn’t that.

“Father, you’re not supposed to take an interest in this. It’s too stressful—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, I’m perfectly fine.” Uther bristled impatiently. “I’m just making sure that, by the time your brother is old enough, there’ll still be a company for him to inherit.”

Arthur took a step back reflexively, his throat suddenly too tight to suck a breath in.

What have I done to displease you, Father? I’ve spent my life doing everything you asked of me – how is it not good enough? Why am I not good enough? Why have I never been good enough for you? Why?

They were choking him, the questions he could never ask, because the heart was a fragile organ. He could feel it aching in his own chest, the real, physical pain he’d never experienced before become stronger with every beat. He could never ask those questions to Uther’s face; he could never again explode the way he did when he was fifteen and hurting like this, for the first time as a man, not a boy. Not any longer.

The twisted irony of it was that Uther wasn’t being deliberately cruel. He probably thought he was doing it for Arthur, too. Arthur had never wanted the company in the first place. He was in the middle of his rebellion when he saw his father on a hospital bed, barely alive, hooked to all kinds of machines and monitors and looking mortal for the first time Arthur had ever seen him.

The decision to put his life on hold and do whatever was required of him wasn’t a decision so much as it was the only thing to be done. Arthur had always been haunted by an irrational but persistent thought that he was responsible for his mother’s death. He couldn’t stand to be the one to kill his father, too. He’d done enough damage with his coming out, and his dreams of the sky, and every other deviation from the plan laid out for him.

He’d done enough.

Now Uther was telling him that, in another twenty-five to thirty years, Arthur would be free of his obligations. Would have repaid his debt by then, too, perhaps?

Arthur mumbled some kind of excuse and walked away as fast as he could. He didn’t want his father to be around when the hysterical hyena laugh that was strangling him would finally spill from his lips, ugly and broken.

--

Arthur usually drove back to London after lunch, but today, he found he couldn’t stay that long. He wanted space, craved it almost obsessively, to come to terms with everything he’d learned. He faked a call from the office – an excuse that always worked with Uther – and apologised to Helen, promising to come back soon. He jumped into his car, waving off George, who hurried after him with his forgotten overnight bag.

Arthur wanted to be back home as soon as possible, but it wasn’t meant to be. First, he had a flat and lost thirty minutes replacing it. Breaking a sweat and feeling generally dirty and disgusting did nothing to improve Arthur’s mood.

By the time he reached the M3, it was already far busier than he’d hoped, which was probably why Arthur had the time to notice an ancient VW with its flashers on, screaming silently for help from the roadside. Arthur pulled over before he knew it, and was greeted by a desperate ‘Thank God! No one else would stop, and my mobile bloody died’ from a frantic woman and a sceptical glance from her eight-year-old son.

Arthur wasn’t a mechanic, but he knew a dead battery when he saw one. There was nothing to do but to call for a tow, which had the woman in tears. Arthur had quickly concocted a blatant lie about having amazing breakdown cover (true) that he was allowed to share with other people at will (very untrue). The woman seemed dubious, but desperate enough to buy it, and Arthur took them to Fleet services to wait comfortably, recharge the phone, and get a Happy Meal (Star Wars toys this season) to make the child stop whining.

By the time Arthur managed to extricate himself from their gratitude, every single person that left the City for the weekend was rushing back, and Arthur’s mood turned especially foul. It wasn’t helped by some stupid tourist who still hadn’t learned which side of the road he was supposed to drive on and nearly rammed into Arthur when he was almost home. The near-accident left him shaking with adrenaline and anger, bringing him to the breaking point.

All he wanted was to go home, to encase himself in the neatly organised, tightly controlled micro world of sense and order and just breathe until he felt like himself again. All he wanted was to get to the sane safety of his own flat.

Except, his flat was no longer just his, was it?

Merlin was there, curled up on the couch, watching some stupid chat show and laughing, his sock-clad toes resting against the edge of the coffee table top next to an open bag of crisps and his laptop. There was a piece of wrapper on the floor beneath his feet.

Arthur’s eyes zeroed in on it, and that was it – the last straw. Arthur’s brain switched into overload, his jaws seizing as red flooded his vision.

He stared at Merlin and didn’t see his flatmate or his friend or the person he had a gigantic crush on. All he saw was an interloper, an unwanted intruder who had ruined the sanctuary of Arthur’s flat, tainted it with his very presence.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Arthur snarled, all the more furious for the way Merlin jumped, startled. “Get your damn feet off the table – people set drinks on it, and now I’ll have to sterilise it! Look at the mess you’ve made! Are you physically incapable of cleaning after yourself or do you simply like living in a pigsty?”

Merlin’s jaw fell open as he gaped at Arthur like a simpleton. “Arthur—”

“Shut up! You think you can just come here and ruin everything, ruin my home, where I live, RUIN FUCKING EVERYTHING just because you please?”

“Arthur, calm down. What’s the matter?”

“What’s the matter? What’s the matter? YOU’RE THE MATTER, YOU USELESS EXCUSE OF A HUMAN BEING! I let you into my home and you think it’s your right to stuff it full of your crap like it belongs here, like you belong here! You don’t!”

And Merlin dared to look so hurt, so wronged at that moment that it was all Arthur could do not to hit him. He slammed his fist into a wall instead, white-hot pain exploding in his knuckles.

Merlin didn’t flinch, didn’t step back. He was paler than usual as he tracked the motion with eyes that were suddenly steel-grey.

“What do you want me to do?”

“NOTHING!” Arthur roared. “I want you to do absolutely nothing because that’s the only thing you’re good at!”

He spun on his heel and stomped into his room, slamming the door behind him.

Arthur collapsed facedown on the bed, his body shaking with suppressed rage. He stayed like that for an indefinite while, until all anger had bled out through the throbbing ache in his split knuckles, and there was nothing left but hurt and shame. He curled into himself, afraid to open his eyes. They were wet; he could feel the tears.

Arthur groaned as his own actions, his own words drifted back to him. He didn’t know what had come over him. A fit of insanity?

He’d yelled at Merlin – innocent, unsuspecting Merlin – for nothing at all, for a bloody piece of wrapper that he knew Merlin would have picked up. Merlin was a slob in the sense that he didn’t understand the need to alphabetise books on the shelves or do the dishes immediately after the meal, but in no way did he deserve the abuse Arthur had hurled on him.

He didn’t deserve any of that, and Arthur had lashed out at him for the very thing he loved about Merlin’s presence – he made Arthur’s flat look lived in, his things creating the illusion that Arthur had someone to come home to.

Arthur groaned again, miserable, and rolled off the bed, his knees shaking.

Merlin’s eyes as Arthur smashed his fist into the wall.

Bile rose in a disgusting wave at the back of his throat. How could he ever apologise for that?

The flat was dark and silent when Arthur opened his bedroom door. The living room was empty, the telly dark and lifeless, the crisps and the laptop gone without a trace, and the furniture righted. Arthur bit his lip viciously, closing his eyes for a moment, and went to knock on Merlin’s door.

There was no response.

“Merlin?” Arthur called uncertainly, his voice hoarse and scratchy.

He pushed the door open finally, but he already knew that Merlin wasn’t there. The room was silent and dark.

Arthur sank to the floor gracelessly, wrapping his arms around himself and rocking from side to side. His whole body hurt and he hated himself more than he had ever hated anything in his entire life.

He didn’t keep any strong alcohol in his flat and now was not the time to think about why. Probably because he’d known the truth about himself all along and was afraid of it, afraid of slipping into that darkness.

It wasn’t an issue any longer, and Arthur picked up his keys, his jacket, and went straight to the pub with the little tellies. It was Tom’s shift, and Tom always kept it open late, and Arthur needed a drink or twenty. He picked the darkest corner and told Tom to leave the bottle.

A few shots in, things became clearer and a sense of deadly calm settled over Arthur. He remembered another dark night, the one when he threw his dream away and mourned it, ashamed though he was to do it in light of his father’s condition. Uther had always told Arthur he was selfish. It seemed as if his father had been right all along.

Merlin.

Arthur would apologise, perhaps even explain, and Merlin would accept it. But their friendship was ruined forever, let alone a chance at anything more. Merlin would walk out of his life like that other dream Arthur had used to chase, but this time, it was solely of his own doing.

So be it. Merlin would be better off.

Behind the uptight exterior, Arthur was a mess, and his life, solid and substantial as it appeared, was in reality a house of cards, held together by his will alone.

Arthur had a lot of will. It was probably the only thing that kept him going.

He’d allow himself this one night of emotional breakdown, because it had already happened. He might as well lie back and think of England, or whatever would be more fitting in this context.

Tomorrow, he’d be back to his old self, and everything would go back to normal.

As for Merlin, it had been fun while it’d lasted.

Alcohol-induced clarity was, of course, short-lived, and everything melted into a pleasantly blurry haze soon enough, numbing raw nerve endings and making everything fleeting and unimportant. There were noises, and bright lights; the screech of tyres; someone shouting his name and cursing. And then Arthur realised he had fallen asleep and was dreaming, because Merlin was there.

Dream-Merlin was asking him something persistently, taking Arthur by the chin and looking into his eyes, his face creased with worry. His voice was laced with concern and Arthur tried to tell him that it would be okay, whatever it was, but Dream-Merlin still sounded troubled and shook Arthur for some reason. Arthur pouted, and Dream-Merlin had instantly desisted, holding Arthur close instead, muttering apologies that Arthur graciously accepted.

Dream-Merlin’s hands were cool against Arthur’s feverish skin as he tugged Arthur’s clothes off, cooler still against his forehead, making Arthur mewl with pleasure.

“Shh,” Dream-Merlin whispered, running his fingers soothingly through Arthur’s hair. “Drink this water for me, Arthur, there’s a good man.”

The water was too wet and the whole task seemed pesky. “You’re my dream,” Arthur mumbled, accusing. “You should lemme dream you.”

Dream-Merlin hoisted him up with surprising strength and pressed a glass against his lips stubbornly. “Drink this water, you big baby, and I’ll let you dream all you want.”

“Promise?”

“Dear God… Yes, I promise. Now open up.”

It was only partially a success, but Dream-Merlin was persistent, and the glass, endless as it seemed, was finally finished.

“Sleep, Arthur,” Dream-Merlin murmured softly, helping Arthur lie down, which was glorious. Everything around him was spinning.

“I’m on a carousel,” Arthur deduced, waving his hands in the air, trying to reach for the horses and unicorns.

“I bet you are.” Dream-Merlin snorted and caught his wrists, pressing them gently to Arthur’s chest. “Close your eyes, Arthur.”

Arthur did, pouting still. “You’ll stay?”

Dream-Merlin brushed his lips against Arthur’s forehead, humming softly. “Sleep, Arthur. I’ll stay.”

Arthur slept.

--

The first time Arthur woke up, he was in hell. His head was pounding; he hadn’t realised it could hurt that much. Thinking hurt; opening his eyes was torture; the world was pain. He writhed on the rumpled sheets in agony before spotting a glass of water and a couple of pills on his nightstand. He swallowed the pills down dry, their bitter taste an actual improvement to the disgusting feel in his mouth, then gulped down the water greedily, spilling it everywhere, and collapsed back into bed, praying for death.

The second time was significantly better. His headache was reduced to a manageable degree, his mouth was still disgusting, and his whole body hurt, but thinking no longer threatened to make his brain implode. Arthur sighed, and rolled out of bed gingerly.

He didn’t need to look at his watch to know that it was late, probably past eleven. Vaguely, Arthur wondered if Mithian had called the police yet. He wondered at how little the thought had bothered him.

The hot shower was a gift from heaven, and Arthur stood under the spray until his skin turned red. He brushed his teeth for ten minutes, then brushed them again.

By the time he ventured into the kitchen, he was feeling mostly human, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing. His conscience, having been staved off till now by the obvious physical distress, was now claiming back the ceded ground with a vengeance.

Arthur already knew Merlin wasn’t home. What he didn’t know, what he didn’t dare to check, was if he was gone for the day or for good. The hangover was making Arthur queasy, and the guilt twisting his insides didn’t help.

There was a note lying on the countertop.

Arthur’s heart jumped nervously in his chest. His hand shook as he reached for it.

Arthur—

I hope you’re feeling like crap right now. Serves you right. Seriously, who gets drunk on rum? Are you secretly a pirate?

I made the coffee extra strong. Drink it all. Drink it black. I didn’t dare touch anything in your kitchen, but if you’re able, make yourself a fry-up – it’s what your stomach needs right now. If it’s too much effort, there’re fresh scones from the corner shop, the ones you ogle every time we walk by (don’t think I haven’t noticed).

I called your office. Your assistant is scarier than mine, how did you manage that? In any case, you’re officially off sick. Enjoy.

                                                                                   —Merlin

P.S. If you feel up to it, join me for lunch at Northbank? The terrace, one o’clockish?

P.P.S. If you still want me out of your hair, text me or something, and I’ll find somewhere else to stay.

Arthur looked at the coffee pot, full and still steaming; at a brown paper bag, folded carefully to keep the baking goods warm as long as possible; and groaned.

This was bad; so much worse than a scolding that would have been utterly deserved, or even the silent treatment, which was the one thing Arthur absolutely hated. It was like Merlin was torturing him with his forgiving nature, and Arthur felt inexplicably angry at him again for being so completely spineless.

He’d go to lunch, if only to give Merlin a piece of his mind.

But maybe he’d have some of that coffee first. (When did coffee started to smell so delicious, anyway?)

And bacon. He was hungover, not an invalid. He could definitely manage bacon, Merlin’s assumptions be damned.

The irritation lasted him for about half an hour, but, as he finished his extremely unhealthy meal, he noticed that Merlin’s mug wasn’t in the sink, or on the table, or by the coffeemaker as usual.

I didn’t dare touch anything in your kitchen

Arthur bit his lip, his guilt welling up anew. Even if he hated Merlin’s guts, there was no excuse for trouncing the universal laws of hospitality like that.

And Arthur most certainly didn’t hate Merlin.

He didn’t know how to make it up to Merlin. Flowers? But Merlin wasn’t a girl, and Arthur wasn’t a cheating boyfriend.

Although the idea of giving Merlin flowers – not as an apology, but just because he wanted to – was unexpectedly alluring. Arthur had never given flowers to anyone who wasn’t a business partner, a colleague, or a family member. He’d never wanted to – until now.

He wouldn’t order them online, he’d pick them personally, one by one.  None of those tacky, garish bouquets with frilly wrappings and stupid ribbons; Merlin probably liked something bright and cheesy like gerberas and irises, but if Arthur had the privilege of giving him flowers, he’d always pick roses. He could practically hear Morgana’s voice singing ‘Cliché!’ in his ear, but she could stuff it.

What was wrong with a dozen of blood red roses? Nothing at all, that’s what.

Actually, make that two dozen.

Arthur sighed. As daydreams went, it was rather nice, but the reality was that Merlin was one step out the door, and Arthur was the one who’d sent him there.

He made his way to the restaurant slowly, haltingly, as though the busy streets and his own body were conspiring in their reluctance to let him get through with it.

Arthur always went in prepared. He’d always done his homework back at school. He always thoroughly researched the location and the people whenever someone invited him somewhere. He always went through a list of possible questions whenever he was supposed to meet with his father or even Morgana. He rehearsed his answers, his behaviour, everything.

He had no idea what he was going to say to Merlin right now, and it was throwing him off kilter so badly that he was actually stumbling as he walked.

There were crowds of tourists near St. Paul’s, armed with cameras and loud voices, speaking in a dozen languages Arthur didn’t recognise. It was one of those days, apparently, when he felt like his city was being invaded by prevailing forces, and he wanted to jump on the nearest parapet of cafe table and shout ‘You haven’t conquered us yet! At the very least speak bloody English!’

He wasn’t a hostile person by nature, but, as any man who’d lived most of his life in the same place, Arthur tended to regard tourists as annoying guests who hadn’t been asked to come in the first place and now wouldn’t leave, pointing fingers everywhere, asking stupid questions, and flooding the tube.

Morgana told him he was a snob, and maybe he was. It wasn’t like he’d never been places. (Notre Dame was just a big fancy church they didn’t use anymore, okay? And that musical was atrocious.)

He elbowed his way toward the Wobbly Bridge, grumbling under his breath. It was easier to get mad at the innocent people enjoying their day than to think of what awaited him at his destination.

But at last, he counted down the steps, spilling onto the river walkway with the restaurant right in front of him.

Arthur stopped still.

Suddenly, he couldn’t move, couldn’t walk the last few dozen meters. Sweat broke on his brow, his palms were clammy, his knees weak, as if his hangover had finally caught up with him. He was very late already, he knew, and still he couldn’t move, staring at the people coming in and out, at the ivory of table umbrellas, at nothing in particular, really, bracing himself before he walked in.

Arthur didn’t know how long he stood there, but in the end it was too long.

Nothing prepared him for Merlin’s sudden appearance as he stepped out, laughing at something his companion had said.

Arthur didn’t know why he thought Merlin would be alone, but of course he wasn’t. He was Merlin. He was never alone.

The bloke that had his arm slung casually over Merlin’s shoulders was one of those people they called drop-dead gorgeous – tall, dark-haired, incredibly smooth. He could probably sell toothpaste with that smile.

Arthur’s insides churned as he looked at them. So Merlin wasn’t so sweet, after all. This was his revenge. This was—

The gorgeous bloke looked back suddenly, smiling at a pretty, laughing girl who was following them out. She wasn’t quite as breathtaking, but lovely in a homey kind of way, with her beautiful dark skin and adorable curls that danced around her shoulders playfully.

Even as Arthur watched, the man let go of Merlin and reached for her, tangling their hands together, and they beamed at each other in a way that was unmistakable. Merlin was smiling at them indulgently, and Arthur let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He felt stupid and pathetic, and couldn’t help but scowl at himself.

Which was exactly when Merlin turned his head and looked straight at him.

His eyes widened, and Arthur wished desperately for the ground to swallow him. This was a mistake – a terrible, horrible mistake. He should have taken the time to regroup, should have thought of a plan of action, he wasn’t ready—

But it was too late, because Merlin was walking toward him, his companions throwing curious looks at Arthur before taking off. One careless breath and Merlin was right in front of him, and how – when did that happen?

Never one to run once the battle was upon him, Arthur braced himself.

“Hi,” he breathed out, a little shaky.

Merlin was looking at him critically. “Hi.”

“Sorry, I – I was late.”

“That’s alright. I didn’t think you would make it.”

“Oh.”

“You were in pretty bad shape when I left this morning. How are you feeling?”

Arthur shrugged carefully. “Okay?”

A small smile flitted across Merlin’s lips. “Was that a question?”

“No. No, um. I’m fine. Considering.”

“You look pale,” Merlin observed, squinting at the sunlit surface of the river. After a bit, “I have some time. Fancy a walk?”

Tongue-tied, Arthur just nodded.

For a while, they were walking in silence, enjoying the weather. With the way Merlin acted, Arthur had no idea where this was headed. He kept stealing glances at Merlin, trying to commit the moment to memory just in case.

With direct sunlight hitting it, Arthur could see that Merlin’s hair wasn’t actually all black, but a mixture of warm black and very dark brown. It was offset by the soft glow of his leather jacket, whose colour had much the same effect. No scarf today, Arthur thought blankly, his eyes tracing the line from Merlin’s Adam’s apple to the dip between his collarbones, and he wondered, wondered what it would feel like to touch that spot, to rest his finger right there and press just a little bit, and then replace it with his lips.

He jerked his gaze up hurriedly to where Merlin was still peering at the river, deep in thought. Arthur relaxed a tiny bit, and he shouldn’t have.

“So,” Merlin started quietly. “You’re going to have a brother.”

Arthur stopped abruptly, as though having walked into a wall. “How did you—”

Merlin grimaced apologetically. “You’re a chatty drunk. I tried, but there was no stopping you.”

Arthur felt sick. “So what else did I chat about?”

Merlin bit his lip. “Arthur—”

“What else, Merlin?”

Merlin sighed, nodded, grave. “You talked about your father, quite a bit. How he made three extraordinary women to fall in love with him, and so he must have something about him. You think you don’t have it. How you can’t say anything back at him. How you’re just a stand-in for this new son, a better son. How he probably won’t be gay; how you wish you weren’t. How you nearly got into an accident last night and how scared you were.” Merlin paused. “Also, apparently, you think my ears are the most hilarious thing in the world.”

Arthur didn’t realise it was happening, didn’t notice the world go dark, clamping down on him forcefully, until Merlin grabbed his arms hard, shaking him a little.

“Arthur? Arthur, breathe. Jesus, breathe. Breathe. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have – not like this – Arthur, please? Arthur?”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur pushed out, strangled. “I’m so sorry, Merlin. I’m so, so sorry. I’m—”

“Hush, don’t. My ears are a bit tragic, I’ll give you that. You’re not the first one—”

“Not for that.” Arthur shook his head, then huffed in frustration. “I mean, that, too, but—”

“I know. You meant about last night, when you were a dick to me.”

“I’m sorry. I never meant – I like that you’re staying at my flat. I like your messes. Not that you’re messy. Well, you are, but I – I never wanted you to feel unwelcome. I like having you there. I wanted to apologise last night, but you were gone.”

“Arthur, look at me.” Arthur did. “I went to get us some food,” Merlin said with a pained expression. “I wasn’t making a dramatic exit. You were – it was ugly, but I could see you were in a right state. I haven’t known you that long, I don’t know how you handle it, so I thought it’d be best if I gave you some space. I went to that Greek place we went that one time? Maybe I chatted a bit too long with Maria – I guess I was a bit upset.” He grinned sheepishly. “When I came back, you were gone.”

“Oh.” Arthur drew in a breath. “I’m sorry. About all of this.”

Merlin shook his head, his teeth torturing his lip again. He’d let go of Arthur, but they were still standing too close, encased in their own space amidst the idle, babbly stream of people.

“Arthur.” Merlin spoke at last, with an air of a man bracing himself for something. “I never tell anyone how to live their lives. I don’t do that. But you – I consider you a friend, and I’m just going to say this, just this once, okay?”

Arthur nodded numbly.

Merlin reached down unexpectedly and took Arthur’s hand in his. His thumb pressed firmly against Arthur’s knuckles, and Arthur winced, unable to stifle a hiss. Merlin lifted his hand to their eye level, drawing Arthur’s gaze to the ugly purple bruises.

“There’s a dent on your wall,” Merlin said very distinctly. “A dent, Arthur. Last night, when Tom called me to come get you. You were walking in the middle of the road. It was like you didn’t see the cars or didn’t care. You could have been injured, Arthur. You could have been dead. You scared the living crap out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur whispered.

Merlin shook his head. “Don’t.” He squeezed Arthur’s hand sharply, and Arthur jolted in pain. “But if this is how trapped you feel” – another squeeze – “if this is where it gets you – you have to change something. You have to change something before it kills you.”

Arthur pulled his hand free stubbornly. “I thought you didn’t want to tell me how to live my life.”

“I don’t.” Merlin shrugged, stepping back. “But I care. I thought you should know.”

Arthur turned away, resting his elbows on the granite ledge of the walkway. He stared angrily over the lead gloss of the river – at the lonely claw of the Tate Modern digging into the sky, at the carelessly cheery crowd washing around it like ebb tide. He had never felt less a part of it than he did now.

Suddenly Merlin was leaning over next to him, their shoulders brushing. After a moment, Merlin nudged him a little bit playfully. Arthur couldn’t help a grin tugging at his lips. It was fleeting, but it was there, like a sparkle of warmth in the chilly breeze.

“How’d you get so wise?” Arthur asked with grudging curiosity.

Merlin was silent long enough to make Arthur look at him. He was peering into space, his eyes smoky blue, misty. Finally, a smile crept onto his face, but it was a sad one.

“You’re not the only one who stared into the darkness for too long, Arthur,” he said at last, his voice deeper than usual. “It has a way of leaving its mark.”

A moment later, he pushed off the ledge and walked slowly back toward the tube station, alone. Arthur watched him go, wondering and not daring to ask.

--

As was often the case when you broke down in front of someone and that someone managed to hold your shit together for you, preserving your dignity better than you did yourself, things were bound to get a little awkward.

Merlin did his level best to act normally and not bring Arthur’s accidental soul-baring up, and Arthur was grateful, but he still couldn’t look Merlin in the eye for days afterwards.

Fortunately for Arthur, it was the kind of week in the office when he wished his Uncle Tristan, the CEO of Pendragon & Gorlois, was a bit less myopic when it came to sorting his brother’s schemes out. Tristan was renowned for playing it safe. Agravaine was a risk taker who unfortunately wasn’t gifted with the greatest business instincts, but was in poorly disguised lust with his brother’s position. (Also, if rumours were to be trusted, with his brother’s wife, but Arthur tried not to listen to those for fear of getting permanent indigestion.)

In all the years that Arthur had worked for the company, it had been his job to navigate between the two without appearing as though he was seeking to usurp anyone and making certain the enterprise profited at the same time. It wasn’t an easy task on a good day. On a bad day, well...

Derailing his uncle’s coup of the month was a full time occupation, but Arthur still had to dodge Helen’s calls in the few moments he had to himself. He felt a pang of guilt when he ordered Mithian to screen her calls, but Arthur wasn’t in the mood for Helen’s brand of family diplomacy, no matter how well intended. Over the years both Arthur and Morgana had become entirely too used to hearing ‘What your father really meant was—’ as a conversation starter from Helen. If it wasn’t for her, Arthur sincerely doubted that either of Uther’s children would still be speaking to him, at the very least not regularly.

Still, he couldn’t bear Helen’s sympathy right now, even though Arthur knew perfectly well that none of it was her fault.

Later, he would think that if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in his own shit, he’d notice that Merlin wasn’t being his usual cheerful self, either.

At some point, Arthur thought that Merlin looked stressed and brooding. At another, he intercepted snippets of a late night phone conversation – something about a very important client being one foot out the door. But Arthur didn’t put it together, too busy avoiding Merlin’s company to give himself a bit of a breather.

On Saturday, Arthur came back from his usual morning run to find Merlin in the kitchen, staring morosely at the waffle maker. He had clearly only just gotten up, still wearing his pyjama bottoms, socks, and a thin cotton sweatshirt – an ensemble he invariably wore to bed.

(When Arthur had first seen him like that, he had offered to turn the heat up in his bedroom, but Merlin had turned him down with a smile that was a little too tense to be natural. Arthur only shrugged and didn’t press; nor did he say anything about all the times Merlin forgot to turn off his nightlight. It wasn’t very practical, but Arthur wasn’t exactly on the verge of going broke over his electricity bill, so he let it be.)

“I can’t figure it out,” Merlin said, regarding at the waffle maker sadly. “I don’t suppose you have time to help?”

“Sorry.” Arthur shook his head, gulping down a glass of water. He was drenched in sweat from his run and couldn’t wait to jump into the shower. “I’ve got footie practice in an hour. We have a friendly today.”

“Oh.” Merlin smiled automatically, fingers fiddling restlessly with his sleeves. “Maybe I could, um – come with you? To watch the game?” he added hastily.

“I, er—” Surprised, Arthur hesitated, not sure how he felt about Merlin watching him play. It was an exhilarating idea, on the one hand, but, on the other, it made Arthur supremely nervous.

He hesitated a moment too long.

“Oh God, what am I even—” Merlin laughed, shaking his head at himself. “It was a stupid idea.”

“No, mate, if you want to—”

“No, no, it’s fine. I shouldn’t have asked. I, um, I need to work anyway. I was just looking for an excuse, but well, I shouldn’t really. You have fun, though.” He clapped Arthur on the shoulder awkwardly. “Go Knights.”

“Merlin—”

But Arthur’s mobile chose that moment to go off, and, while he was confirming with Leon that he was indeed going to show for the match, Merlin made his escape.

Distracted, Arthur had soon forgotten about the strange conversation. One of his teammates asked for help moving to a new flat, and Arthur spent his Sunday carrying boxes and wondering why people didn’t hire professionals for that sort of thing, but generally enjoying a day of spontaneous bonding with the rest of his team.

He hadn’t run into Merlin again for the remainder of the weekend.

It was all the more shocking when Merlin stumbled home late on Monday night and made a beeline for his bedroom, though not before Arthur caught a glimpse of him.

“What the hell?” Arthur sprang to his feet and moved quickly toward him, groping for the light switch. “Merlin, what happened to your face?”

He flicked the lights on, and Merlin winced, squinting. He had a fat lip, with dried blood gathered in the corner of his mouth, and the whole left side of his face a little swollen.

“Oh my God, Merlin. What—”

“It’s nothing.” Merlin batted Arthur’s hands away from his face and stepped back. He tried to smile, but winced again and shook his head vaguely. “I walked into a door.”

Arthur stared at him. “Did it fight back?”

Merlin huffed out a laugh and pressed a hand to his cheek, giving Arthur a reproachful look. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Merlin,” Arthur started, but Merlin shook his head again, looking away.

“You’ve seen my office – glass doors everywhere. I wasn’t paying attention, and well, this happened. It’s no big deal. It’s late. Why are you even up?”

“It’s not that late.”

“Oh.” Merlin sighed, still looking anywhere but at Arthur. “I think I’m going to turn in anyway; I’m pretty beat. Good night.”

And before Arthur could get another word in, Merlin disappeared into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

The next morning, Merlin was out before Arthur even woke up, which had never happened before. Arthur didn’t like any of it one bit, but there wasn’t much he could do.

He was suddenly, forcibly, reminded of the fact that, despite having gotten used to Merlin’s presence in the last couple of months, Merlin remained virtually a stranger to him. It shouldn’t have hurt so much when Merlin shut him out – they were barely friends, and yes, Arthur might have been a little infatuated with his unexpected flatmate, but that was hardly Merlin’s problem.

Arthur wondered bitterly if he had any right to even ask. Merlin had certainly made it clear that he didn’t want him to.

--

Work still demanded Arthur’s full attention, but he couldn’t help feeling worried. Merlin was either busier than usual or avoiding him, because for the rest of the week, Arthur’s only clues that someone else shared his living space were a forgotten cup of coffee on the counter and a second toothbrush in the bathroom. He wondered if Merlin had become bored with him.

On Friday, Helen showed up at his office. She was in the City for a doctor’s appointment, and there was no evading her when she dragged him out to lunch. She was rather transparently fishing for what exactly Uther had said to him, but Arthur pretended not to understand her less-than-subtle hints and probing questions. He didn’t want to hear Helen apologise for his father again. Arthur liked her, he really did, but in this, she sounded like a broken record, and right now, he didn’t care for the sound.

“He does love you,” she said, squeezing his hand as he got the check. “It’s just who he is. When you’re not there, he talks about you all the time. How smart you are, how proud he is of you. It’s just the kind of man he is that he’ll never say that to your face.”

“I know, Helen.” Arthur managed a thin smile, pulling his hand free. “I grew up with the man, so believe me when I say that I’m well aware.”

But he was also aware that Uther had never had to sacrifice anything. Everyone else had had to rearrange their lives around him, while he remained solid and unbendable as a rock. Morgana had broken off her engagement with a man she believed to be the love of her life. She had been single ever since, her frequent, meaningless flings notwithstanding. Arthur had had to deny himself the future he dreamed of. Helen had had to leave the stage that she loved with all her heart.

It was only Uther who hadn’t had to give up anything of his own free will. Arthur loved his father, a genetic marker making him long to please the man, but he couldn’t help a stray twinge of resentment every now and then, even if he hated himself for it.

After seeing Helen safely to her car, where George was finishing reading yet another of the manuals he was so fond of, Arthur went back to his office, asking himself how was it that he could manage the finances of some of the world’s richest and most privileged and yet remain so completely clueless when it came to sorting out his own feelings. He really wished there was a manual for that.

He was on his way home when Freya texted him.

Lost the client. Need you at the pub.

Arthur swore under his breath, his hands suddenly clammy, and asked the cabbie to turn the car around.

It was Friday night, and the pub was noisier than usual. Arthur was the last one to arrive, and as he made his way to their usual booth, he couldn’t help a sinking feeling that something had gone terribly wrong – something more than just a lost client.

The feeling grew worse when he realised that Merlin wasn’t there.

Gwaine, Freya, Gilli, and Owain all nodded at him gloomily as Arthur pulled up a chair. Owain pushed a pint at him. “Ordered for you.”

Arthur barely acknowledged him. “Where’s Merlin?”

“Pool tables,” Gwaine said out of the corner of his mouth, staring somewhere behind Arthur’s back.

Arthur turned around and squinted. Merlin was indeed hovering by the pool tables, cue in hand, laughing with a couple of blokes Arthur had never seen before. He frowned, spotting the money piled up at the side.

“Is he any good?”

“Merlin?” Gwaine snorted humourlessly. “Abysmal. He’ll lose all the cash he has on him and then offer to pay them in blowjobs.”

Arthur whirled toward him so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. “That happened before?”

Gwaine arched an eyebrow. “How d’you think I met him, Princess?”

Arthur choked and then glared as Owain pounded him on the back.

Freya scowled at Gwaine. “Don’t listen to him, Arthur. They met when Merlin ran him over on his bike.” She glanced toward the pool tables. “That said, it does seem like all bets are off tonight.”

Arthur straightened up. “I’m going in there.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what do you think you’re doing?” Both Freya and Gwaine grabbed at him, pulling him back into his seat.

“You’re not his boyfriend, Arthur,” Freya told him dryly. “What are you going to do? Haul him back here by the scruff of his neck?”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Arthur grumbled.

“We should let him,” Gwaine said, knocking back the last of his beer. “See how well that one goes.”

“What the hell’s going on here?” Arthur demanded, looking from one to the other irritably. “And what really happened to his face?”

“What’d he tell you?”

“That he walked into a door.”

Gwaine’s face darkened, and Freya bristled like an angry cat. “A door, was it?”

“I take it the door had a name?”

“Cenred,” Gwaine spat.

“Who the hell is Cenred?”

“Our account director,” Freya said, her lips curling in disgust. “He’s the reason we lost Pepsi. He promised something that wasn’t his to give, and when Merlin found out, Cenred tried to make him—”

Gwaine swore elaborately, hands curling into fists.

“So naturally, Merlin told him to take a hike, and Cenred tried to get him fired. The client wasn’t impressed.”

“The client can go fuck himself.” Gwaine’s lips curled in disgust. “Who the fuck asks for that as a bonus? What is this, the 1950s?”

“Ask for what as a bonus?” Gilli asked, confused, looking from one to the other. “I don’t understand.”

Freya stared at him like he was a moron; Gwaine just swore again under his breath. Neither of them provided any further explanation, though Owain leaned to whisper something in Gilli’s ear.

Arthur, too, wasn’t in the clear about exactly what had transpired, but he had a very good inkling with all the hints, and mostly with the half-repulsed half-outraged expressions both Freya and Gwaine were wearing. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

“I’m sorry, I can’t just sit here,” Arthur snapped, and pushed off the table resolutely.

He marched over to where Merlin was losing rather spectacularly at pool. The men he was playing with eyed Arthur from afar, but Merlin hadn’t taken notice until Arthur stopped beside him and slung an arm around his shoulders.

“There you are.”

Merlin looked at him in surprise, and, despite Gwaine’s pessimistic predictions, smiled broadly, making no attempt to pull free. “Arthur! Didn’t know you were coming.”

His eyes were wild, and he was swaying a bit in Arthur’s hold. If Arthur didn’t know better, he’d have thought that Merlin had taken something. But there was a certain sobriety about his gaze, something sharp and edgy concealed beneath the layers of would-be drunken bravado for fear that it would hurt too much if it got to the surface.

Arthur read the truth on Merlin’s face at that moment, and the way the corners of his mouth drooped a little even as he kept on grinning told Arthur that Merlin knew it, too.

“Come on,” Arthur said softly, rubbing Merlin’s shoulder. “We miss you up there.”

Merlin nodded, strangely cooperative, and laid the cue on the table. His game partner stepped in front of them.

“You can’t leave now. We’re not done yet.”

“Yes, you are,” Arthur said, pulling Merlin closer reflexively. “You can keep the money. He forfeits.”

The guy took one look at Arthur’s face and stepped back, raising his hands, placating. “Hey mate, no harm no foul, right? He didn’t say anything. I’d no idea.”

Next to Arthur, Merlin snorted and bowed his head, his fringe grazing Arthur’s neck. Arthur shivered, fighting the urge to pull him all the way into his arms. He glared at the other man some more for good measure before steering Merlin back toward his friends.

“I need alcohol,” Merlin declared, falling into a seat next to Gwaine. He reached for his glass, found it empty, and pouted.

Gwaine managed to push the glass away from Merlin’s tipsy fingers and give Arthur an impressed glance at the same time.

“You – next round.” Freya ordered, pointing an imperious finger at Gilli. He didn’t look too happy, but after Arthur shoved a few notes at him, he brightened considerably and went without protest. Freya only had eyes for Merlin. “You okay?”

He grinned at her. “Never better. Best day of my life, in fact. Let’s get drunk and play stupid games.”

“Arthur.” Freya turned to him for help. “You seem to be able to get through to him – tell him this isn’t the way to deal with shit.”

Arthur shrugged, saving his pint from Merlin’s grabby hands just in time. “After the day I’ve had, I rather feel like a drink myself.”

“See?” Merlin pointed at him triumphantly. “Arthur gets it. Stop being such a sourpuss, Frey. It’s Friday, the week is over.” He slumped against the back of the seat, his gaze cloudy. “It’s all over. All over.”

Arthur looked at him from across the booth, but didn’t say anything.

The drinks arrived. It might have been the alcohol, but Arthur privately thought that their company simply wasn’t made for being melancholy. Before long, Gwaine was telling his ridiculously tall tales, Owain and Gilli were recounting their nights of debauchery with their uni mates, and Freya was poking fun at all of them, pausing only to send a flirtatious smile and a wink at Percy, who’d smile back from where he was still stuck tending the bar.

Merlin was mostly silent but seemed relaxed enough, slumped, to Arthur’s vague displeasure, against Gwaine, laughing quietly at the jokes and pretending not to notice when Gwaine swapped his mostly-full pint with his own half-empty one.

For his part, Arthur was happy to just sit there and not have to think about Uther or Agravaine or Helen. He’d rather Merlin wasn’t acting so distant with him, but he was buzzed enough for it not to bother him too much for the time being.

The evening drifted seamlessly into the night. At some point, Arthur noticed that the pub was almost empty and thought that it must be late. But, as Percy never kicked them out, the thought didn’t linger, and he sunk back into the lazy whirlpool of conversation that was becoming more surreal the later the hour. None of them knew what they were talking about anymore, and nobody cared.

“I could really go for some ice cream,” Freya was saying. “I can’t just eat it like normal people, you know? It’s either ice cream or drinking with you lot, because fat people don’t survive in this business. Not that I’m complaining – I like it, mind. Just saying. I really, really want some ice cream right now.” She nudged Owain with her elbow. “How about you, chubby?”

Owain blinked owlishly. “I really, really want to kiss Arthur right now.”

His words had a kind of sobering effect around the table as everyone stared at him. Arthur, who at that point would have taken anything in stride, frowned slightly at the ringing silence.

“Wow, you really are a moron,” Merlin said suddenly, pinning Owain down with a dark look. “People told me, and I didn’t want to believe it, but this – just how stupid are you?”

“What?” Owain asked defensively.

“You don’t just say shit like that,” Merlin snapped, pulling himself up to his feet with more grace than anyone would have expected at that point. “He’s a living person, you twat, and he’s sitting right here. You want to do something, you ask.”

Arthur wanted to say that it wasn’t a big deal, but Merlin turned toward him, his smile tight and dangerous.

“Arthur, may I kiss you?”

Arthur grinned softly, confused but trusting. “Yes.”

He didn’t have any time to truly anticipate the experience – it happened too fast. Merlin leaned over; he was aiming for Arthur’s cheek, but Arthur turned, and Merlin’s lips pressed to the corner of his mouth quickly. It was fleeting, there and gone before Arthur could process any of it, left with the residual tingling of his skin and a voice in his head screaming ‘No fair, I wasn’t ready, do it again!’

Merlin straightened up and looked at Owain as though saying, ‘This is how it’s done.’

“Where are you going?” Gwaine asked him, frowning.

“Out back,” Merlin muttered. “I need some air.”

They watched him go, and then Freya was on her feet, too. “Right, time for kids to go to bed. Owain, wake Gilli. We’re leaving.”

She ushered them out the door with surprising efficiency, though the fact that Gilli was in a zombie state by then and Owain couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes probably helped. In a few moments, it was just Arthur and Gwaine left, staring at each other in silence, broken only by the sound of clinking glasses that Percy was rearranging at the bar.

“What?” Arthur asked finally.

Gwaine lifted an eyebrow. “This is the part where I ask about your intentions toward my best mate.”

“Is it now? Is it also the part where I tell you that it’s none of your fucking business?”

Gwaine frowned. “He should come with a warning, but he doesn’t, not really, so I’m just going to tell you. He’s pretty screwed up – twisted, even. What you see isn’t all you get, so if you’re just here for the shiny, you might as well fuck off now.”

“Is that why you threw him to the dogs? Because he was damaged goods?”

“No.” Gwaine glared. “Because I chickened out. Because the world is full of fake people. Like Owain, or Cenred, or pretty much everyone. There’s a sea of fakes out there, and Merlin – Merlin is real. He’s the real deal, as fucking real as they get. I was too chicken-shit to keep him.”

“Then I don’t think you get to ask people their intentions,” Arthur snapped and stood up. The urge to punch Gwaine was overwhelming. “I could use some air, too. Excuse me.”

He stalked through the narrow dark corridor toward the backdoor almost blindly. He didn’t know what to make of any of that. Suddenly, he just wanted to find Merlin.

It was dark in the backyard, the only light coming though the archway leading out to the street – the archway that was currently occupied by four bulky figures and Merlin standing in front of them. Arthur had no idea what was going on, but the sight made him go cold all over.

Surely not that. Surely not.

“—can tell you’re guests in this part of town,” Merlin was saying in a pleasant tone that was anything but natural. “So I’d suggest you mind your manners.”

“No fucking queer’s gonna tell me to mind my manners,” one of the four snarled, advancing.

“Well, somebody should,” Merlin snapped, because he clearly was above any self-preservation instincts. “Since your mum clearly didn’t bother.”

“You fucking queer. This isn’t your town, you disgusting little faggot. Who d’you think you are, walking around like you own the place, rubbing your gay propaganda in people’s faces?”

“Wow, ‘propaganda,’ big word. Do you even know what it means?”

The first punch landed squarely on Merlin’s solar plexus with a horrifying oomph, making him double over.

“Hey!” Arthur yelled, sprinting forward. “Leave him the fuck alone, you fuckers!”

“Oh look, more pretty boys,” Merlin’s assailant sneered, but when he took another swing at Merlin, something unexpected happened.

In a blurry, swift motion, Merlin unfurled, turned, grabbed the fist flying in his face, and threw the guy who had a good three stones on him neatly on the ground.

There was a moment of eerie silence as all six of them stared in shock, none as astonished as Merlin himself. For a split second, he looked up, catching Arthur’s eye, and smiled in disbelief.

But they were still four against two, and things got ugly pretty quickly.

Arthur had never been more grateful that he was fighting fit, because the rage coursing through his veins was almost overwhelming. He threw punches left and right, his whole being screaming murder, careless of being outnumbered. Merlin wasn’t much help, but, even though he wasn’t able to repeat his earlier success, his usually flailing arms seemed to be quite adept at blocking most of the blows raining down on him, which was a relief.

Vaguely, Arthur heard Percy’s voice bellowing something about police, and then both he and Gwaine were there, and it was all over. The attackers fled the scene, limping and shouting back more threats.

“You okay?”

Arthur turned to see Merlin panting as he stood there with his hands on his knees. His shirt was torn, dirt and blood smeared over his face, but he was standing, eyes bright with adrenaline, a fierce kind of grin twisting his lips.

“Yeah,” Arthur said, wiping the blood streaming down his nose that, fortunately, didn’t feel broken. “Cuts and bruises. You?”

Merlin smirked wryly. “Never better.”

--

Percy had a first aid kit stashed under the bar and insisted on checking them both out thoroughly. After he determined that a trip to A&E was indeed unwarranted, though some of Arthur’s bruises looked rather severe, Gwaine saw them to a cab, looking supremely disgruntled that he’d missed on a fight.

Merlin was glum and silent through the cab ride, sitting as far away from Arthur as possible.

They took turns in the shower when they got to the flat, Arthur going first. He got ready for bed, but sleep eluded him. He lay in bed restless, unable to concentrate on a single thought as they crashed and overlapped, as though punishing him for the moment of physical clarity he’d experienced when he’d rushed head-first into the fight.

Arthur didn’t know how long he’d lain there sleeplessly when his door was quietly pushed open.

Merlin was standing in the doorway, hesitant and unsure, just looking at Arthur. His silhouette seemed small, wavering, as though he badly wanted to but didn’t dare reach for what he needed. Arthur felt his heart seize painfully in his chest as he remembered Merlin’s suddenly shy voice, asking if he could come see Arthur’s football game.

Arthur cleared his throat, and Merlin jumped, realising that Arthur wasn’t sleeping.

Very deliberately, Arthur shifted and pulled the covers aside in mute invitation. Merlin hesitated another moment, embarrassment rolling off of him in waves, but his need was obviously greater. He walked over awkwardly and slid into the bed next to Arthur, who threw the duvet back over him.

They lay next to each other in silence for a long, long while.

“RAF pilot,” Arthur said quietly, a sense of utter calm settling over him, spurred by Merlin’s mere presence.

Merlin’s head turned toward him on the pillow. “What?”

“You asked me what I wanted to be when I was a child. I wanted to be a RAF pilot. I got a licence; even bought an old Piper Archer from my instructor. I wanted to fly. Got accepted, too, though I didn’t tell my father that. Then, of course, he had a stroke, and I had to forget all about it.”

It was surprising – for the first time in his life, Arthur spoke without bitterness, just a distinct sense of longing.

Merlin shifted quietly beside him, but didn’t say anything.

“You were assaulted, weren’t you,” Arthur said, not quite making it a question. “Before tonight, I mean. Someone – someone assaulted you.”

He could hear Merlin draw in a breath. “Yeah,” he said, barely audible. Then he turned a little bit more toward Arthur, his eyes glinting dully in the sparse light falling from the window. “How did you know?”

“You don’t forget the nightlight, do you? There’re more clothes on you when you sleep than not, when you’re at your most vulnerable. And you know self-defence. Nobody learns self-defence just for the hell of it.”

Merlin hummed noncommittally.

Arthur reached over and closed his fingers around Merlin’s forearm. “Tell me. Please.”

Merlin buried his nose in the pillow, nodded. “My last year at school. I didn’t come out so much as people did it for me. We were – I lived in a small village. Not exactly gay-friendly. There was some bullying. Shoving into lockers, flushing my head down the toilet – that kind of stuff. But then it got really bad, and—”

His voice caught and Arthur bit his lip, waiting.

“I had a friend. Will. He was my best mate. Stuck with me through thick and thin kind of friend, you know. He was half-Irish, and Catholic. His family was very religious. His parents hated me, called me an abomination, but he never stopped being my friend. Never broke it off with me, even though I told him it was okay.

“There was a gang at school; they beat me up every now and then, never where anyone could see. It was almost tolerable, until one time...” He trailed off, and Arthur squeezed his arm in sympathy.

Merlin drew in a shaky breath. “They were pissed. Someone later said they were also high, but I don’t know. It was bad, worse than before, and Will – he walked in on them, tried to interfere, to get them off me.” He shuddered. “So they killed him. There was a nasty fight and they killed him. I woke up in the hospital with broken ribs and a concussion, and they told me that Will was – that he was dead.

“His parents never forgave me. He died because of me, and I couldn’t even go to his funeral. They banned me from the service.”

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “The police said that it was I – that if I’d said something earlier... came forward about the bullying, then maybe—”

Arthur couldn’t take it one second longer, he looped an arm around Merlin and pulled him close into a tight embrace. Merlin made a broken, half-choked sound and crashed into Arthur, burying his face in Arthur’s neck and holding on to him as though his life depended on it, trembling all over.

“Fucking hero,” Merlin pushed out, voice thick with tears. “He just had to... And you tonight, what were you thinking, Arthur? What if they—”

“Hush now. Shh. Shh. It’s okay.”

“It’s not. It could’ve – you could’ve—”

Arthur pressed a kiss to his temple. “I’m right here, Merlin. I’m fine.”

Merlin shifted in his hold in frustration. “But why would you risk it? Why would anyone? So stupid. Like it’s not enough that—”

Arthur kissed him, stopping the flood of words with his lips. Merlin whined in protest, and Arthur shook him gently, glaring down at him through the darkness.

“It wasn’t your fault, Merlin. Not back then, and not tonight. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know.”

“Bullshit.”

“I do.” He sniffed. “Sort of, anyway. It’s just—”

There wasn’t anything to do but kiss him again, and Arthur didn’t think he could help himself even if he’d wanted to.

It wasn’t at all how he had pictured it, but he couldn’t think about that when Merlin’s lips gave under his, parting around a gasp, and Arthur licked into his mouth gently, tasting and soothing and seeking to drug him with this never-ending kiss. Merlin whimpered softly and kissed him back, his fingers curling in Arthur’s t-shirt, as though afraid Arthur would let go or kick him out. Arthur growled low in his throat, rolling half on top of him, effectively trapping him with his weight.

Words dissolved seamlessly between them, as Arthur kissed, and kissed, and kissed Merlin, and then kissed him more, slow and drunk on the feel of him, on the burning need to soothe the pain, to make everything better. Desire rolled through him in a languid, unhurried wave, and Arthur let it carry him, but fought off the temptation to sink deeper. This – here, tonight – wasn’t about that.

He pulled back, breathless, smiling as Merlin reached after him. He moved his lips over Merlin’s, barely touching, hovering over him as though testing his own resolve. “Hush, you. I’ve got this. I’ve got you.”

Merlin nipped at his lower lip in protest before sinking back into the pillow and Arthur laughed. He began to press soft, gossamer kisses to Merlin’s jaw, his wet cheekbones, his temples, his eyes; rubbed their noses together, ever tender; nuzzled his neck, before going back to kiss his lips again, revelling in the way Merlin was smiling into it now, finally, the neediness in him giving way to amusement at Arthur’s gentle, relentless teasing. Arthur kissed him again just for that.

“Can I stay here?” Merlin murmured into the warm, pitch-black space between them, his fingers sifting through Arthur’s hair. “Just for tonight? I need to – I need to know you’re okay.”

Arthur moved his leg over Merlin’s, pinning him to the bed, and tucked his face into Merlin’s hair. “Try and move,” he whispered into his ear. “See what happens.”

Merlin huffed out a laugh, incredulous and grateful, the last bits of tension bleeding out of him. He sighed, drowsy and contented. “You’re kind of wonderful, you know that?”

Arthur grinned and let sleep finally pull him under.

--

Come morning, relentless icy winds and oceans of biting snow plagued Arthur’s dreams. He was climbing over some sort of mountain peak, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t reach it. He shuddered in his dream, then shuddered for real, and woke up.

He wasn’t confused or disoriented; the events of last night were instantly clear in his mind. As he turned his head on the pillow, he could barely hold back laughter, his dream predicament immediately clear.

Merlin had rolled away from him in his sleep at some point during the night and was now lying curled on his side, having managed to wrap all the covers around himself.

Arthur bit his lip, watching him and listening to the soft sound of his breathing, untroubled and measured and somehow very soothing. For a few torturous moments, Arthur was sorely tempted to wrestle his way back under the blankets, to curl around Merlin, and go back to sleep, since it was his bed, his blankets, and his—

Arthur sobered up abruptly and turned away. The bit of simple human comfort they’d shared last night didn’t entitle him to anything, even if Merlin was still in his bed, hogging his covers. Arthur wasn’t going to be that kind of assuming arsehole.

He rolled out of bed carefully, his body sore, every bruise firm and painful and making him aware of just how many he had. The one on his ribs where one of the bastards had kneed him would need some kind of treatment.

Gritting his teeth, Arthur made his way to the shower, resisting the urge to turn around in the doorway and watch some more. Really, what was wrong with him? A sleeping Merlin wasn’t the bloody telly. Arthur might be a lot of things, but he wasn’t a creep, for God’s sake.

It was just that...

He couldn’t remember the last time he had had anyone share his bed. He had sex, not lovers. Not boyfriends.

It had seemed too forward, too risky when he’d first come out. Uther had basically told him ‘be as gay as you want, just not anywhere I can see,’ and Arthur was fine with that. He hadn’t had the first idea of how to have a relationship anyway. He split his time between uni, the company, the many medical boards on his father’s health, and Morgana’s depression-born fits of drunk and disorderly. Back then, not having anyone else to be responsible for felt like a blessing.

And later – when Morgana had recovered, when Uther had mellowed down with years of domestic bliss and even asked Arthur once or twice about whether there was a special someone he’d like his father to meet – Arthur’s life had become too structured, too thoroughly scheduled and well-paced to want to upset its balance for anyone.

‘You’ve never been in love,’ Morgana would say, not taunting for once, but rather sad on his account.

Arthur would shrug and change the subject. So what? Contrary to the ever-popular opinion, it didn’t happen to everyone. There was no law that said it would happen to every person on Earth at one point or other. And granted, Arthur had never thought that he’d be the odd one out, but then again, he was frequently accused of being arrogant. If nothing else, that’d taught him not to assume.

At this point, the hot water had woken him – all of him. Arthur wrapped his hand around his cock and stripped it hard and fast, taking the shortest, most efficient route to completion. He stubbornly blocked any kind of suggestive images from his mind and concentrated on the purely physical, working himself almost angrily, nearly willing himself to orgasm.

There, he thought, taking a deeper breath, his forehead pressed against the wet tiles as he waited for his pulse to slow down. He didn’t need anyone for that. He didn’t need anyone to crawl into his bed and hog his covers to get here. He didn’t want to hold anyone close afterwards, to bury his face in his hair and breathe in because it smelled like home—

Arthur turned the water off, shuddering in the steam-filled room.

What was happening to him? He’d spent nights out drinking with people he only just met, throwing his carefully balanced routine out the window without a thought. He’d done a photo shoot that wasn’t a group photo for the end-of-the-year financial conference. He’d bought a pair of jeans on a whim and even tried them on to make sure they actually fit, despite the questionable sanitary conditions of the shady corner shop he’d spotted them in.

He’d gotten into a fight last night – an honest-to-God, physical fight. Something that could have gotten him seriously injured, something the police might yet question him about.

He had a man in his home, sleeping in his bed, because Arthur had invited him to.

He pressed his hand to the steam-wet mirror, wiping the glass clear. He blinked at his reflection, and watched a stranger blink back at him.

A lesser man might have panicked. Arthur shrugged, put some clothes on, and went about making some tea.

Upon due consideration, he also started a fresh pot of coffee, and then his gaze fell on the waffle maker Merlin had dug up from God only knew where. There really wasn’t anything else to it.

Merlin wandered in about half an hour later, yawning and smiling the most tentative smile Arthur had seen on him to date.

“Morning.”

Arthur nodded and handed him a steaming mug. “Morning.”

“Bless you,” Merlin moaned, burying his nose in the strong, rich aroma. “Oh, are you making waffles?”

“Thought I’d give it a go, since the thing was just sitting there.”

“Hm.” Merlin settled at the breakfast island, curling his hands against the warm mug. “Why do you have a waffle maker if you never use it?”

“Believe it or not, it was a gift from my father. He ordered it online to be delivered the day after I moved into this flat.”

“That’s, um... That was nice of him?”

Arthur snorted, setting a plate with the freshly baked waffles on the countertop between them. “Don’t sound so shocked, Merlin. Even my father is known for doing nice things from time to time.”

“I didn’t mean any—” Merlin started, then evidently thought better of it, and reached for a waffle.

Instead of putting it on his own plate and using his knife and fork, he tore off a small piece and dipped it into honey.

Arthur watched as he twirled his wrist a few times to catch the viscous droplets before carrying the food in a high arc to his mouth, wrapping his lips around the tips of his fingers.

“Good?” Arthur asked, his voice coming out hoarse. He felt hot.

“Mhm.” Merlin nodded, sucking his fingers clean noiselessly, eyes still mostly closed in pleasure. He looked completely relaxed and still half-asleep. “That’s good honey. Did you make it, too?”

Arthur managed a half-hearted chuckle and rose quickly to his feet to put the kettle on again. His face was burning.

“So, um. Any plans for today?” Arthur asked, busying himself with arranging the dishes.

Watching Merlin dreamily devour his waffle in the leisurely way of a convicted sybarite was having an unfortunate effect of rendering Arthur’s shower exploits redundant and utterly pathetic. He shifted from foot to foot awkwardly and tried thinking about stock projections.

“Not really,” Merlin said pensively over the quiet sound of all the small noises he was making as he reached for another waffle or a creamer, trying something and humming appreciatively. “Well, my friend Elena – remember her?”

Arthur snorted. “The Andy Warhol fan?”

“The very same. She’s hosting a garden party at her country house this weekend.”

Arthur blinked and looked out the window. “It’s October.”

Merlin chuckled. “Ellie’s always been... eccentric. But it’s fine, really. I’ve been to them before, and she invites all sorts of people, her neighbours, old friends – none of her usual London crowd.”

“So you’re thinking of going?”

“I wasn’t planning to until last night, but now I’m thinking maybe some fresh air would do me good. I need to clear my head.”

“Good idea.” Arthur nodded, turning around. To his relief, Merlin seemed to be done eating and was leaning against the back of his chair, nursing his precious coffee.

Merlin looked at him, tilting his head to the side in a manner that was not at all endearing. His lips were glistening softly with melted honey. “I was hoping maybe you’d want to come with me?”

“Hm?” Arthur lifted his gaze hurriedly to meet Merlin’s eyes and blushed. “I mean, sorry?”

Merlin smiled, his cheeks colouring slightly, as though he was suddenly bashful. “I asked if you’d like to go with me. Could be fun.”

“Yeah,” Arthur drawled, a bit dazed. “Yeah, I imagine it could. I just – I need to work, I’m afraid. Agravaine’s made a right mess, and...” He trailed off.

“Oh.” Merlin’s smile faded as he stared into his cup. “That’s a shame. Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day out there. But of course, if you must – well.”

He seemed suddenly smaller somehow, hunched in on himself defensively – pale, not yet shaven, with a haunted look in his eyes. Arthur cursed himself abruptly for being too stupidly distracted to notice that Merlin looked absolutely exhausted, as though the previous night was the first decent sleep he’d had in weeks.

“Actually, you know what, I’ll drive you,” he said suddenly, stepping forward and taking Merlin’s coffee mug from his hand resolutely to top it. “There’s nothing on my desk that can’t wait till Monday, and I could use some time away myself.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

Merlin stared up at him, a mixture of hope and doubt, and Arthur wanted to kiss him again so badly it hurt – not just in reassurance, but because he wanted him, all of him, melted honey and dried blood, late night sharing and alley fights and quiet mornings and everything in between. He wanted all of it – and he could have it. It was right there in front of him, his for the taking.

He could have it all, if only for one day.

“I’m sure.” Arthur grinned at him and reached to ruffle his hair. “Go get dressed.”

Merlin’s smile was scruffy, crinkle-eyed sunshine, and, if Arthur was the falling-in-love type, at that moment, he’d have been a goner.

--

Arthur blinked. “What in the hell—?”

Curled on the passenger seat beside him, Merlin laughed. “It gets better on the inside.”
Arthur shook his head in disbelief as he got out of the car, still trying to process the bizarre vision in front of him.

Elena’s ‘country house’ was an insane cross between a carousel, Parthenon, and a pagoda. It was huge, a little lopsided, and decorated elaborately with horseshoes that… seemed to be actual horseshoes.

Merlin stepped out of the car, tugging his jumper sleeves over his knuckles, and laughed again at the look on Arthur’s face. “It’s Ellie’s own design,” he said, coming over to Arthur and brushing their shoulders. “She keeps adding parts to it. I don’t think she’s ever going to be done.”

Arthur blinked, and looked at the house through quite different eyes. “How could she afford it? I thought she was a starving artist.”

“Hardly. She’s Godwyn Gawant’s daughter, after all, and he adores her to pieces.”

“Oh.” Arthur lifted an eyebrow and nodded, impressed. The beautiful piece of land marked as private property and the house were making much more sense now. “You never told me that.”

Merlin shrugged. “I don’t like to think about it. Ellie is old money, and so is Gwaine, though he doesn’t like to talk about it. So is Morgana and – well, you. Somehow I always end up being the Oliver Twist in that kind of company.”

“Oh yes, because you’re so working class.” Arthur laughed, surprised, and pulled at the ends of Merlin’s purple scarf.

Merlin smiled, lowering his eyes as though shy. With lashes like that, he could be forgiven, and even if Arthur knew better than to buy the act, he still wondered if he could get away with just one kiss and write it off as a ‘happy-to-be-here’ or something before they had to go in. He was leaning closer even as he was thinking it, and Merlin wasn’t pulling away—

“Merlin! You made it.”

Elena was much as Arthur remembered her – a mildly dishevelled blonde ball of boiling energy, whose bare feet came as an even more of a shock now than they had back at the gallery.

“She’s a tree-hugger, isn’t she?” Arthur whispered.

Merlin kicked his shoe surreptitiously and muttered, “Shut up” out of the corner of his mouth, but he was grinning.

Elena hugged them both heartily and bullied them into the house, chattering ceaselessly as she waltzed around the fountain (a Pegasus, of all things) and carved wooden columns that looked a lot like pagan gods’ idols and completely bypassing the moment Arthur had dreaded – namely, the explanation of his being there.

He couldn’t help but admire the effortless ease with which Merlin floated into the conversation that jumped abruptly from the gossip of the City’s artistic underground to horses to Lord Godwyn’s torrid affair with an intern of undefined gender and political standing. Arthur would have suspected Merlin was faking, it if not for the earnest look in his eyes and Elena’s undisguised delight at hearing his opinion.

They were early for the dinner party, but it turned out to be for the best. The gazebo was in dire need of some repairs, and Elena proclaimed that she was going to shamelessly use her male guests at hand to fix it before dinner. Merlin looked at Arthur warily at the news, as though expecting him to bolt, but Arthur found he didn’t mind at all.

The gazebo was a beautiful wooden pavilion, large and, by the looks of it, at least a couple of decades old. Arthur loved it at first sight and rolled up his sleeves almost eagerly.

He was soon joined by Matt, the local accountant; Elena’s neighbours Peter and Ed, who worked at the bakery and golf club respectively; and Ivan, who taught A-level math and used to be Elena’s tutor. Arthur only caught a glimpse of their wives and girlfriends before Elena herded them into the kitchens in the interest of not poisoning anyone with her cooking.

They were nice, all of them; the weather was exceptionally beautiful; and Arthur loved working with his hands, though he rarely got the chance to. He was enjoying himself as they went about changing the faulty floorboards and repainting the stilts and exchanging easy words. To his enormous surprise, Arthur found himself talking about his football team in great detail and giving advice on how to organise a local one.

Curiously, Merlin had been exempt from the exercise, having been dragged off by Elena to destination unknown. Arthur was subconsciously readying himself to hear the others’ comments and jokes, but, to his relief, most of them just smiled, and the only audible reaction came from Ed, who muttered ‘Lucky sod’ under his breath. (Ed was having a duel with his hammer and losing.)

At some point, Merlin re-emerged, squinting at the high sun. He offered his help half-heartedly, was shooed off, and sprawled on the grass beside a pond, basking in the warmth like a cat. Arthur snorted and walked over, making him sit up long enough for Arthur to throw his discarded jumper on the ground for Merlin to lie on.

“Insulation, Merlin. I know it’s warm, but hypothermia can be cunning.”

Merlin laughed at him, calling him a mother hen and a prat, which Arthur felt was vastly undeserved, but moved to lie on top of the sweater all the same. Arthur counted that as a win and went back to work.

Soon enough, kids surrounded Merlin. Arthur was provided with names and ages as well as the person to whom each brat belonged, but he gave up trying to remember almost at once. There were a lot of them – about eight and a half – ranging from four to twelve, and they all seemed to have a singular thought in mind as they formed a tight circle around Merlin and chanted,

“Story! Story!”

at the top of their lungs.

“I’m sleeping,” Merlin’s voice sounded plaintive.

“No, you’re not, your eyes are open,” a chubby girl of perhaps six pointed out helpfully, nearly poking his eye out in the process.

“Well, I’m not sleeping now, obviously, but I want to. I’m tired. And I’ve forgotten all the stories.”

“Tell us about the witch!”

“Yes, the witch and the dragon.”

“Well, I don’t know...”

“Oh, Merlin, please? Pretty-pretty please?”

“Story! Sto-ry!”

“All right you lot, shut up,” Merlin said, laughing, as he sat up, folding his long legs into a lotus position effortlessly.

Judging from the indulgent looks on the fathers’ faces, this was a fairly regular occurrence and also probably explained why Merlin was left to laze about so easily.

“Quiet,” Merlin ordered, lifting his finger up imperiously and mock-glaring around. “All right, then. Once upon a time, there was a baby dragon called Aithusa who never did as he was told…”

At first, Arthur was having a hard time not mocking Merlin mercilessly, barely stifling his laughter at some of the plot twists or the children’s questions. It lasted for about half an hour until he realised that he was intentionally stalling in finishing scrubbing the old paint off the gazebo’s side, because moving on would mean moving out of earshot and he was sort of hooked by now.

Arthur blushed as it dawned on him, but as he looked up and caught Matt’s eye, he realised Matt was doing the exact same thing. They grinned at each other in silent conspiracy, and Arthur continued listening to the rich sound of Merlin’s voice as the tale spun on.

Later, when the kids were collected by a long-suffering nanny to be settled at one of the parents’ houses for the night, Arthur accosted Merlin, nudging his shoulder with his own.

“So why did the dragon help the witch?”

Merlin looked at him, surprised, and then laughed. “I knew it! You’re secretly a five-year-old.”

Arthur pushed him a bit more forcefully in protest as he dried his hands on a towel, the gazebo freshly painted and cheerful behind them.

“So?”

“Why should I tell you?” Merlin teased. “The kids have to wait until next time, after all.”

“They’ll forget about it until next time. I, on the other hand, don’t appreciate being left hanging.”

“Somehow, I think you’ll survive.”

Arthur dropped the towel and grabbed him in a headlock, pulling at his hair far too gently to be painful. Merlin laughed, trying to fend him off, but he stood no chance against Arthur’s determination. Arthur finally let him go, grinning.

“You’re quite good at that, you know?”

“Twat,” Merlin replied, trying to flatten his hair at least a little. “And that’s what I wanted to do, anyway. When I was a kid, I mean. I wanted to write kids’ stories.”

“Like Winnie-the-Pooh?”

Merlin made a face. “More like the Moomins. I wanted to be original.”

“Well, it’s not too late to try.” Arthur threw an arm across his shoulders. “You can start by telling me why Aithusa saved the witch, and we’ll see how it goes from there.”

“Nice try.”

When Arthur just stared at him, unable to believe Merlin really wasn’t going to tell him, Merlin shook his head and laughed, and it rippled through Arthur like a warm shockwave. He had refused beer earlier, he hadn’t had a drop of alcohol yet, but he was feeling drunk – his head spinning, his legs unsteady – and all he wanted to do was pull Merlin even closer, to fall into him.

The dinner itself was a lovely, informal, relaxed event, apart from some experimental cooking, but even that was mostly adding spice to the evening. Elena was a great host, almost too earnest and welcoming, and her friends were indeed very nice people. And yet Arthur found himself drifting at the outskirts, answering questions distractedly and often having barely made sense of them, spilling his wine, and having no memory of exactly what he had eaten.

The reason for such folly was sitting right next to him, laughing into his chardonnay, the collar of his black shirt open and teasing Arthur with a flash of pale skin. It was hardly the first time that Arthur had watched Merlin, but he couldn’t understand what it was about him tonight that made it so difficult for Arthur to tear his eyes away even briefly. If anything, Merlin was being quieter than usual, listening more than talking and still a little subdued to be his usual outrageously flirty self.

And yet Arthur couldn’t help but touch him whenever he could – brushing their fingers as he passed a dish; knocking their knees together under the table; resting a hand at the back of Merlin’s chair, hoping Merlin would lean into it. He didn’t understand what was happening to him, but he couldn’t stop.

It felt like things were slotting into place at last, and it made Arthur feel jittery and excited and a little bit scared.

There was music and drunken dancing on the lawn afterwards. Elena asked Arthur and he couldn’t turn down a lady. She was so petite and tiny that he almost carried her as they twirled around, just barely missing the pond. Being as pissed as she was, Elena just laughed, and Arthur couldn’t help an answering grin.

He looked for Merlin instinctively and found him laughing at something Peter or Ed had said, sort of swaying between them. Arthur knew they were partners, but he didn’t like the way Peter’s hand rested on Merlin’s hip, even though it was mostly supportive, or the way Ed kept leaning into him, even though Ed was clearly three sheets to the wind. Elena chortled at the look on Arthur’s face and pushed him in the pond. He had to spend the rest of the evening in someone’s flip-flops, but amazingly, at that point Arthur didn’t even care.

--

Later, when some of the guests had left and others were put for the night, Elena turned an apologetic grin on Merlin.

“I’m afraid you guys are in the dungeon; it’s a bit cramped tonight. I hope that’s okay? There’re fresh sheets and everything.”

“It’s fine, Ellie,” Merlin said and kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”

She flushed and beamed at him. “Night-night!”

Arthur had no idea they would be staying the night and wondered vaguely why the change of plans didn’t bother him as he followed Merlin down the narrow stone steps into what did seem to be more a dungeon than a cellar. He pushed the door open, which led into a small room that looked like it was filled with every single piece of furniture that had been exiled from upstairs. In the middle of it, there was a single four-poster bed that would have looked out of place anywhere else but was strangely fitting here.

“Um.” Merlin bit his lip and looked at Arthur nervously. “You don’t have to stay. I mean, I know you haven’t drunk much. If you want to just hop into your car and go back to London, I can catch a ride with someone else tomorrow.”

Arthur lifted an eyebrow. “Do you want me to leave?”

Merlin curiously didn’t look at him. “No. But I don’t expect... You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to—”

Arthur grabbed him by the waist, jerked him closer, and kissed him.

It was a far cry from the tender kisses they’d shared the night before. Arthur bit at Merlin’s lower lip and speared his mouth open when he gasped, one hand spread commandingly at the nape of Merlin’s neck and the other sliding lower to squeeze his arse, making his intentions crystal clear.

“Did you think I was a eunuch?” Arthur growled, backing Merlin up against the door and nipping at his lips, his jaw, knocking Merlin’s knees apart and stepping between them. “Did you think I could just look at you being all... you, and not react?”

Merlin groaned and rolled his hips, teasing even now with a lingering press of his jean-clad erection against Arthur’s groin. It was too much too fast and still not nearly enough, making Arthur drown in white noise for a second before frustration pulled him back.

“I was beginning to wonder,” he panted wetly into Arthur’s ear, tilting his head to the side in a not-at-all subtle hint at what he was after.

“You little shit,” Arthur laughed, but kissed a trail down Merlin’s throat obediently, his toes curling at the sound Merlin made in response.

Merlin pulled him up into another kiss, dragging and filthy and still completely infuriating, because even if he wasn’t laughing into it, he still was somehow laughing at Arthur, his tongue clever and quick where Arthur was straightforward and brutal and inevitably outwitted.

Oh no, you don’t, Arthur thought, smirking in the face of Merlin’s challenge. Fucking stronger than you.

He caught Merlin’s wrists and held them in an unyielding grip with one hand, using the other to grab a fistful of Merlin’s hair and pull until his head fell back, leaving his throat exposed in a beautiful, defenceless arc. Arthur attacked it with single-minded determination, kissing and licking and biting while his hips snapped in the V of Merlin’s thighs, grinding against him as he stood there, immobilized and whimpering.

“Arthur, please.” Merlin’s breathy voice was making Arthur’s blood sing in triumph.

“Please what?” he grunted, dipping his tongue between the prominent collarbones like he’d wanted to for so long, sealing his lips over the hollow and sucking.

“Ar-ghhr!” Merlin arched beneath him, tense and desperate. “Please, it’s been too long, I – God – Arthur, you have to—”

He was trembling, his voice on the verge of breaking, and Arthur felt like an arse suddenly, selfish and savage. He relaxed his grip, cradled Merlin’s face in his hands, and kissed him, deep and greedy, but also in apology for his impatience, even though he felt like it was Merlin’s fault, really. It was all Merlin’s fault.

“One day, I’m going to tie you up,” Merlin was saying in-between kisses, pushing Arthur backward toward the bed, “and make you take it slowly, so slowly. You’re going to scream bloody murder at me, but I won’t relent, not until you beg me properly. And then...”

Arthur’s hands slipped under the hem of Merlin’s shirt, nails scratching lightly along his spine, testing the skin, ever-smooth and silky. “And then?”

Merlin caught his earlobe between his teeth and sucked before whispering wetly, “And then I’m going to ride you so hard you won’t feel your legs and will weep – weep – for mercy.”

Arthur felt his eyes cross at the image, and when Merlin pushed him back onto the bed, he fell like a dead weight.

For a moment, Merlin just stood there, looking at him, his chest heaving as he reached for the upper button of his shirt. Arthur kicked his trainers off and stretched on the bed, folding his arms under his head and grinning. “Going to put on a show for me, Merlin?”

Merlin smirked. “You should be so lucky.”

But his fingers were hesitant, nervous as he undid the buttons, and Arthur couldn’t resist teasing him. “Aw, don’t tell me you’re self-conscious about your body, Mr. Calvin Klein.”

Merlin huffed out a laugh. “No, I just...” He shook his head, biting his lip again, and then shimmied out of his shirt, letting it fall in a heap behind him.

Arthur choked on his next remark, mortified at his own stupidity.

Merlin was beautiful, as Arthur had always known he’d be. He wasn’t frail, but long and lean, his shoulders broad, his stomach curving in and whipcord-solid. The dusting of dark hair on his chest became the beginnings of a happy trail, trickling in a straight, unequivocal line down from his navel – Arthur’s mouth watered just following it.

He was also covered in bruises.

His forearms most prominently, his shoulders; there was an ugly black splotch in the middle of his chest where that first horrible punch had landed.

“Pretty, huh?” Merlin smirked wryly, bitterly.

Arthur’s fists clenched. He wanted to find the bastards and pummel them all over again, break a few bones for every imperfection they had put on Merlin’s gorgeous, creamy-pale skin that seemed to glow in the sparse light of a single bulb hanging above their heads.

“Arthur?” Merlin cocked his head to the side, uncertain. Tense. “It’s okay if you don’t want to—”

“Take your clothes off,” Arthur ordered hoarsely. “And come here.”

Merlin peered at him for a moment longer, evaluating – and then reached for the belt buckle of his jeans.

Arthur used the time to pull his jumper and t-shirt over his head. He unfastened his jeans, palming his cock just briefly because he couldn’t help it, and stilled on his side, waiting for Merlin.

There were more bruises on his hips, at the side of his knee, and Arthur sucked in a breath, trying to tame his anger. He looked at Merlin’s cock instead, long like the rest of him, making Arthur swallow reflexively before he drooled, his jaw aching from anticipation alone.

“Shit,” he groaned.

“What is it?” Merlin asked, sitting next to him on the bed, his fingers tracing the bruise on Arthur’s ribs.

Arthur looked at him, tortured. “I want to suck you, but I don’t have anything. This wasn’t planned.”

Merlin smiled and leaned in to kiss him. “This is Ellie’s house,” he murmured softly against Arthur’s lips. “She stocks this shit everywhere.”

He stretched over Arthur and pulled open a drawer in a cupboard framing the bed from the other side. Merlin groped inside blindly for a moment, and then threw a handful of condoms and packets of lube on Arthur’s chest. “Aha!”

Arthur scowled even as he ripped one of them open. “Come here often, do you?”

Merlin grinned at him impishly and nuzzled his chest, mouthing at a nipple. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

“Careful, they’re” — Merlin grazed the pebbled peak with his teeth, and Arthur bucked up, his voice going embarrassingly high for a moment – “sensitive.”

Merlin smirked, delighted, and proceeded to flick his tongue over it until Arthur pushed him off to sprawl on his back and straddled his hips. Merlin was looking up at him so trustingly that Arthur groaned and bent over to rub his face against Merlin’s stomach, peppering it with sloppy, sucking kisses, following the subtle quiver of muscles and revelling in Merlin’s shaky breath, his long fingers carding through Arthur’s hair.

Arthur kissed his way up Merlin’s chest, buried his face in the hollow of his throat, sucked in a bruise under his chin, and then let Merlin pull him into another kiss, stuttering and too hungry.

“I want you,” Arthur whispered, not because there was any doubt but because it felt good to say it out loud, to see Merlin’s eyes so close, two specs of black light rimmed in blue, blown wide and stormy with want. “Want you so badly, Merlin, fuck, you’ve no—”

Merlin rocked against him, trying to get Arthur to press him down, instead of hovering over him, pulling at him with determined hands as he pushed his tongue into Arthur’s mouth, mapping out his teeth, straining to reach the back of his throat.

Arthur cursed and pinned him down with a hand on his chest, sitting back and groping for a condom.

“Not fair,” Merlin complained, breathless, but Arthur paid him no mind, tugging lightly as his foreskin before rolling the condom down his shaft with a hand that was anything but steady. He gave Merlin a look heavy with a silent order and shifted down on the bed before leaning over and taking the head of Merlin’s cock into his mouth.

Arthur loved giving head. It was part of the long list of facts nobody knew about him, stashed between his embarrassing appreciation of the Spice Girls and orange pies; the fact that he had gotten hard lifting weights when Leon had sat on his lap to spot him in the uni gym that one time; and his fascination with haiku, which had led to many an attempt at bad poetry plaguing the plains and valleys of the internet.

He loved giving head, loved the weight of cock in his mouth, the way it made his jaw ache and his throat scratchy; loved the stretch of his lips, how tender they were afterwards. He absolutely loved driving his partner crazy, reducing him to a whimpering, sobbing mess, feeling his knees shake and give and hearing a litany of curses and pleas. He never allowed them to grab his head, to try and direct him – it was his moment, his power over them, and he didn’t go for anything but absolute control.

The taste of latex and condom lube was vile, but Arthur couldn’t care about it when Merlin’s mouth fell open helplessly as Arthur tongued the head, sucking lightly, not teasing but learning the feel of Merlin’s cock in his mouth.

Arthur grabbed Merlin’s knees and pushed them up and open, pressing down and knowing Merlin was flexible enough to take the strain. Merlin grunted, and Arthur felt the muscles quiver under his palms, stretched to the limit and trembling with tension. He pushed down more forcefully and took as much of Merlin into his mouth as he could at the same time. Above him, Merlin bit his own fist, keening, because Arthur didn’t tease – he was straightforward and blunt, sucking hard as he could, pushing Merlin’s knees further apart and knowing that the burn of the stretch would make him more sensitive, raw with it.

“Arthur, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuckohfuckohfuck, I can’t – I can’t! – nngh!”

Arthur fucked his mouth on Merlin’s cock in a steady, rapid pace that left him just that side of oxygen deprivation, deliciously breathless, before putting his full weight onto his arms and taking Merlin deeper down his throat, swallowing around him. Merlin whined, incoherent, and Arthur carefully let his teeth peek out, just a tiny bit, just enough to make contact.

Merlin screamed, arching up and coming in scolding hot spurts, and Arthur wished badly that he could taste him.

He released Merlin slowly, carefully, looking up to find Merlin sweaty and shaking, quivering all over and staring at Arthur with wide, dazed eyes. Arthur grinned, smug and unapologetic, pulling the condom off and stretching Merlin’s legs for him, massaging his thighs as he went.

“C’mere,” Merlin rasped, and Arthur had never heard his voice so deep, so guttural. He crawled up and let Merlin pull him closer, pressing his mouth to Arthur’s, his lips trembling. He was going for a kiss but seemed unable to muster anything more than breathing unevenly into Arthur’s mouth. He sunk back into the pillow with a frustrated sigh, fingers tangling in Arthur’s hair.

Arthur laughed, pushing the fringe out of Merlin’s eyes and rubbing their noses together teasingly. “I made you useless, didn’t I?”

“Prat.” Merlin scowled. “Just – wait—”

Arthur laughed again and took pity on him, kissing him softly. He was rock hard, the cotton of his pants wet through, and he couldn’t help an involuntary motion of his hips where they were pressed against Merlin’s, humping slowly.

Merlin pushed back at him with an encouraging grunt, his limbs growing lighter, more controlled as he recovered. Soon enough, Merlin took over the kiss, being as gentle with Arthur as Arthur was with him, one hand sliding down Arthur’s flank slowly in a light, sensual caress.

Arthur pulled back, looking down at Merlin and drinking down the sight of him, wrecked and beautiful and lying trustingly in Arthur’s arms.

Merlin’s fingers ghosted over Arthur’s cheekbone, skimming over his jaw, his lips, as if learning him by touch, as though it was vital that he didn’t miss anything.

“Fuck me?” he breathed into the closed, private space between their lips, their eyes. It seemed far away from where Arthur’s cock was hard and leaking and yet unerringly relevant to it, but also relevant to so much more.

Arthur turned him more toward the light and searched his eyes. “Are you sure? It’s not too soon?”

Merlin smiled. “I’m sure.”

He turned away from Arthur, lying on his side and pushing one knee up and forward, leaving himself exposed and vulnerable in a way that took Arthur’s breath away.

“Yeah.” He exhaled softly. “Yeah, okay.”

He took his time kissing the nape of Merlin’s neck, his shoulders, rolling his tongue against the knobs of his spine. His hand lay flat against Merlin’s side, stroking him, loving the soft yield of skin; the light fuzziness of his thighs and belly; the smooth pertness of his arse, surprisingly round for such a slim person.

Arthur kissed under Merlin’s ear and down his jaw, his hand roaming low, delighted to discover that Merlin hadn’t lost his arousal completely. He fondled him carefully but with clear intent, until Merlin pushed back at him and muttered something impatient.

Arthur swallowed a smirk and reached for another condom. He pushed his jeans and pants down just enough to free his cock, knowing through some undeniable instinct that Merlin loved feeling him half-dressed against himself. Besides, with his motion range somewhat limited, there was less of a risk that Arthur would lose control, and he couldn’t afford it, not tonight; not with Merlin trusting him like this, with the two of them finally getting there.

He rolled the condom on and reached for lube, smearing it generously over his fingers and kissing the side of the neck that had been teasing him for so long all the while.

Merlin tensed when Arthur first breached him, but relaxed almost instantly and wriggled his arse, telegraphing his impatience. “Not a virgin,” he muttered petulantly, trying to get more of Arthur’s fingers. “You can just—”

Arthur bit at his shoulder, sharp and brief. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying I don’t need that much prep—”

“Are you arguing with me?” Arthur wondered and twisted his fingers, making Merlin jolt.

“You treat me like I’m going to break.”

“Oh, you are going to break,” Arthur whispered filthily in his ear, adding another finger and spreading them.

Merlin moaned. “Fuck.”

Arthur smirked, curled his fingers, and pressed.

Merlin writhed against him, his hole clamping down. “You’re an absolute bastard,” he rasped as Arthur poured more lube and fucked him with his fingers until the room was filled with wet, squelching noises and Merlin’s breathy moans.

“Just for that,” Arthur murmured tenderly, “I’m going to keep at it until you beg.”

“Nnmgh.”

“I decide when you need more prep, Merlin.”

“Guuh – oh God, you... bloody control freak. I’m ready, Arthur; I’m so fucking ready.”

Arthur pulled out, gripping the base of his own cock for a moment before grunting out: “Yes, you are.”

They both groaned when Arthur pushed in finally, almost losing it at that first thrust. He’d wanted this for too long; he thought he could control it, but he had drastically overestimated himself, and the tight, greedy clench of Merlin’s arse was the punishment for his arrogance.

“I can’t,” he pushed out through gritted teeth. “I can’t, Merlin. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I can’t.”

His hips snapped, he couldn’t control them, couldn’t hold still even for a moment. His concentration slipped, and he fucked in fast and brutal, back and again, in sharp, jabbing thrusts. Coherent thought fled, his skin felt taut and hot as if he were on fire, and looking down to where Merlin was stretched around his more-than-generous girth, sucking him in, had been his last mistake.

He gripped Merlin’s hips without noticing, pushing him all the way facedown on bended knees, covered him with his body, pressing down hard against his shoulder blades to keep him down, and pounded into him with no rhythm or finesse whatsoever, driven by pure, animalistic instinct.

Merlin moaned and pushed back, fearless, disobedient little shit that he was, forehead braced against his bended arms and spreading his legs wider for Arthur, as though determined to rid him of the last bits of sanity. Arthur growled and grabbed him around the waist, pulling him up against himself, both of them sitting on their knees. Arthur’s dick was still slamming in-in-in, but this way, Merlin could twist around enough to pull him into a kiss, all teeth and tongue and rebellion as he jerked himself off at the same time.

His teeth sank into Arthur’s lip, breaking skin, and that was it. Arthur came with a muffled cry, thrusting his tongue into Merlin’s mouth and clutching at him way too tightly when Merlin clamped down on him, his own come splashing his chest and Arthur’s arms.

They sat motionless for a few long moments, panting, sticky and hot and afraid to move.

“Wow,” Merlin breathed out finally, shivering at a gust of cooler air drifting from the window. “I think you really did break me. I can’t move.”

“Merlin,” Arthur started, his higher brain function seeping back gradually, feeling him with a sense of dread. “God, I—”

“Gave me exactly what I asked for.” Merlin cut him off with a finger pressed to his lips. He tried to repeat his previous manoeuvre, twisting far enough back for a kiss, but this time they both hissed in discomfort. “Well, this is going to be a little awkward.”

Arthur kissed the nape of his neck and gripped his waist. “Go on, I’ve got you.”

They separated after a few uncomfortable moments and stretched their limbs. Arthur disposed of the condom and stepped over to a sink in the corner to clean up, bringing a wet flannel back to Merlin, wiping his chest and belly gently.

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Oh, come here already. I want to kiss you.”

Arthur squinted at him mistrustfully. “Are you absolutely certain you’re all right?”

“For God’s sake – I’m not a china doll, Arthur.”

“Maybe I should check you out just in case.”

Merlin’s eyes narrowed. “Try and you’ll be sleeping in the car.”

Arthur looked at him, gauging his sincerity, realised Merlin wasn’t joking, and sighed, giving up.

He killed the light before crawling into bed next to Merlin, who instantly snuggled to him, rolling half on top of him and kissing him sweetly.

“Sorry about your lip,” he murmured. “Got carried away.”

Arthur let out a disbelieving laugh. “You weren’t the only one.” He shook his head.

“What?” Merlin prodded, nuzzling under his chin.

“I don’t – I don’t lose control like that. Ever. What you do to me, it’s... Merlin?”

“Hm?”

“Are you purring?”

“Hm. No?”

Arthur laughed, slipping his arms around his waist. “There’s something very wrong with you.”

“Yeah,” Merlin agreed, and even in the darkness Arthur could tell he was grinning. “You are,” he said, and Arthur’s heart made a summersault in his chest. He didn’t reply, but kissed Merlin’s hair.

They almost drifted off to sleep when a thought occurred to Arthur, making him tense. “Merlin?”

Merlin groaned. “What?”

“There’s no nightlight. Do you want – I don’t mind sleeping with the lamp on.”

He did mind, in fact, but he’d do it in a heartbeat if it made Merlin feel safer.

Merlin sighed and rolled onto his side, pulling Arthur with him until they spooned. “No need,” he said sleepily. “You’re here.”

Arthur stayed awake for at least an hour afterwards, too shocked and happy to fall asleep.

--

He woke up at dawn, jerked rudely from the much-needed sleep by the obnoxiously persistent ringing of his mobile. Merlin grunted something incomprehensible and rolled away from him, burying his head under a pillow.

Arthur tiptoed across the icy cold floor to where he dropped his jeans the night before, fully intending to murder whoever it was for ruining his first perfect morning.

When he saw the caller ID though, he paled, and knew that he had no choice but to answer. He glanced back one last time to where Merlin was almost completely hidden under a pile of duvets and pillows and wished, helplessly, that they had had more time.

--

“I don’t understand. How did this happen?”

Arthur gritted his teeth. It was the third time Uncle Tristan had asked the question with the same air of helpless confusion as he sat nearly swallowed by an armchair in the corner of the smaller conference room. He looked tired, wronged, and ready to retire.

“It happened when we weren’t looking,” Arthur said, because he was getting tired of useless rhetorical questions. He was ready to move on.

“I thought you were supposed to be always looking, Arthur,” Tristan said mulishly. “I thought when you said you’d keep an eye on Agravaine, you’d actually keep an eye on him.”

“I did.”

“Then answer me – how the hell didn’t you know about this?”

Arthur squared his jaw, incinerating a windowpane with his eyes for lack of a better outlet. Maybe he had underestimated Agravaine; maybe he had underestimated his allies. There could be any number of explanations as to how on Earth Arthur had missed this.

But the simple answer was he was looking without really seeing. Agravaine wasn’t that smart, and it was all there, hidden in plain sight. The simple truth was that Arthur had been distracted in the one way that he truly couldn’t afford.

It wasn’t just about a single day off work. No, it had started long before yesterday. Arthur didn’t want it to be true, but he knew. He couldn’t lie to himself, no matter how badly he wanted to continue the delusion.

It had started when he’d answered the door and Merlin had been there, with his stupid pretentious scarf and blinding smiles. Every moment he’d spent thinking about what Merlin was wearing; every day he cut short, planning what to make for their evening meal; every hour of sleep he didn’t get because of their late nights at the pub or on the couch. Every single way – the legion of ways in which Merlin permeated his life, changing and reshaping it into something that was so irresistibly alluring, so full of promise and light and joy that Arthur had yielded to the temptation, sunk into it.

He’d been distracted, he allowed himself to be seduced, and now they were facing this.

“With all due respect, Sir, I don’t think it matters how this happened anymore,” Mithian said, her tone delicate but firm. “There is still time to take action.”

Tristan merely bristled, but Arthur nodded at her gratefully. “That’s right. Are we certain that this only concerns these three clients?”

“Only these three!” Tristan snorted bitterly. “They only make up for 47% of our profits.”

Arthur counted to five. “I am aware of that, Uncle.” He looked at Mithian, eyebrow raised.

She nodded calmly, ignoring Tristan’s dark muttering with admirable poise. “According to Bayard, it’s only Mercia, Cailleach, and Caerleon.”

“We can confirm that,” Pellinore said, patting Drea’s shoulder soothingly and glancing at her laptop screen over her shoulder. “I had Drea recheck every single transfer.”

Arthur looked at the pale, frightened face of the junior analyst, the one he’d come to think of as ‘that big-eyed girl from the Hong Kong desk’ and wondered exactly what his head of Research and Analysis had been thinking when he chose to confide in her.

As though having read his mind, Pellinore said, “Drea was the one who found the discrepancies. I trust her.”

Arthur nodded. “So what exactly did he do?”

The more he listened to their explanations, the more despondent he became. Agravaine’s scheme was a far cry from smart, but that was exactly the problem. He didn’t have to be smart or inventive; he just had to read the same signs as Mithian had when she’d brought Arthur coffee that first time.

This job had never been his choice. He had never felt for it as Uther had, had tried to find that fascination or power lust or whatever it was that had driven his father – and failed. But he could do it, and he could do it well. He wasn’t happy, perhaps, but he was content, satisfied with the way he conducted himself and with the standards he’d made everyone uphold. He took pride in his work, and, as arranged marriages went, he could have done far worse. It had been rolling on like a well-oiled mechanism.

And then Merlin had come and ruined it all.

“Why weren’t his unauthorized” – Arthur cringed – “investments found in follow-up? Vivian is stupid, but she’s not stupid, or she wouldn’t be my ops manager.”

Pellinore glanced over at Mithian and shrugged uncomfortably. “Rumour has it that Agravaine is sleeping with her.”

Arthur closed his eyes. “Dear God.”

“Yes, that pillow talk must be full of rivers of gold and mounts of diamonds to make up for all the horrible sex they must be having.”

Arthur blinked, looking around in a fit of paranoia. “When did this place become a den of iniquity?” He pointed an accusing finger at Mithian. “And don’t even try to tell me that Bayard, of all people, told you what he told you over coffee.”

She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Your point being, Sir?”

“You’re my secretary. The hell’s he doing—”

“Arthur, I think you’ll want to shut up now,” Pellinore stepped in quickly, and Arthur nodded, because yes, definitely, great idea. Mithian wasn’t Morgana – she wouldn’t yell, she’d just murder him with cold efficiency of a ninja, there and gone before he felt it.

He still shot her a brooding look (she predictably ignored it) and rubbed at his forehead. He could feel a spectacular migraine rapidly closing in on him.

“Just to check, you’re not shagging anyone under my employment when I’m not looking, are you?” he asked Pellinore.

The analyst gave him a wry smirk. “Why? You’re offering?”

“Gentlemen,” Mithian said coolly, and Arthur felt the remains of hysterical mirth leaving him abruptly.

Three major clients on the verge of losing assets were no laughing matter.

“So to sum it up, in three months, tops, their investments tank, they feel duped, and we owe them a lot of money.”

Pellinore nodded. “Pretty much.”

Arthur drummed his fingers against the table top. “How much? Assuming we pull back what we can, stop any further transfers, and fully reimburse them from our funds?”

Pellinore shook his head. “You know the board would never approve that.”

“Fine. What if I reimburse them with my own money? Throw in all the bonds I hold and preferred shares.”

Pellinore made a quick calculation. “You might be able to save one – if you’re lucky – and you’d go broke, Arthur.”

“Why would he do that?” Tristan was clearly addressing the ether. “Why would he hurt the clients like that?”

Arthur saw Pellinore and Mithian exchange a disbelieving look and scowled, because yes, he could get their frustration, but Tristan was their boss and the CEO. Loyalty had to count for something. Then he remembered that Mithian called him exactly because she was just that loyal, and the others were there for the same reason.

“The board votes on the CEO confirmation or resignation in a month, Uncle,” Arthur reminded him patiently, biting his lip because no, he shouldn’t be explaining this. “If we lose three major clients, do you think they’d just let it slide? I don’t know how Agravaine intends to convince them to pick him, but I’m sure he’s got it covered. He’s clearly been planning this for a while.”

“That snivelling little weasel,” Tristan grumbled. “Should have strangled him back in boarding school.”

Arthur looked over to his employees, flushed with embarrassment at his uncle’s lack of control. But Drea still had her nose in her laptop and seemed afraid to breathe, Pellinore was giving Arthur a mildly sympathetic look, and Mithian was gazing at him coolly as she always did, awaiting instructions.

It was all suddenly clear, structured, and logical in his head – the plan of action, the only possible one with the cards they’d been dealt. This was why everyone was looking at him right now, why he did what he did.

“All right,” he said, calm and collected, even as his insides churned. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

This and this alone was what he was for, after all.

--

His mobile vibrated again.

Arthur sighed, secluded in the sanctuary of his office, his eyes going a little cross from staring at the numbers on the screen. He looked at his phone, even though he already knew it was Merlin. Arthur had left while he was still sleeping, leaving him a note that vaguely spoke to a work emergency.

Merlin had first called a little after ten. Arthur had let it go to voicemail, which he had no intention to listen. He felt like throwing up that first time, too.

It was nearly six in the evening now, and Merlin had called about a dozen times since. Arthur had stared at the screen every time, scared at how tempted he was to answer. He had always been proud of his self-control. This was unacceptable.

There was a knock on the door before Pellinore and Mithian stepped into his office, looking somewhat excited. Well, Pellinore looked excited; Mithian just seemed less statuesque-like.

“Arthur! This might sound crazy, but I think we found a way fix this,” Pellinore said, bright-eyed and a little breathless. “Drea’s still working, but if we do this now, and if we’re very very lucky, we might even turn it into a win and the clients never need to know. Oh, and you might not need to go broke after all.”

“That’s a relief,” Arthur said, not feeling it. They were just words.

“That was actually Mithian’s idea.”

Arthur glanced at her with a spark of curiosity. “I knew I hired you for a reason.”

“To answer your phone,” she scoffed.

“So what’s your genius idea?”

“Well, he channelled the money into some failing enterprises, right? Two in Hong Kong, one in Australia, and two more in Japan. So I pulled their stats, and Mithian made a few phone calls. Drea’s still doing the background checks, but it looks like all of them are failing solely because of bad management.”

Arthur blinked. “You’re kidding?”

“No.” Pellinore grinned, excited. “My guess is, that was why Agravaine went for them – there’s no way it’s a coincidence. He must have seen the same figures we’ve seen and thought they’d tank by the end of the quarter.”

“Which they will, unless someone intervenes,” Mithian said. “I spoke to the CEOs of three of them; still waiting for the fourth one to reply. They would welcome our consult, provided we can save them.”

Arthur lifted his eyebrows. “If Mohammed doesn’t come to the mountain?”

“Precisely.” Mithian nodded. “We cannot get the money back, but we can try and save these businesses from failing.”

“And you can totally do this, Arthur. All that work you’ve done for Bates, and Tintagel, and bloody Bayard?” Pellinore looked at Mithian pointedly as though she was personally responsible for Bayard’s actions. “Not to mention keeping us afloat. You can do this. Piece of cake.”

“It’s never a ‘piece of cake.’” Arthur grimaced, but even as he said it, he could already see it playing out. “We’d need to round up some funds to patch the holes. I’d need risk projections as soon as possible—”

“You got it, boss!”

Arthur wrinkled his nose. “Stop calling me that. Mithian—”

“I need to get back on the phone,” she said, walking out without waiting for a dismissal.

Pellinore rushed after her. “I’m going back to Drea. We’ll keep you posted.”

Arthur stared. Sometimes, some days, it would appear they didn’t need him that much after all.

--

Merlin stopped calling around 11 p.m. Arthur was vaguely aware of that fact, drowning as he was in a hungry whirlpool of conflicting data (some of which wasn’t even in English). He supposed it was only fair, but he couldn’t help a pang of regret just the same.

He didn’t go home that night; none of them did. In the morning, before the start of business, Arthur dragged himself to a hotel shop across the street for a change of clothes. The suit they offered him was too smart, almost snappy, and the open appreciation in the shop assistant’s eyes made him cringe, but he was past caring.

Merlin texted him a few times through the day. Arthur never read them.

He finally left around nine, hoping against hope that Mithian had enough pull to get him on the next flight to Hong Kong.

It was selfish and cowardly, but Arthur hoped Merlin wasn’t home, that it were one of those nights. He didn’t want it to be over; he longed to keep the illusion for a little while longer, even if it was pure egoism on his part.

But of course Merlin was home, rushing toward him the moment Arthur stepped through the door.

“Arthur! Thank God – I was beginning to seriously consider going on a rescue mission. Are you all right? Why the hell aren’t you picking up your phone, you twat?  I was worried sick. You haven’t slept at all, have you? You look awful.”

Guilt swirled heavily in Arthur’s stomach as he stepped forward. “Merlin—”

But Merlin wasn’t listening; he was already there, in Arthur’s space, cupping his face and kissing him, a heady, desperate pull. Arthur groaned and tugged him closer. He’d missed him, missed this, so badly, he—

“Merlin, we need to talk,” Arthur said, pushing him away, barely believing he was doing it.

Merlin froze, staring at him, alarm clouding the smoky blue of his eyes. He looked tired.

He looked beautiful.

Arthur stepped past him into the kitchen. He was a coward, and, being true to form, he wanted to get to the safest ground, where he could talk surrounded by his faithful pans and utensils and the lingering smell of his cooking.

“You just left,” Merlin said in a small voice, trailing after him. “A note, Arthur? I just – I didn’t know what to think, and you weren’t answering your phone.”

“I know; I’m sorry. Did you make it back okay?”

“Arthur, what happened?”

Arthur told him as clearly as he could make it for a non-professional. Merlin listened with rapt attention, frowning throughout and pursing his lips impatiently when he felt Arthur was overdoing it with the spelling out.

“God, Arthur,” Merlin drawled when he was finished, clearly upset. “Is this because I dragged you away when you were supposed to be working?”

“No.” Arthur shook his head. “Well, it didn’t help, but no. This wasn’t a one day’s doing.”

“Okay,” Merlin breathed out, looking marginally relieved. He cleared his throat. “So this is pretty bad.”

Arthur snorted humourlessly. “You could say that again.”

“I still don’t understand why you couldn’t have texted me at least once – at least to let me know you weren’t lying dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Arthur drew in a breath. “I didn’t want to do this over the phone.”

“To do what over the phone?”

His heart was pounding in his chest as though he’d just sprinted through a marathon. This was it. This was the part where Merlin started hating him.

Arthur forced himself to look him in the eye. He owed him that much. “Merlin. I’m sorry, but what happened between us was a mistake.”

Merlin’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“It was lovely... well, amazing, frankly, but we shouldn’t have done it. It was a mistake, and it can’t happen again.”

“The sex was a mistake? What about everything else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we – I thought we were – you think I would just sleep with you if that was all there was?”

“Merlin, whatever... relationship we had – or you think we had – it’s now over. I can’t do this with you. I’m sorry.”

“Because you have a crisis at work? Arthur, that’s ridiculous. You think other people never run into trouble? I nearly got fired last week. I have to work with Cenred, in case you’ve forgotten. Do you think it’s easy for any of us? What the hell are you even talking about? You’re breaking up with me because your uncle is a dick?”

“I’m not breaking up with you, because there’s nothing to break!” Arthur snapped. “Jesus, Merlin, grow up. We had sex once. I didn’t exactly propose to you, now, did I?”

Merlin’s cheeks burst with colour, but he didn’t say anything at once – just stood there in shocked, disbelieving silence, shaking his head.

“You’re not this person, Arthur,” he said quietly at last, hurt but persistent. “Why are you doing this? Look, we all have to—”

“No, we don’t ‘all have to,’ Merlin,” Arthur said, exasperated. “You have trouble at work? Big deal. You don’t have people depending on your success, on your single wrong move, in fact. What I’m dealing with is not bad – haven’t you been listening? It’s catastrophic. If I can’t fix it, it’s not just my job on the line; don’t you get it? It’s the financial security of my father and Helen and that unborn baby and Morgana, for God’s sake. The security of all the people who work for me, because I know – I know that if Agravaine wins, he’ll disassemble the company piece by piece, and do you think it’s easy to find a new job in this kind of economy? I have to take care of my people – something you’ve clearly never dealt with!”

Merlin’s eyes flashed. “Oh, I take care of people, Arthur. Not always with money, but yeah, money, too, so I do understand. You have to deal with it – so deal with it. Whatever gave you the impression that I’d be in your way?”

“Because you’re already in my way!” Arthur spat. “None of this would have even happened if it weren’t for you, if I wasn’t more interested in your new haircut than in the bloody stock projections!”

Merlin gaped. “You’re saying this is my fault?”

“No, Merlin,” Arthur said, the fight bleeding out of him abruptly. “The fault is mine. But you’re the reason.”

Merlin blinked.

“You’re a distraction.” Arthur was pleading with him to understand. “An indulgence. And I have a duty. I can’t – afford you. Too many people depend on me. Maybe I’ll fix it this time, but even if I do, I can’t allow this to happen again. I know you don’t understand, and that, to you, it seems preposterous, silly even. But I just can’t do it. It pains me more than you can ever know.”

Merlin scrutinized at him for the longest moment, his blush fading into an unnatural paleness. “No,” he said slowly, shaking his head. “No, I don’t think it does, or you wouldn’t be doing this.”

Arthur closed his eyes. “Merlin—”

“You really – really don’t feel anything for me, do you? It didn’t mean anything to you – not last night, not before? I really was just – what was it? An indulgence? I thought – I was so certain that you...” He broke in a shaky, disbelieving laugh. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

“Merlin, look—”

“Oh God, please, don’t try to make it better. You’re leaving me, after sleeping with me once, to fully concentrate on a job that you hate. Wow. I guess I really rate low as entertainment goes, don’t I?”

Arthur swallowed. “It’s not about you.”

“No, you know what, it’s not.” Merlin nodded sharply, his jaw jutting forward, a cold, cutting look in his eyes, alien on his ever-friendly face. “It’s about you. It’s about you letting other people put you in a prison with fancy walls and stiff clothes to slave there for your entire life, because you think that you owe it to your father, to your family, to every fucking person on the planet. It’s about you not being able to see a good thing when it’s staring you in the face.”

Arthur closed his eyes briefly, biting his lip.

Merlin didn’t get it. Of course he didn’t. Arthur knew he wouldn’t, but that knowledge didn’t make it easier. He sighed. It would have to be this way then. He’d hoped, but – he’d known; he’d known from the start this was how it would end.

Merlin wouldn’t get it; he’d only know that Arthur had broken his trust. Hurting him like that was the last thing Arthur wanted, but there was no other way. If his father wasn’t sick, if Helen wasn’t pregnant, if Merlin didn’t have the ability to steal his focus so completely, if he was just a pretty face...

His gaze fell on the microwave clock, and Arthur knew his time was running out. He squared his shoulders.

“Merlin, I’m sorry, I know it’s very—” he fumbled for a word, but there really wasn’t one to describe it fully; he settled for a lame “—rude of me, but – I’ll need you to leave. This place, I mean. I’m really sorry. Pick whatever hotel you want, it’s on me.”

Merlin stayed silent. Arthur could feel his gaze, unwavering and piercing. He cleared his throat. “You don’t have to go tonight. I have a flight in a few hours, and I only stopped to pack. But I would appreciate it if you were gone before I came back.”

Merlin didn’t respond. Arthur couldn’t quite look him in the eye, but when Merlin stepped forward, he had no choice, gaze drawn to Merlin’s almost against his will. He let out a shuddering sigh and nearly crumbled.

“Arthur, please don’t do this,” Merlin pleaded quietly. “Not for me, for you. You’re not the first to tell me I’m not worth the effort; every guy I’ve ever dated has, so it’s hardly news. I’ve been through this before and that’s how I know that I’ll bounce back. Sure, it’ll suck, because I don’t think I’ve ever liked anyone as much as I like you, but I will be okay. Eventually. But you – Arthur, if I leave, you don’t have anything. Please, please don’t do this.”

Arthur couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow, his throat too tight and edgy. He blinked and turned his head; he couldn’t bear to look in Merlin’s eyes any longer. He couldn’t recognise his own voice as he spoke, it sounded so hoarse and dead.

“Leave the key with the concierge when you go.”

He moved past Merlin and dashed to his room, blinking far too often.

When he stepped out twenty minutes later, carrying a suitcase without any idea of its contents, he peered into the kitchen automatically, but Merlin wasn’t there anymore.

--

Hong Kong, Sydney, Hong Kong again, Dubai, Tokyo – Arthur was beginning to feel spread-eagled between the continents, not sure if all his limbs were in one place at any given time. He worked twenty hours a day; he mostly slept on planes; he wasn’t always certain about what language he was speaking. Still, slowly but surely, their plan was playing out, even if it felt like patching the holes on a sinking boat where one miss meant inevitable drowning.

He was too busy to eat, too busy to sleep, but he wasn’t too busy to think about Merlin.

Arthur didn’t understand it. He had ended things, however ugly the manner. Merlin wasn’t there anymore to distract him, but distract him he did. Arthur missed him – missed seeing his face every day, blue eyes laughing at him; missed Merlin’s sharp comments and artsy scarves; his caffeine addiction, and the way he used to look at Arthur as though seeing right through him, into him, to the very bottom of his being, and liking what he found there.

It wasn’t supposed to happen, but with every passing day, he missed Merlin more. Every time he spotted someone tall and skinny out of the corner of his eye, Arthur whirled and looked, his disappointment aching more with every mistake, because of course it was never Merlin. Every day was worse than the previous, and the nights...

His dreams were a never-ending torture of longing, filled with hot kisses and the smell of Merlin’s skin, the texture of him under Arthur’s fingers, the taste of his lips, the sound of his voice. Arthur woke up sweaty and panting, tangled in hotel-fresh sheets, reaching for a partner who wasn’t there. His relief – on the few nights when he woke up too far gone not to – tasted bitter, and he hated those times more than anything, because there were tears and he couldn’t stop them. He had never felt so helpless in his life.

Worse than all of that, though, were the scarce few moments Arthur had to himself, usually waiting for a plane to take off or a car to arrive. His thoughts inevitably strayed to what Merlin was doing. Had he found a place to stay? Was he doing okay at the office? Was Gwaine fucking him stupid to make it all better?

The thought filled him with blistering rage and guilt because he had no right to be jealous. But even more than that, he was perturbed by the thought of Merlin in pain.

He’d bounce back, he’d said. He’d bounce back, Arthur told himself time and again. Merlin was strong. Merlin would make it. He’d faced worse than this. He’d bounce back; he had to. There were days when Arthur’s sanity was clinging to that thought like a lifeline, the only thing standing against the mad urge to drop everything and rush back to London to heal the wounds he had caused.

--

Osaka. He remembered the airport, a weird island thing – and then nothing.

He woke up in a hospital bed with a tube stuck in his arm. They told him it was exhaustion and too many skipped meals, and, where his body was concerned, they were probably right. He’d be good as new, a well-meaning doctor promised him before discharging.

Arthur didn’t argue.

--

London was rainy and soggy when Arthur made it back nearly three weeks later. His luggage had been lost somewhere between the Pacific and the Atlantic, and he couldn’t even summon up enough energy to care. He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want to go to the office, either.

Morgana opened the door wearing washed-out blue jeans and a strapless top, revealing a shocking amount of skin for the day on the calendar, and looking radiant and sun-glomped from months she’d spent in Amazonia.

“Arthur?”

“Hello, Morgana.”

There was a forbidding look on her face, but it crumbled as she took him in, melting into a familiar, sad weariness.

“Oh, Arthur. What did you do this time?”

The corner of his mouth quirked awkwardly. “Do you have alcohol?”

She sighed and stepped aside, letting him in.

--

By the time they’d finished a bottle of Captain Morgan, Arthur was mostly done talking.

Morgana blinked at him owlishly, as though waiting for a while if there’d be more. At last, she huffed, unfolded gracefully from where she’d been curled up like a cat in the corner of her sofa, and stalked across the living room toward the bar, stepping over Arthur. He tilted his head, sprawled on the thick carpet, watching her progress. Her gait was a little unsteady, but Arthur wasn’t fooled. His sister could drink the old sea wolf himself under the table if given the chance.

She returned with another bottle, shoving it at Arthur to open, and slumped inelegantly back into the cushions. Arthur squinted. “Kilo Kai? Really?”

“Shut up and pour.”

He did. The first sip made him wince. “Can’t I have some Cola?”

“No.”

Arthur wilted. For a while, they drank in silence.

“If you weren’t my brother,” Morgana said thoughtfully. “If you weren’t my brother, Arthur, I’d shoot you, I swear. Merlin is my friend. But even if he wasn’t – how could you do this to anyone? Knowing what he’s been through?”

Arthur groaned. “I know. You know how you’ve always said you should have me committed? Maybe you should.” He took a sip of his drink, cringed, took another. “It was so clear in my head, what I had do. What I wanted didn’t matter. And because I didn’t matter, he didn’t matter.” He squinted at her. “Does that make sense?”

Morgana sighed. “Yes, unfortunately. The Arthur kind of sense, but yes.”

“I almost can’t believe I did that, and yet – what else could I have done? The good of the many—”

“Okay, you know what, stop.” Morgana huffed, sitting up straighter. “First of all, your inner geek is showing. Second of all, yes, you messed up, but at least stop lying to yourself about why you did it.”

“I don’t—”

“Oh, for God’s sake – you’re saving our financial future? Arthur, please,” she scoffed. “You realise that even if Uther loses his share in Pendragon and Gorlois, he still has millions of pounds in land and property, and about as much sitting comfortably in a vault in Zurich? He wouldn’t know broke if it came up to him and introduced itself.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes snappily, impatiently. “And I might not work another day in my life and will still never need for anything, ever. You do know that, right? You handle our accounts, after all.”

Arthur blinked. Well, put like that...

“And as for your employees, are you kidding me? You’re not sacking them, you’re not throwing them out on the street, and no one – no one, Arthur, as in no company in the world – can guarantee a life-long employment. So for my sanity if not your own, please stop with this absurd notion that we need the company to survive.”

“It was Father’s life’s work—”

“And that’s exactly why you’re so desperate; why you put up with Tristan and handle Agravaine. You think if you pull off one more save, just one more heroic rescue, Uther will finally notice you and be proud.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “That’s ridiculous. I can’t even tell him, and even if I could, he’d only tell me I shouldn’t have let it become so drastic that it needed saving in the first place.”

“Exactly. And it’s time you get that through your head. You’re not a little boy anymore, Arthur. Stop trying to please him; you’ll never succeed. He’s Uther. He’s your father, but he’ll never be your dad.”

Arthur bit back the instinctive protest. He was angry, as always, when Morgana slipped into her lecturing mode, but this time, he had a horrifying, crippling suspicion that Morgana was right.

“I’ve been where you are, you know,” Morgana intoned quietly, watching him through half-lidded eyes. “When I first came to live with you, I was trying so hard to make him like me. That’s why I hated you so much. I was jealous; I thought it was all your fault. You were the legitimate, beloved son, and I was a shameful by-product of a fling with his best friend’s wife.

“But that was until I noticed that it’s actually worse for you. He never really noticed me, but at least he never expected things from me, either.”

“If anyone else heard you, they’d think we had a horrible childhood,” Arthur grumbled, defensive, even though he knew she had a point.

Morgana smiled at him and ruffled his hair. “We got each other out of the deal. It counts for something.”

A sappy Morgana was an unnatural occurrence, and Arthur’s suspicions were justified when she pulled his hair sharply.

“Ow.”

“Idiot. I didn’t know what it was about, but I’ve never seen Merlin so despondent.”

Arthur sat up abruptly. “You saw Merlin? When?”

“Not sure I should be telling you.”

“Morgana.”

She sighed. “About a week ago. I ran into him – literally bumped into him on the street. Splashed him with coffee. He had to go change, which was how I found out he was living in a hotel. He didn’t tell me why; he practically ran off on me.”

“How was he?”

She pinned him with a dark look. “Bad. He’s lost weight, as if he could even afford it. He looked... I don’t know, like he was going through the motions, but nobody was home. Like a robot or a zombie. I’ve never seen him like that, not even after Val.”

“Who’s Val?”

“What the fuck does it matter, Arthur? Merlin has had terrible luck with men, but I never thought you’d be the one to take the cake.”

Arthur swallowed. “Do you know if he’s – if he’s seeing anyone?”

Morgana stared at him for a moment in disbelieving silence. “I don’t know if you’re disgusting or pathetic. I have absolutely no idea how Merlin even managed to fall for you. I’m beginning to think you were putting something in his food.”

Arthur rested his forehead on his knees and didn’t answer. It wasn’t as though Morgana was wrong.

“But – hang on,” she said and pulled herself upright. “Wait here.”

She returned a few moments later with a white envelope in her hand.

“What’s that?” Arthur asked, not really interested.

“Merlin asked me to give it to you. He said he was going to mail it, but since I was there—”

Arthur snatched the envelope from her hand, almost ripping the paper.

Morgana huffed. “Brute.”

Arthur barely heard her, too intent on getting to the contents. Was it a note? Please let it be a note. Even if it was full of insults, Arthur couldn’t wait to see, if not hear, Merlin’s words.

But it wasn’t a note – it was a printout of a Google map. The address was unfamiliar, somewhere near Maidenhead. The little flag marking the location seemed to be pinned in the middle of a field or a big empty space of some sort.

Arthur turned the sheet over, but it was blank, not even a couple of words anywhere. He turned a confused look at Morgana. “I don’t understand. Is this his way to tell me to go to hell?”

Morgana frowned, taking the map from him and studying it. To Arthur’s surprise, a slow, fond smile appeared on her lips, and her eyes glinted suspiciously, as though she was deeply touched.

“Morgana?”

“Oh, he’s just...” She sniffled. “Oh, Merlin.” She scowled at Arthur. “Looks like he really does love you, you prick.”

Arthur’s heart made a mad lunge inside his chest. “What do you mean?”

She folded the paper. “6 a.m. tomorrow; be ready. I’ll drive you.”

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t convince her to tell him anything, up through the moment she ushered him out her door.

--

It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that Arthur didn’t much sleep that night. He was waiting on the kerb by the time Morgana’s red Bentley convertible pulled up. She greeted him with a raised eyebrow.

“Get in. If you ask a single question about where we’re going, I’ll kick you out.”

Arthur scowled at her, but nodded.

--

The nearly two-hour drive was spent in heavy silence, though Arthur suspected it was only heavy on his part. Morgana seemed to be in a great mood, going as far as to hum along with her incomprehensible indie music selection.

He was resigned to not give her the satisfaction of breaking (and he knew her well enough to know that she wasn’t joking about her threat), but it tested his resolve beyond anything he could immediately remember, especially when the road turned to curve slowly around a wide, sunlit field.

Arthur could see small white dots hiding in the shadow of trees in the distance and felt his heart leap. Surely, it couldn’t be? There’d been an old airfield around these parts, now that he thought about it, but to think that Merlin would send him here of all places made no sense.

Morgana drove confidently toward the bridge arching over the railway tracks, and then between two low, yellowish buildings, stopping the car in front of the bigger one. The sign over the entrance looked as though it had been put there sometime in the late ‘80s and hadn’t been touched since. It read: ‘SU..DAY CL..B AIRF....LD.’

Arthur blinked and turned to Morgana.

“Go ahead,” she said, smiling melancholically as though hit by a wave of nostalgia.

“Morgana, what—”

She sighed. “Just go in, Arthur.”

He got out of the car slowly, confused and nervous. His heart was beating erratically for no apparent reason, and Arthur realised that, whatever was waiting for him inside, it was probably better than the suspense.

He walked up the crumbling stone steps and pulled the door open, the immediate absence of sunlight momentarily blinding him.

“Hello? Can I help you?”

He followed the soft melodic voice, blinking to clear his vision. There was a young woman sitting at the reception desk; she was quite lovely with her dark skin, kind eyes, and a sweet smile—

“Hang on, I know you!” Arthur blurted out. “You were the one having lunch with Merlin at Northbank! You and that bloke who looked like a film star.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed with surprise, her smile faltering until a realisation of some kind dawned on her.

“Oh,” she said, the very cadence of her voice soothing. “You’re Arthur.”

Arthur felt more confused. “Yes.”

She gave him a bright smile. “I’m Gwen. It’s nice to meet you. Merlin said you might be stopping by, though he said it was unlikely.”

Arthur’s heart sank. “He said that?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter. You’re here, right?”

“I still don’t know what for—”

“Just a moment,” she said, picking up the phone and dialling quickly. “Lance? Could you come to reception, please? No. No, it really can’t wait.” She gave Arthur a bright smile as she hung up. “He’ll be with you in just a minute.”

Arthur felt fed up. “Listen, Miss—”

“Gwen.”

“Gwen, then. I’d like to know what’s going on, if it’s not too much of a bother.”

She gave him another smile. “Just wait a moment, okay? Lance will explain everything.”

Arthur huffed, but nodded, folding his arms across his chest and stalking sulkily toward the window. Morgana’s car was no longer in the driveway, and he wondered briefly if she had abandoned him here.

“I’m sorry I can’t offer you any tea or coffee,” Gwen said, sounding embarrassed. “I’m afraid we’re out. There’s still water in the cooler, though, if you—”

“I’m fine,” Arthur snapped. Upon due consideration, he added, “Thank you.”

The place did look more than a little shabby, now that he’d taken a look. It was clean enough, with no dust or cobwebs anywhere he could spot, and the abundance of potted plants had clearly been taken care of regularly and with love. But there were wet trails on the walls from a leaking radiator; the paint was coming off in the corners and along the seams; the phone on Gwen’s desk looked like it had been made by Alexander Bell before an actual working model was created; the sofa for visitors was looking threadbare with a bit of spring coming out on one end; and – well, there was also the fact that no one except Gwen seemed to be there. It all looked like the most recent paying customer had come here sometime in the last century.

Abruptly, Arthur realised that Gwen had been scrutinising him in return, while he was distracted by his surroundings. He was reminded uncomfortably that she knew Merlin, was a friend of Merlin’s. What would she think, seeing the distaste on his face? What had Merlin told her?

But Gwen only blushed prettily when she’d been caught staring, and opened her mouth, probably to apologise –

But at that moment, a man walked in with a rush of fresh air, bringing in the sharp smell of machine oil and metal. It was the same bloke Arthur had seen with Merlin and Gwen that memorable day.

“Oh, hello,” he said, frowning more in confusion than disapproval, before looking over at Gwen. “I didn’t know we had any appointments for today.”

“We do now.” She smiled. “This is Arthur.”

“Arthur? Oh. Oh. Um, hi. I’m Lancelot, but everyone calls me Lance.”

Arthur shook his hand, still distinctly discomfited by the whole experience. “Arthur Pendragon.”

“Yes. Um, yes, quite.” Lance let out a soft half-laugh at his own awkwardness. “Well then, Gwen, I guess we’ll be off?”

She nodded, smiling at him in the unmistakable manner of someone completely smitten. “Be careful.”

Lance returned the smile tenfold. “I always am.” To Arthur, he said, “Please follow me.”

They walked through a dark, narrow corridor toward what was presumably another exit. Arthur refused to give in to the indignity of attacking Lance with Merlin-related questions, even though he was beyond frustrated at that point. But no one said he had to be silent altogether.

“So do you own this place?”

“The air club?” Lance asked, startled. “No. I’m just a senior flying instructor. Well, the only flying instructor left, actually, since Brad quit last week. I guess it’ll only be a matter of time before Gwen and I have to go, too.”

Even after all the time he’d spent with Merlin, Arthur still found such uninhibited capacity to share personal information on first demand unsettling. Not that it wasn’t to his advantage at this particular moment, but still. How did people go through life wearing their hearts on their sleeves like that? Didn’t they fear getting hurt? Didn’t Merlin—

Arthur stopped that train of thought resolutely. “It does look a bit gloomy in here,” he remarked cautiously.

Lance shrugged. “The owner never cared much for flying – he bought it because it seemed like a good investment at the time. But with the global recession, people don’t really want to spend money on weekend air tours or flying lessons. I tried to convince Hengeist to convert this place into an actual piloting school, but it’s easier for him to sell the land.”

Lance’s voice was bitter, saturated with the hurt of someone deeply offended by others dismissing something he loved so much. Arthur could sympathise, if they were talking about flying.

“You didn’t think of buying this place from him?”

Lance snorted. “I tried talking to a few investors, but it’s impossible to make anyone listen. And me, well – I’m not doing too badly for an air force retiree, but it’s nowhere near that kind of money.”

“You served?”

This time, the answer was curt and non-elaborative. “Yes.” After a bit – “This way.”

They walked out into the sun, and Arthur squinted for a moment. There were only three aircrafts standing outside a small hangar. Two of them were heavily draped in tent cloth and clearly hadn’t been touched for some time. The third one was a beautiful, meticulously clean Liberty XL-2.

“She’s beautiful,” Arthur breathed out before he could stop himself.

Lance smiled warmly at him. “She really is. I just managed to scrape enough money to buy this one. Gwen’s parents helped.” He appeared vaguely embarrassed.

Arthur couldn’t take his eyes away, reaching instinctively to run his fingers along the elegant, precise edge of the wing. Just like before, at reception, Arthur felt he was being watched, this time by Lance. He knew his fascination was showing, but he couldn’t help it.

“Would you like to take her out?”

Arthur stared at Lance, startled. “You’d let me fly your airplane? Just like that? You don’t even know me.”

“Well, you have a licence, don’t you?” A small, private smile flitted across his lips. “And I owe someone a favour.”

Arthur couldn’t ask what it meant just then, what it was all about. The pull of the beautiful metallic creature beside him was too strong, and, whatever was happening, he couldn’t resist. Much like with Merlin, he didn’t even want to.

Up in the cockpit, it hit him suddenly what was about to happen. His hands were steady, but his insides were shaking, twisted in tight knots with excitement and remembered joy and disbelief. He kept waiting for the joke to be up, for this beautiful fantasy to end abruptly, for Lance to tell him to get out.

But Lance only guided him calmly toward the runway, humming his approval at the pre-flight check, as though they did this every day, as though it was something completely normal. Arthur’s heart raced along with the ever-increasing speed, and then he was pulling on the control stick, applying backpressure, and they were in the air.

He’d forgotten what it felt like – the ecstasy of breaking away from the pull of gravitation, soaring higher up as though nothing bound him to the earth. His chest swelled with a mixture of intoxicating feelings – the delight of a child to be so high up; the confidence of complete control over his life at that particular, perfect moment. Most of all, the all-encompassing freedom.

It was one of the few fine days around this time of year. The sky was a clear, glimmering blue, the air soft and transparent, the wind steady and encouraging. The engine was purring steadily, and the plane was attuned to the pilot’s commands like an experienced dance partner. It felt amazing.

It was heaven.

More exciting than any sport, headier than any drug, impossibly, inhumanly intense and yet so liberating. A few weeks ago Arthur would have said that it was better than sex, but he wouldn’t go that far anymore, not when a single night with Merlin was still haunting his dreams with embarrassing results and his days were filled with longing. It was glorious all the same, and the only thing that would have made it perfect would have been if Merlin was sitting next to him, not Lance.

He very nearly died when Lance told him it was time to go back.

--

Back on the runway, with the engine silent and the post-flight checklist completed, they sat for a moment in silence.

“You’re a natural,” Lance told him quietly at last. “It’s a shame that flying isn’t what you do for a living.”

Arthur shifted uneasily, glancing at him. He didn’t know this man from Adam, and yet the shared experience up above had made some of the barriers between them fade. “How much did Merlin tell you?”

Lance looked at him sombrely. “Not much.” He shrugged. “Enough.”

“I fucked up,” Arthur said, quiet. “I hurt him.”

“I figured.”

“He should have asked you to punch me, not give me a gift – not this. Why is he doing this?”

Lance smiled sadly. “Because he’s Merlin. He believes in people even when they don’t believe in themselves.”

Arthur blinked. “You?”

“A long time ago. The way I came back from the air force... I would have probably drunk myself to death or ended up in jail if it weren’t for Merlin. He has faith. God knows how, after everything, but he has more faith in us than there is to have in anyone. He made me want to pull myself back together.” His expression softened. “He introduced me to Gwen.

“It’s what he does, Arthur. He doesn’t know it, but he saves people. Even when they don’t want to be saved.”

Arthur bit his lip, his throat too tight. “What do I do?”

Lance stared at him for a long time. “I would have told you to go to hell, except I’ve seen the way he was with you, and I’ve seen him after.” He narrowed his eyes. “How do you feel about him?”

The answer came easy, no hesitation, despite the fact that Arthur had never said the words out loud before, had never believed even that he could. “I love him. I’m in love with him.”

Lancelot searched his eyes for a long time before finally nodding, his shoulders relaxing their tense line. “Merlin believes in all but one person: himself.”

“So what do I do?”

Lance looked at him. “You go all out. You burn bridges, you shun safety nets, and you hope to God you manage to convince him to believe you somehow. There’s no other way. And Arthur?” Lance leaned in closer. “He puts on a brave facade, but I think this is the last time anyone has a chance with him, for him. If you blow this, I don’t think he’ll be back for more. Not this time. So if you really feel the way you do—”

“I understand,” Arthur said quietly. “You have my word.”

Lance nodded. “If you make this worse, I’ll do more than punch you.”

Arthur’s lips twitched. “I’ll expect nothing less.”

He went back into the main building to find Morgana chatting animatedly with Gwen. They were obviously old friends, but Arthur didn’t have time to explore that right now.

“I need to get back to London now,” he said, and for once Morgana didn’t argue.

“What are you going to do?” she asked with poorly concealed anxiety once they were back on the road.

“Meet with Bayard as soon as possible.”

“Bayard? Why?”

Arthur smirked. “I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

And then I’m coming for Merlin, he added quietly to himself, his heart drumming on triumphantly.

Mer-lin. Mer-lin. Mer-lin.

--

Afterwards, Arthur would say that it was the first time he’d actually enjoyed a board meeting. He started with a presentation on the recent investments and acquirements, downplaying his own role and thanking Agravaine for bringing ‘the new and exciting opportunities’ into play, and doing so without alerting either the clients or the company’s senior management.

Members of the board weren’t fooled, and Agravaine went ten shades of red, but since Arthur hadn’t actually accused him of anything and the investments now promised twice the projected amount of revenue, he couldn’t say a single word in his own defence.

That was the easy part. Just as Arthur had anticipated, the board voted Tristan out of the CEO’s chair and unanimously offered it to Arthur. He exchanged a long glance with Morgana before assuming the podium again.

He looked around the room, looked at all the faces gazing back at him with absolute certainty that he was going to take care of their assets for the rest of his life. Arthur could see how satisfied they were by this choice, and searched his own emotions for a moment, looking for a spark of being pleased or flattered, for so much as a hint of satisfaction at his accomplishment.

He didn’t feel anything. No enthusiasm, no pride. He was standing on top of the world, where very few people managed to get, and he felt absolutely nothing.

Morgana was right; Merlin was right. It was past time Arthur saw it, too.

“I am honoured by your trust,” Arthur said, his pulse picking up the pace. He had that feeling again, the one he’d gotten when he’d first met Merlin – as though he was about to step off a cliff and into the waiting darkness below. It was dizzying, and it was real. “But I’m afraid I must respectfully decline.”

A chorus of shocked whispers and half-formed protests erupted throughout the room. Arthur waited it out.

“I am not cut out for this job the way my father was, nor am I as dedicated. I do not, however, intend to leave this company in the hands of someone who does not have my absolute trust, which is why I am about to propose a candidate for this position who I urge you to consider. I’m talking about the man who almost single-handedly guided us through the recent crisis, with – and I think you’ll agree with me – more than favourable results: Mister Roland Bayard.”

Arthur only just managed to suppress a smirk as he exchanged places with Bayard in the not-at-all quiet room. They shook hands, and Bayard nodded at him, eyes blazing like a man who’d just scored the victory of his life.

All the more certain in his choice, Arthur retreated to one of the side chairs, sitting down next to Mithian, who was gazing at Bayard with an air of complete concentration. As she’d helped write his address to the board, Arthur highly doubted that she was really listening.

“That was very selfless of you, giving him all the credit for your work, Sir,” she told him a few moments in, sotto voce, her lips barely moving. “May I ask – for what reason?”

Arthur gave a small shrug. “I need the board to confirm him. And I don’t feel like taking the credit for cleaning up Agravaine’s mess, since it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t slept through it in the first place.”

She tilted her chin subtly in a way that indicated she disagreed but was disinclined to argue.  “Are you sure about this appointment, though, if you don’t mind my asking, Sir? Bayard is... a complicated man. What’s to stop him from seizing complete control and doing whatever he pleases?”

“First of all, he still has to run every major decision by me,” Arthur replied, also quietly. “It’s in his contract. And secondly, you are.”

She was startled into giving him a brief sideways look. “I believe you are overestimating the power of my charms, Sir.”

Arthur suppressed a smile. “Not possible, but even so, I’m not talking about your charms. If Bayard is confirmed, he will appoint you his VP for Business Administration and Legal Coordination. Congratulations.”

This earned him a turn completely toward him and even a blink. “But... I’m just a PA.”

“With a degree in law and a few MBAs under your belt, let alone your years of experience.” He leaned toward her, holding her eyes. “Mithian, you’ve been with the company longer than I have. You know it inside out, backwards and sideways. You will be able to help Bayard as well as keep him in line – of that, I have no doubt. And you will report directly to me.”

“And you would trust me like that?”

Arthur snorted softly. “Give me some credit; I’m not that poor a judge of character. You’re honest, loyal, and honourable. If I can’t trust you, I can’t trust anyone, and, much as it pains me, I have to, because this life is not for me. It never has been, but—”

“You’re honourable, too,” she finished for him quietly. “I – don’t know what to say, Sir.”

“Arthur.” He smiled. “And you don’t have to say anything. We have to win this thing first.”

--

Afterwards Morgana took him out for drinks.

“So. How does it feel to be a free man?” she prodded, smiling.

Arthur shook his head, grinning ruefully. “I’ll have to get back to you on that. I don’t think it’s hit me yet.”

She nodded, clinking their glasses. “You did the right thing, Arthur. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks.”

“What are you going to do now?”

Arthur rolled the ice cubes in his glass thoughtfully. “I’m going to see Father tomorrow.”

Morgana raised her eyebrows. “Might want to talk to his doctor first.”

“Already have. Thank God Gaius is back in the country – that Edwin fellow was giving me the creeps.”

“That’s very uncharitable of you. He’s merely – a traditionalist.”

“He’s using leeches, Morgana. I don’t feel like I have to be charitable.”

She rolled her eyes, conceding the point. “So, telling Father. And after that?”

He looked at her, then patted his pockets for a piece of paper. “I’m going to need these phone numbers. Can you get them for me?”

Morgana studied the short list, then looked up, not even trying to hide her curiosity. “What are you up to?”

Arthur knocked back his whiskey, stood up, and smirked. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

He walked out of the bar, feeling mildly lightheaded, though alcohol had nothing to do with it.

--

Uther listened to him with a face that showed no emotion at all. Arthur kept on talking, reassured by the absence of reaction every bit as much as he was unnerved by it, but he was going to stand by his decision.

It was comforting all the same that Gaius was in the next room.

“This is your final word then?” Uther asked when Arthur was finished. “No point trying to convince you otherwise?”

“I’m afraid not, Father. My mind’s made up.”

Uther nodded thoughtfully, turning back toward the window overlooking his beautiful garden. “Despite what you seem to think, I don’t care about the money,” he said after a bit. “More than is reasonable, I mean. I asked you to take over the company because every man needs something to hold on to, something to ground him.”

He glanced at Arthur. “You didn’t make friends easily as a child. You might think that I was never there, but I watched you grow, Arthur, quite closely.”

Arthur had to actually bite his tongue to stay silent. There were so many things he could have said in response to that, but this was the first time he could remember his father trying to explain his reasoning about anything.

“You had difficulty connecting with other children. And later, there were no girlfriends.” Uther shrugged. “You said you were gay, but there were no boyfriends, either.”

“Maybe there were and I just wasn’t telling you.”

“No,” Uther said confidently. “You’re uncommonly honest, Arthur. You’d have told me if you were serious about anyone.”

That much was true, and Arthur held his tongue. It surprised him at times how well his father could read him, considering their history. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

“I didn’t want you to go through life aimless, not knowing what to do with your potential. There are only two things worthy of effort for any man – work and family, ideally both. It didn’t look to me at the time as if you were going to have a family of your own. I couldn’t give that to you, but I could give you some decent, solid work to fill your life with. It was the only thing that kept me going after your mother died.”

Arthur blinked. If he understood correctly – and he was certain he did, despite Uther’s general lack of communication skills when it came to family members – his father was telling him that he had been taking care of Arthur the only way he knew how – the best way he knew how. It was fairly myopic, as such efforts went, and not really suitable for Arthur at all, but the very fact was... eye-opening, if not a little bit touching in an extremely convoluted sort of way.

“I think,” Arthur said slowly, not really knowing how to approach this. “I think I’ll be alright, Father.”

Uther nodded without turning around. “It sounds like you will be. You seem different, Arthur. It suits you.”

Wisely deciding to quit while he was ahead, Arthur bowed out of the room.

“How’d it go?” Helen asked, catching Arthur by the wrist and placing his hand carefully onto her rounded belly. “Say hi to Alexander.”

Arthur grinned, feeling the baby kick. The first time Helen did that and he felt it, he’d nearly had a heart attack. “Hello, Alexander.” He kissed Helen’s forehead. “It went... fine. I think.”

She studied him for a moment. “You look a little shell-shocked.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “For good reason.”

Helen sighed. “I’ve been telling you for years he’s not a monster. Just as I’ve been telling him you’re your own man.” She shook her head, rubbing her belly gently. “You Pendragons are very stubborn people. Very stubborn.”

“Let’s hope this one takes after you.”

Helen rolled her eyes. “If only.” She squinted at him, tilting her head. “You take care of yourself, Arthur, okay?”

Arthur smiled at her as reassuringly as he could. “Promise.”

--

It took him three hours to find the address Morgana had texted him, and by the time Arthur located the small house on the outskirts of Maidenhead, it had gone dark.

“Arthur?” Gwen’s eyes widened as she opened the door. “What are you doing here? I mean – I’m sorry, that was so rude. Would you like to come in?”

Arthur lifted his hand. “It’s fine, Gwen; I didn’t call or anything. Is Lance home?”

“He is,” Lance said, appearing in the doorway and frowning as he looped his arm around Gwen’s waist protectively. “Hello, Arthur.”

“Hi. I know it’s late and I’ve come out of the blue, but could we possibly talk? I may have a proposition for you, and I think you’ll really want to hear it.”

They exchanged a look, and Gwen smiled tentatively. “We haven’t had dinner yet, if you’d like to join us?”

Arthur’s stomach rumbled after a whole day he’d spent driving. “I know it’s an imposition, but I’d love to.”

Lance was still eyeing him warily, but his smile was sincere enough. “Come on in.”

--

It was well into the night when Lance was seeing Arthur out.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay on the couch? It’s really late, and you’re tired. I’d feel safer, if—”

“Thanks, but I’m fine,” Arthur assured him. “I really need to be in London in the morning.”

Lance nodded. “Listen, Arthur. Why are you really doing this? I mean, not that I don’t believe you, but it’s a rather extreme change of pace for someone like you. Are you certain it’s not—”

“What?” Arthur frowned.

Lance looked mildly embarrassed. “Look, I know I told you you’d have to go all out, but – this is my life, Arthur. It means everything to Gwen and me. And if you’re not serious about it, if this is some kind of a grand gesture you’re trying to make—”

“It’s not a gesture.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I know what you’re saying, Lance, but it’s not a gesture. I’m not doing this for Merlin. It’s because of him, sure, and he’s part of it, I won’t deny that. But I’m doing this because I want to, and because I believe we can make it work.”

Lance peered at him for a long time in the sparse light of the streetlamp. At long last he nodded and shook Arthur’s hand.

“Drive safely.”

Arthur grinned, tired but satisfied. “Count on it.”

--

The following weeks were a mixture of excitement, agitation, and the ever-present sense of loss. The latter quieted into a dull ache that was never quite absent.

On the one hand, Arthur was thoroughly enjoying his freedom. He’d packed all of his suits and hired a car to deliver them to the nearest shelter for the homeless, which had been strangely satisfying.

He let Morgana take him shopping, which was far less satisfying and, in point of fact, terrifying at times, but he needed help, so there was no way around it. Going to the bank in jeans and a polo shirt and seeing the look on the manager’s face had been entirely worth the previous day’s torture, though.

Closing the deal was easier than Arthur had imagined. After all the complicated negotiations sessions he’d endured through his years at Pendragon & Gorlois, this was child’s play. The undisguised amazement in Lancelot’s eyes was a bigger stroke to Arthur’s ego than any deal he’d made on behalf of his high profile clients in the past.

He was moving on in the direction he wanted to and, although it was a lot of challenging work, Arthur felt like celebrating.

--

Except.

Merlin wasn’t in London. He wasn’t answering his phone; he’d checked out of the hotel Morgana had seen him in. Her careful inquires revealed that Merlin had taken some time off work to go see an old friend in New York.

“I don’t understand,” Arthur said. “Even if he’d never gone on vacation, they couldn’t have let him take that much personal time at once.”

Morgana shrugged. “From what I understand, he told them he’d cash in all he’s due in one go, and if they didn’t agree, he’d quit.”

Arthur shook his head, grinning, despite himself. “Some nerve.”

“Not really.” Morgana frowned. “Arthur, I don’t think you understand exactly how good Merlin is at what he does. I don’t think he understood until recently, either.”

“He’s not taking your calls, either?”

“No.”

“Well then, I guess I’m going to New York. What’s his friend’s name and how do I find them?”

“Nimueh Black. Merlin was the only intern who not only survived working with her but also managed to get a positive recommendation. I think it’s still a record.” Morgana’s frown deepened. “Be careful when you meet her. She might try to poison you, and I’m not joking.”

--

Nimueh was indeed formidable, but that wasn’t the problem. Merlin wasn’t in New York. He hadn’t been there in a while, and Nimueh hadn’t heard from him since before this time last year.

Arthur flew back to London, trying to salvage what little was left of his hopeful spirits. Lance’s warnings echoed in his head like warning bells. Merlin had promised he’d bounce back... but had he?

Freya shut the door in Arthur’s face. Before he even turned to leave, though, she opened it again, punched him squarely in the jaw, and slammed it shut for good this time. His jaw hurt, but Arthur couldn’t say he blamed her.

He expected worse from Gwaine but was prepared to fight back if he had to, because he really needed to know where Merlin was.

But Gwaine showed no inclination for physical violence. He regarded Arthur coolly, arms crossed over his chest. “Came to your senses, did you?”

Arthur gritted his teeth. “Yes. Can you tell me where he is?”

Gwaine shrugged. “Last I heard, he was in New York with that witch Nimueh.”

“I’ve been to New York. He’s not there.”

Gwaine blinked and stared at him. “You’ve been to New York? Guess I was really wrong then, huh.”

“About what?”

Gwaine sighed. “I could tell Merlin liked you and I told him not to fall for you. I told him you were a posh rich git who didn’t know what he wanted apart from some entertainment on the side. After the fight, I thought you might be half-decent, but then you dumped him on his arse after shagging him once and kicked him out for good measure, so forgive me if my opinion of you is far from the bloody stratosphere.”

Arthur swallowed, his cheeks burning. “I don’t deny any of that, and believe me, if I could beat myself up, I would.”

Gwaine sneered. “I can help with that.”

“And if I thought it’d help him, I’d let you,” Arthur snapped. “I’m asking you. Please. I need to know where he is.”

Gwaine pursed his lips. “I can’t help you.”

“Look, what you think of me aside, this is for Merlin. I only want to—”

“No, you stupid prick, I can’t help you because I don’t know where he is. He’s not returning my calls, and if he’s not in New York, I have no idea.”

Arthur blinked. “You don’t?”

“I don’t. He’s never done this before. Merlin doesn’t hide when shit happens. This is – I don’t know what this is. I don’t know where he is any more than you do.”

Arthur stared at the closed door for minutes afterwards, trying to fight off crushing waves of desperation and fear. Where had Merlin gone? Was he even all right?

Lance, who seemed to be more sympathetic to Arthur with each passing day, was also out of suggestions.

“Maybe he’d gone to see his mother?” Gwen wondered over dinner, looking decidedly less than certain. “She lives in Cardiff now.”

This wasn’t the first time she and Lance had stayed at Arthur’s flat when they needed to be with him in London, but he was still struck by how completely natural it felt to have them over.

“You think?” Lance was dubious.

“I could give her a call?” Gwen suggested.

“And if Merlin isn’t there, we’d just worry her for no reason.”

Gwen frowned in thought. “I won’t say why I’m calling. I’ll – ask her for a recipe or something.”

“Could work,” Lance allowed.

Arthur just nodded. He waited by the phone with bated breath for the seemingly never-ending conversation to be over, but he could already tell from Gwen’s expression that it was another dead end.

At long last, Gwen hung up and shook her head sadly. “She hasn’t heard from him in a while.”

Lance sighed. “There goes that idea.”

Something occurred to Arthur, though. “You said she lives in Cardiff now?”

“Yes?”

“Merlin told me he was from a small place, some kind of village in Wales?”

Gwen and Lance shared a look. “Yes, Ealdor. So small it’s not even on the map. But Merlin moved out when he went to uni, and a couple of years ago he moved Hunith as well. Their house, from what I understand, was really old – barely any heating, tricky electricity, that kind of thing. Hunith doesn’t drive, and the nearest shops were quite a ways away, especially in bad weather. Merlin said it was becoming difficult for her; city life’s more comfortable. Plus, you know – he said most of the people who used to live there were either gone or, well, gone. I imagine it was sad for Hunith to stay there almost completely alone.”

“Why Cardiff, though?” Lance wondered. “Why not London?”

“She lived in Cardiff before she had Merlin,” Gwen said. “She likes it there, so Merlin bought a flat for her. I haven’t been, but I’ve seen the pictures. Seems nice.”

“Yeah,” Arthur murmured, not really listening. “But that house in Ealdor – do you know if Merlin actually sold it?”

Gwen blinked. “No. I mean, I’m not sure sure, but I don’t think so.”

“You really think he’d go there?” Lance asked. “From what I understand, not a lot of good memories there.”

“It’s the only lead I have,” Arthur said, grim. “Can either of you give me directions?”

They exchanged another look and Gwen nodded. Arthur was uncomfortably reminded that, if this didn’t work out, he really had no clue whatsoever about where to look next.

--

Wales greeted him with frowning skies and the drumming of rain against the windshield. Arthur’s mood was becoming gloomier with each passing mile, his hope dispersing slowly in the damp, clammy air. The GPS took him as far as Bethesda, where he stopped for a quick meal and a look around. As he waited for his food, he picked up a local paper, mildly wondering if he could solve a crossword puzzle in Welsh even though he’d never really learned it. He was still marinating on the question when an article above caught his attention.

Well, it wasn’t an article so much as a short story about a melancholic hiker who’d puzzled his way around Yr Elen in one good boot and one with a hole. Arthur was grinning at the bloke’s misfortune, tempered by his mild disposition, and philosophical look on everything, when the name of the author caught his eye.

M. Rhys

Arthur’s heart leaped in his chest, warmth spreading throughout his body. He wasn’t wrong after all, and Merlin – Merlin wasn’t even being subtle.

It was all Arthur could do not to wolf down the food before he was out the door and back in his car, staring at the napkin with Lance’s drawing. It should have felt like a cliché, but Arthur didn’t care. He was so close he was giddy with it.

It took him another hour and a half to finally find the house among the roads that weren’t on any maps and handmade signs in Welsh. He had to leave the car, as there seemed to be no driveway, and Arthur could see immediately how such a dwelling might not be comfortable for someone who wasn’t so young anymore.

The cottage was old. It was slumped against the side of a hill, leaning toward it like a hopeful lover. The windows were sunken low not by design, but under the press of the earth rising slowly with each passing year. It wasn’t one of the antique picturesque village houses Arthur had imagined. It was gloomy and quiet and made his heart clench at the thought of someone as bright and vibrant as Merlin being a prisoner of such a place.

There was no answer to his knock, and Arthur wondered if Merlin was even there. But there was a bike against the wilting fence, and a half-full bottle of water resting on the upper step of the porch.

Arthur lifted his hand to knock again, but a sound interrupted him, a low hum of some sort and a mild clatter. His pulse quickening, he walked around the house, following a narrow path into what must have been a garden. Now all Arthur could see were trees and grass growing wild everywhere.

Merlin was standing, shears in hand, beside a wooden ladder, contemplating it with a mildly worried look on his face. The first step seemed to have just broken under his weight. Arthur stopped, momentarily frozen, just soaking in the sight of him.

Merlin didn’t look anything like his polished London self. He was wearing brown trousers, old-looking and stretched at the knees, and a bulky woollen sweater with wide stripes of every possible colour, both items washed out and muted and still making an utterly bizarre combination. Ironically, he was still sporting the same knee-height black leather boots that he’d been wearing the first time Arthur had met him. They gave him an air of village chic, and Arthur smothered an involuntary smile. It was as though Merlin couldn’t help but stick out, no matter what the environment.

Merlin seemed to have cut his hair – it was shorter than Arthur had ever seen it. It made his ears stand out, and would have made him look younger if not for the scruff of stubble on his face, giving away at least two days without a razor.

He looked... younger and older, different and the same, and Arthur’s breath caught with the overwhelming Yes. Here. This person. Yes.

He forced himself to step forward. “Need some help with that?”

Merlin started, whirling in place, the shears raised defensively high, and Arthur cursed himself mentally, because one didn’t sneak up on someone with Merlin’s history.

He lifted his hands up. “Whoa. It’s just me.”

Merlin stared at him for a moment, relief flickering across his face for an instant before his expression turned blank. He lowered the shears, his body still tensed up for a fight.

His eyes were very blue; a vast, deep colour. Arthur felt betrayed by his memory; by the way he seemed to have forgotten.

“Arthur,” Merlin said tonelessly. “What are you doing here?”

Arthur tried for a smile; it tanked. “I wanted to see you.”

Merlin put the shears into the basket sitting on the ground beside him. He had never been the most graceful person, but at the moment, his motions were sparse, almost brittle. It was painful to watch.

“How did you find me? I told everyone I was in New York.”

“I’ve been to New York.” Arthur shrugged. “Nimueh says hi.”

Merlin blinked. Then, having evidently decided against that line of questioning, he turned away to right the ladder against the tree. “What do you want?”

“I want—” Arthur stumbled, then ploughed on, resigned. “I wanted to tell you that I was a complete idiot when I told you to go. I have no excuses. I don’t know if you can ever forgive me, but... you were right. About everything. I didn’t see a good thing when it was standing right in front of me, and I didn’t see – everything you’ve become to me. I – I’ve missed you something terrible.”

Merlin actually glanced at him at that. “What, your telly’s been cut off?”

Arthur winced. “Merlin, I – when I called you a distraction, I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant was, I was thinking about you constantly. All the things about you. I’ve become... a little obsessed. I know it doesn’t excuse me in any way, but I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

Merlin’s mouth twitched. “Not even a teenage crush?”

Arthur shook his head. “No. Nothing ever. I know it sounds ridiculous. I’m twenty-seven, nearly twenty-eight. I had my life all figured out, and then – you.” He gestured with his hand, helpless to encompass everything that was Merlin. “Nothing prepared me for you, for this. The way I handled it wasn’t my brightest moment.”

Merlin folded his arms across his chest, huffing a little as though in disbelief at the understatement. But he turned a little more toward Arthur, and he was clearly still listening.

Encouraged, Arthur took a small step forward. “I quit my job.”

Merlin lifted his eyebrows. “Really.”

“Yes. I’m going to stay on as a consultant, and come in twice a year for board meetings, but other than that, I’m a free man.”

“How did your father take it?”

Arthur’s lips quirked. “Better than I thought. He – believed he was doing me a favour when he asked me to take over.”

Merlin nodded thoughtfully as though to himself. “So what are you going to do now that you’re – unemployed?”

Arthur shifted from foot to foot. “I actually already have something lined up.” He drew in a breath. “Lance and I are going to open a school for civilian pilots. He needed an investor, and I had the money. It’ll take some time to reconstruct the airfield, hire some engineers, and build new facilities, but we’re planning to open in about a year. I’ll be mostly administrating, but after I pick up some flying hours – who knows, maybe I’ll get an instructor licence as well. Oh, Lance also wants to train a piloting group for air shows and such. I’d really love that, I think.”

Merlin was staring at him, mouth slightly agape. “That’s...”

“Crazy?”

“Yeah, but also amazing. It’s just – wow, Arthur. That’s a huge change. Are you sure you want to go through with it?”

Arthur shrugged. “It’s already happening. We signed the papers last Monday; Lance is drawing up his specifications for the overhaul, and we’ll open the tender soon. I found a flat at Maidenhead. Well, a house, actually. It’s nice.”

Merlin swallowed. “Wow. That – that’s really, um. I guess when you’ve decided something, you move fast, huh? Well, um, good on you, Arthur.” And Merlin actually smiled at him. “How’d it feel to be flying again?”

Arthur couldn’t help it. “Unbelievable. I don’t know how I went for so long without it.”

“Good.” Merlin nodded. “Good, um. Well. I’m glad.”

“It’s all thanks to you. Not that many people would have... Thank you.”

Merlin nodded again, but said nothing, seemingly more interested in the crust coming off the tree trunk, his long fingers worrying at it aimlessly.

“That’s not all my news, though,” Arthur said.

Merlin’s hand stilled. “Oh?”

“I might have signed up for cooking classes,” Arthur admitted ruefully. “Gwen wants to open a base restaurant, and who knows? Maybe I’ll be able to pull off being a sous-chef or something, until we find someone better. I know, I know, I think a lot of myself, but really, it was just a thought. At the very least I’d be able to cook a nice meal for my boyfriend every once in a while, so it’s hardly wasted effort.”

Merlin went very quiet. “You have a boyfriend?”

Arthur looked at him steadily. This was the hard part. “Well, that’s kind of the question, isn’t it?” He stepped closer as if willing Merlin to meet his eyes. “Do I have a boyfriend, Merlin? Or even – even a chance?”

Merlin darted a look at him, but it was gone almost too quickly. “Arthur—”

He was painfully close, and yet not close enough, his voice unsteady, a little broken, and almost hungry, like that of the wind tugging at his hair.

Arthur stepped forward. “Look, I know, I screwed up. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, and I know it’s asking a lot, but if you – if we could maybe start over, I’ll make it all up to you.” He swallowed around a lump in his throat. “I know they’re just words, but Merlin, I swear, I’ll do anything.”

There was a long, torturous silence, while Merlin was staring at the ground and Arthur barely breathed. At long last, Merlin shook his head just a tiny bit, his shoulders sagging. “I don’t know if I can do that, Arthur.”

“Do what? Forgive me?”

Merlin finally looked at him. “Trust you again.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just that I – I’m not—”

“If you need time—”

“I’m tired, Arthur,” Merlin pushed out. “I’m so fucking tired. Of looking over my shoulder; of holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I can’t put myself through that again.”

Arthur swallowed, his hands beginning to shake. “Merlin, those things I told you I’m doing. They – they’re all thanks to you. Because of you. If it weren’t for you, it wouldn’t – I wouldn’t—”

“So what’s this then? Did you come here to tell me you’re grateful? Because in that case, you’re welcome, and—”

“No, you idiot. I came here to tell you I love you.”

Merlin stared at him for a moment, expressionless, then turned away.

Arthur had no idea – not a single one – what to do. He had never felt so utterly vulnerable in his life.

“Do you know why I came here?” Merlin spoke at last. “Because I needed to think. About my life, about my job, about the choices I’ve made.”

“Merlin—”

Merlin gave him a sharp look. “Did you mean it? What you said about – did you mean about how—”

Arthur could barely push the word out. “Yes.”

Merlin nodded, studying the tree again. “Okay.”

Arthur felt as though he might expire from the wait, from the crushing grip of tension, but at the same time, he could wait indefinitely if that meant not hearing ‘no’ in response.

Merlin didn’t seem intent to respond at all, though. He took his time collecting the cut-off branches, stuffing them haphazardly into his basket. Arthur picked up a twig from under his feet and offered it silently, his hand trembling.

Merlin took it, nodded, eyes twinkling beneath his lashes. He put the basket aside and turned to Arthur, rubbing his hands.

“Would you like some tea?”

Arthur choked. “Tea?”

And then he did what he was afraid to do, and looked at Merlin’s face.

Merlin was smiling.

“Tea,” he said, laughing a little, his eyes glinting suspiciously in the corners.

Arthur drew in a breath, his throat too tight. “Tea would be lovely. Thanks.”

Merlin just nodded, still smiling, and led Arthur into the house that was old as ever, but maybe not as gloomy after all.

--

2 years later

The crowd cheered as the small plane finished its elaborate manoeuvring. Standing a little aside from the excited kids and admiring spectators, Merlin grinned, taking a sip of his water. It was hot and the sky was a ringing, crystal blue – an ideal day for an air show.

The turnout was even higher than a year ago. Arthur said it was due to Merlin’s marketing campaign, but Merlin knew that it had much more to do with the enormous amount of work that Arthur and Lance and everyone who worked for the Dragons’ Age Air Club had put in. Merlin’s ads helped, but as a former professional, he knew that all the advertising in the world couldn’t sell a lousy product. Not more than once, at least.

“Lovely view,” Gwen said, approaching him and nudging his shoulder with her own. “Someone’s showing off.”

Merlin grinned, glancing up at the sky where the smoky white letters forming his name were still hovering over their heads. “He can’t help it.”

“Evidently. Pity Gwaine didn’t make it in time to take a shot.”

“Are you kidding?” Merlin shuddered. “I’d never have lived that down if he’d seen. Don’t tell Freya I said so, but thank God for flat tyres and Ellie’s forgetfulness. By the time they get here, this’ll be long blown away.”

She stared at him. “Wow.”

“What?” He sounded a little sharp; defensive.

“You’re embarrassed.” Gwen giggled. “I just never thought I’d see the day.”

“Yeah, well, no one’s exactly written my name across the sky before,” Merlin grumbled, knowing he was blushing.

Gwen sighed. “This is so romantic.”

“Oh God, shut up.”

Gwen simply beamed at him, her eyes laughing and promising she’d start cooing at any moment. Frantically, Merlin looked for an escape route, only to be cornered by Morgana, coming over to them with a predatory smile on her face and pushing a stroller with a sleeping baby Alexander in front of her.

“I have to give it to you, Merlin,” she drawled, adjusting the cap on Alexander’s head. “I didn’t think it was possible, but you actually managed to turn my brother into a complete sap.”

“That’s not true,” Merlin said, automatically protective.

It was a little bit, though. Arthur was the one who remembered every date – from the day they’d first met to the first ‘real’ date to the day when Merlin had finally moved in with him. (Merlin had once caught him drawing circles around those dates on a calendar and smiling; it was mortifying and endearing at the same time.) Arthur set the table with candles and frequently brought him flowers. It sometimes seemed as though he was trying to make up for every romantic cliché he’d missed between the ages 15 and 27, and Merlin couldn’t hold it against him, even if he wanted to.

Being with Arthur was... wonderful. Difficult at times, but wonderful. Merlin didn’t regret quitting his job, but he did miss London sometimes. It paid off – his first book was released in spring and was surprisingly popular – but it was a little hard to adjust to a quieter, less chaotic life, especially when Arthur practically lived at the air club that first year. He’d been constantly busy and enthusiastic, and it was hard not to envy him that, even if Merlin was endlessly happy for him. Merlin himself had felt a bit lost and groundless, doubting at times if Arthur needed him at all now that he was doing so well.

Merlin was brooding, Arthur was confused, and they fought often about meaningless things. It made them both feel awful, even if the make-up sex was spectacular – Arthur’s natural possessiveness was magnified tenfold during those moments and it was Merlin’s reaction to it that finally made Arthur figure things out for both of them.

He took a whole weekend off for the first time after that. They spent it in bed, talking only when neither of them could move a limb and only for as long as it took to recover. The next weekend they went to London, and to Cardiff during the one after that. Then Merlin had let himself be talked into a job as an editor of the local newspaper, and things became a little more even and a little less panicked.

Later, as his writing had progressed into the talking-with-publishers stage, Merlin had to London frequently, staying in Arthur’s old flat when he had to meet with his editor and later when he was helping with the book promotion. On rare weekends, Arthur joined him, playing football with his old team at Leon’s invitation or paying a surprise visit to Mithian.

They were busy, and they were happy.

Merlin blinked, dragging himself back to the present to find Morgana still smirking at him. He realised he’d been staring at the sky for a while like an idiot and blushed.

“A. Complete. Sap,” she crowed.

“Oi, it could have been worse.” Merlin shrugged, trying to appear unaffected. “He could have gone for something horribly embarrassing, like, I don’t know, ‘Will you marry me?’ But we’re classier than that. Ow!” Gwen’s elbow dug into his ribs. “What, Gwen?”

She pointed up, her smile suspiciously gleeful. Merlin looked.

Arthur’s plane was making another sweep over the airfield and was closing in on them fast. Just as it was passing under the slightly misshapen but still perfectly recognisable letters that formed a gigantic, cloudy MERLIN up in the sky, Arthur must have pressed some kind of button, releasing a previously unnoticed banner that had been inconspicuously secured on the plane’s belly.

The huge crimson fabric unfolded over the heads of at least five thousand spectators, the plane flying low and the letters perfectly, stupidly readable.

M A R R Y   M E

“Oh my God,” Merlin breathed out, horrified and awed at the same time. “He didn’t.”

“He did.” Gwen was laughing. “Lance and I helped him paint it.”

Morgana lifted her eyebrows, her smirk the quintessence of mocking. “You were saying, Merlin? Something about class, as I recall?”

“I’m going to kill him,” Merlin groaned, watching as Arthur carried the banner off toward the empty field and seamlessly released it. “He actually – I can’t believe that he’d actually – I’m going to kill him!”

“Marry him first,” Gwen told him, giggling. “So you could be a rich widower.”

“True that.” Morgana nodded. “Knowing Arthur, he already has ten copies of his will lying in ten different secure locations, all saying he’ll leave every penny to you. After all, you’re ‘the love of his life,’ ‘the man who saved him from the life of obscurity’ – what else did he call you during that toast on your birthday? His everything?”

“Shut up, Morgana, he was drunk!” Merlin’s face was burning. “Drunk people don’t know what they’re saying!”

“Aw, but it was so sweet. I’ve never seen your face turn that colour.”

“Pretty much like it’s doing now,” Gwen pointed out helpfully.

“You think? I believe they call this particular shade magenta?”

Merlin groaned again and decided to exercise the better part of valour – namely, flee. Some battles just weren’t meant to be won.

Thirty minutes later, he was still sitting happily alone under the shadow of his favourite oak tree – his secret hiding place, unknown to anyone...

Except for Arthur.

“Well?” Arthur blurted out, flushed from what must have been a race across the airfield, his hair tousled, eyes bright with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

Merlin couldn’t resist. He made a show of stretching and asked innocently, “‘Well’ what?”

Arthur’s face fell. “You didn’t see—”

Merlin grinned.

With an indignant whoop, Arthur tackled him to the ground and glared down, impatient, anxious, and magnificent.

“Well?” Arthur growled.

 Merlin was too busy staring at his lips. “I – forgot the question.”

Arthur groaned and kissed him, distracted soon enough into releasing Merlin’s wrists. Merlin flipped them over, knowing full well Arthur had let him, enjoying the moment, the feel of him, and the drugging, heady pull of the kiss.

Merlin pulled back slightly and found Arthur’s eyes open, resigned and vulnerable and hiding nothing. No one had ever seen him like this – not his father, not his colleagues, not Bayard and Mithian, or Gwaine, or even Lancelot. Morgana and Gwen only suspected he could be like this, but they didn’t know, had never seen.

Merlin closed his eyes and let Arthur pull him back down willingly, falling to be caught. He whispered his answer against Arthur’s lips, the kiss dissolving softly around the blinding smile he got in return.

FIN