Archive of Our Own ^beta

Merlin writes his first book when he is fifteen.

He is one of the most surprised when it becomes an instant classic. Slip N' Slide gets glowing reviews, stays on the bestseller list for weeks, is talked about on TV and on radio and in the papers. It is the book of the summer, a “stunning, incisive look into small town life,” according to the New York Times Book Review. Merlin isn’t sure about that, didn’t write it for fame any more than any other reason except that he had to—but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

And it doesn’t really matter, the fame. Because it’s not his name on the cover. No one would trust a book written by a fifteen year old, Gaius told him, and so the only name on the cover is Emrys. Which, Gaius explains, only serves to help the book—the mystique, he calls it.

Merlin calls it bloody irritating. Not that he minds the anonymity. He doesn’t want to do the interviews and pimping out that lots of authors do. Everyone who matters knows—Will read the book, hit him over the head with it, and then ignored it except to tease; his mother is, of course, his biggest fan. Even Freya, far away on her foreign adventures, sends him enthusiastic emails with pictures of his books in odd places. He loves that people read it, that people listen. He doesn’t care that people don’t know its his words beneath that cover.

But then the murmurs start. He published his first book at fifteen. He had looked at the cover, seen it in bookstores, seen what he had made, and it started all over. He could see the next story; he looked into the world and saw what he had to say. The Time of Dragons came out a two years later. A year after that, people started to speculate on when the next great book was coming. A year after that, they looked in anticipation at the great work that must even now be being prepared. The book that never came.

So now he is twenty-one, once a prodigy, and he can only stare at the blank document on his screen.

*****

He didn’t mean to take the course, obviously. That would be a bit too weirdly narcissistic, or maybe masturbatory, or maybe just weird. But he had noticed the syllabus, had been chuckling about it with Lancelot—who, due to him borrowing Merlin’s computer once when they still lived together and noticing some files, had discovered Merlin’s secret, which Merlin would like to say was the last time he ever lent out his computer—when Gwen swept in, heard what they were talking about, and decided to go, and that Merlin would accompany her. As a Literature student, Merlin really had no excuse to make. And he would like to see the person who could resist Gwen’s puppy-dog eyes.

So somehow, he had ended up sitting in a seminar room on a sunny Monday afternoon, hearing Emrys’s books being discussed in great detail as emblematic of modern literature, and trying not to disappear into his chair or burst into hysterical laughter. His books, studied at an actual university, with an actual professor.

It’s amusing, right up until someone at the other end of the table, blocked by a number of other people, raises his hand, and then Merlin starts to seethe instead.

Because he didn’t mean any of what is being said. This is an awful, insidious spin on his words, a twisting of everything good about his book, everything that poured out of him in a fervor of obsession and need. It makes him sound like a fanatic, some sort of socialist nut calling for a return to an agrarian utopia with a side helping of gay orgies. And while he wouldn’t have said no to the gay orgies when he wrote it—hell, he wouldn’t now, if it would get him some—this is worse than the critiques. This is—it’s just wrong, and he can’t, just can’t, let it go.

And so before he can help it, his hand shoots into the air. He is talking before the professor even calls on him, his voice clear in the quiet room. “That’s ludicrous. You’re clearly projecting your own views onto Emrys—where’s the evidence? He doesn’t say any of that.” It comes off more venomous than he expected; he’s not used to taking criticism like this, head on. Even Gwen shoots him a concerned look.

But then the guy leans forward to get a good look at him.

Merlin’s first thought is ‘gorgeous,’ because he is. He’s stunning, golden hair and baby blue eyes and athlete’s body.

His second thought is, ‘I’m fucked,’ because he is. Everyone knows Arthur Pendragon, like no one knows Merlin. Arthur is one of those people who is going to make boatloads of money someday, even more than he’s going to inherit, and end up buying a small country. He’s already in a high position in the student government, captain of at least one sports team, and is rumored to have job offers at many prestigious banks already. He’s also glaring at Merlin like he is a bug who spoke to him before he stepped on it.

“Where’s my evidence?” he repeats, while Merlin concentrates on not withering beneath that Look. “It’s in here!” He shakes what Merlin recognizes as the second edition of Slip N’ Slide, then opens it to flip through. His jaw juts forward angrily as he reads. “The city rushes past him, buffeting him into whirlpools of cars and eddies of crowds, and all he can remember is—”

Merlin picks up the quotation from memory, because he’s still not satisfied with that passage. “The lake throwing his shimmering reflection back at him.” Arthur is gaping at him, like he’s never been interrupted in his life. “What does that show? Geoffrey is overwhelmed by the city. I’m sure no one here has ever felt that way.” A few other people give approving nods. Arthur Pendragon’s eyes narrow menacingly.

“There is clear agrarianism there,” he counters, a growl in his voice. Merlin considers pretending it isn’t sexy, then decides it doesn’t really matter. “Simply because you choose to take a simplistic view—”

“Simplistic!” Merlin bursts out. He almost lunges to his feet. He isn’t taking the simplistic view, he’s taking the right one. They’re his words. His fingers twinge, like they want to rip the book out of Arthur’s hands and cradle it to his chest, his first-born, even if looking at it now it seems ridiculous and pretentious, a child trying to say something important about the world. This is all he has now, the only thing that’s left. “I—”

“Boys,” Professor Kilgarrah breaks in, his deep voice a rumble and a thunderclap at once. “You can continue your discussion throughout the semester. Right now, if we can move onto the course requirements…”

Merlin leans back in his chair, blocking out his view of Arthur. He’s not continuing his discussion because he is not taking this class. Especially if gits like Arthur Pendragon insist on misinterpreting everything.

Gwen pokes his arm as he waits for her to finish putting her things into her bag at the end of class, her grin as unfailingly sweet as usual. “That was pretty good, wasn’t it?”

“Pretty good?” Merlin has yet to stop fuming. He drums his fingers against Gwen’s shoulder, the nearest surface. He hasn’t been this mad since the first bad review of The Time of Dragons came out.

“Well, except for your tiff with Arthur Pendragon,” Gwen agrees peaceably. She picks up her binder and carefully slides the handouts into the pocket, making sure no edges are sticking out. Merlin watches, as he always does, with faint fascination. His usual method is to throw everything into his bag and hope nothing important gets wrinkled. “But that just means it’ll be a good class, you know—lively discussions.”

“Lively discussions!” Sometimes Merlin wonders if the only reason he writes is so that he can forget about his sheer lack of articulateness in person. “Gwen—he—it—”

“He what?” interrupts a voice, and Merlin spins, ready to pounce. Arthur Pendragon is leaning against the wall, cool as a cucumber, arms crossed against a set of unfairly magnificent pecs. It should not be allowed to look that good in a white t-shirt.

That only makes Merlin angrier. “He,” he spits, not caring that he is committing social suicide, only that no one insults his book and gets away with it (other than reviewers or people who do it behind his back), “is a prat who probably got into school on his father’s money and wouldn’t know literary analysis if it bit him in the ass.”

That must have stunned Arthur into speechlessness, because he doesn’t say anything when Merlin throws a, “I’ll meet you at the apartment, Gwen,” over his shoulder and sweeps out—which would be more impressive if he didn’t manage to trip over absolutely nothing in the doorway, tumble forward, and stay on his feet only through involved flailing. He tries to pretend that he didn’t hear snorts of laughter coming from the room as he storms away.

*****

Arthur actually pays attention the next time roll is called in his Contemporary English Literature seminar. He makes it a point not to on the first day, because half the people won’t come back the next week and there’s no point in learning their names. But this week, not only will he be in class with these people for a semester, but he can’t keep ranting at a boy he calls Ears in his head. It’s undignified. And Morgana will laugh. He needs a name.

Except he doesn’t see Ears. He gets there precisely three minutes early, sets his notebook on the desk, picks out his fountain pen and sets it on top of a blank page. His copy of Emrys’s first book sits next to the notebook, post it notes sticking out in a few important places that he picked out in preparation for another argument with Ears. A few people are already sitting down—including the pretty, dark-haired girl who Ears called Gwen—and more wander in, but by the time the professor takes his seat at the end of the table and casts a gaze so judgmental over them that Arthur could almost imagine he was looking at his father, Ears has not shown up.

“As we have weeded out the weak,” Professor Kilgarrah says crisply, “Let us introduce ourselves again. No point in calling each other ‘hey you’ for a semester. Name, year, and interest in this class.” He jabs his finger at the unfortunate boy sitting to his right. “You. Begin.”

The boy gulps, edges away, but he begins. Arthur fixes each name with a face, carefully, like he does with all his classes. Gwen Smith is a senior, who is taking this class because she’s an Art History major but would like a literary background in the area she’s specializing in. Gilli is a junior with a square face and ears almost as large as Ears’, who is interested in writing his own book someday and wants to have someone to emulate. When it gets to Arthur’s turn, he gives his best society smile, drilled into him from years of benefits with his father. “I’m Arthur, I’m a senior economics major. I wanted to take something different this term.” He wonders if this is what Alcoholics Anonymous feels like.

It takes them seven minutes to get around the fourteen people at the table. The professor glances down at his sheet. “We’re one short.”

Which, of course, is the cue for the door to swing open, and Ears to walk in. He looks the same as last time, tall and thin with dark hair and big ears. And cheekbones to die for and eyes that the color Arthur always imagined the lake in Emrys’s novel to be, but Arthur sets his mind to ignoring that. He’s wearing a band t-shirt and loose jeans, and his hair is a mess, as if he just rolled out of bed. Which again, Arthur does not think about.

“Thank you for joining us at last, Mr—” Kilgarrah consults his sheet, “Emerson.”

“Yeah, sorry I’m late!” he pants out. He throws his backpack onto the floor next to Gwen’s chair and slides into it. His smile is apologetic and utterly sincere. “My last class is a bit of a hike, and I got held up.”

Professor Kilgarrah does not look impressed. But all he says is, “Name, year, why you’re taking this class.”

Ears lets out a breath, rolls back his shoulders, then gives the room a smile. Arthur is prepared to be skeptical about everything and anything that Ears says, given his obvious idiocy and unnecessary viciousness, but that smile bypasses all of his carefully constructed defensiveness and anger. He has dimples. How can anyone resist those dimples? Or the bright sparkles in his eyes when he grins like that, like he honestly wants the rest of the world to be happy. Arthur may make a strangled sort of sound, but he can’t be sure. He hopes he didn’t. “Hi,” Ears says with that smile, “I’m Merlin Emerson. I’m a senior Lit major. I’m taking this class—” He bites at his lower lip, as if confused, or considering. Like he honestly doesn’t know why he’s taking the class, even though this is just one of the things you say. It doesn’t require chewing on your lips to make them red and glossy and irresistibly plump, not when you already look rumpled.

“Surely this doesn’t take that much thought?” Arthur hears himself muttering. It’s either that or bang his head against the table.

Merlin’s jewel eyes flash, and he looks right at Arthur. “I’m taking this class to make sure certain prats don’t misinterpret everything we read.”

“Careful Merlin,” Arthur shoots back, cool as he can be. At least he stopped biting his lip. And he isn’t misinterpreting Emrys. It’s all right there, in the text. “One would almost think that you care more about me than about the books.”

Something twists in Merlin’s face as his eyebrows draw together. “Don’t flatter yourself, Your Majesty.” the words drip with scorn, as disdainful and dismissive as Morgana (on a bad day, because no one is ever as dismissive as Morgana). He barely has the words out before he winces; Gwen must have elbowed him in the side. Arthur favors him with a glare, but then turns pointedly to the front of the room. Because they’re taking up class time. And because he can’t think of a retort for that.

Kilgarrah has been watching them. Arthur can’t read the look in his eyes, but he seems to be content to wait. It is only when Merlin doesn’t respond to Arthur’s glare that he opens the discussion with Geoffrey’s first foray into the city.

Arthur’s blood is singing by the time the class is over. It’s not that he’s mad, exactly; he’s just exhilarated. You can, he supposes, have debates like that over econ, over the numbers and the interpretations of them—but he never has. He’s never met someone’s glittering eyes over the table and felt the lightning zinging between them, a connection even if Merlin was utterly, completely wrong and idiotic and thick. It’s vicious and aggressive and he usually only feels like this on a field. Confrontation in an academic setting is not good for making connections, which is what his father—what he—needs.

He tosses a grin at Merlin as he passes him on the way out. Merlin glares back. He’s really unnecessarily touchy, Arthur decides, and goes to find Leon.

*****

Two sessions later, Kilgarrah unveils the catch Merlin has known he has been hiding—no one who smiles so knowingly could ever be benevolent. He’s even grinning before he starts speaking, teeth glinting in the lights, like a shark about to snap. It’s nothing less than terrifying. “The time has come to speak about your first assignment.”

That is less ominous than Merlin was expecting.

“As it says in the syllabus,” the professor goes on, still with that terrifying smile, “This will be a presentation, done in pairs, on a specific aspect of one of the books we have read—either of Emrys’s works, or Ishiguro.” Merlin almost snorts. This should be easy enough. The whole point of having a friend in the class is to have someone to pair up with. He scoots his chair an inch closer to Gwen’s; she smiles reassuringly at him.

“To further make things interesting, and to mix up the group a bit, I’m going to randomly assign the pairs.” This isn’t as bad as Merlin could have expected either—most people like him. He can work with almost anyone in the class, he expects, except for Arthur Pendragon. And that’s only a one in fourteen chance.

He should have known better than to tempt fate. It leaves him gaping open-mouthed at Professor Kilgarrah when he reads, “Merlin Emerson and Arthur Pendragon,” off the slips of paper.

“That can’t be right.” To his surprise, Arthur speaks first. He sounds just as flabbergasted as Merlin, though he still looks utterly composed.

The professor’s lips are curved into a smirk. He probably planned this. “I’m afraid it is, Mr Pendragon. Will there be a problem?”

Merlin waits for Arthur to say something, because he has a problem with this. He’s made it very clear how much he dislikes Merlin, thinks he’s an idiot because he can actually read a damn book. But Arthur just shakes his head, slowly. “No, sir,” he says, begrudgingly.

Merlin just sinks into his chair, slumping down. He knew he shouldn’t have taken this class. It’s just rubbing his face into what he used to be able to do.

“We should meet up sometime to talk about the project,” Arthur tells Merlin after class. He has a distinct feeling of cornering him, given how twitchy Merlin is and the way his eyes dart to either side of Arthur, like he’s looking for an escape route. But when Gwen pauses outside the door, he jerks his head, letting her go on without him.

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees. He has a backpack slung over one shoulder, and most of his weight on the other hip. He looks like every indie boy poster ever made. “this weekend, maybe?”

“I can’t do Saturday,” Arthur says. It comes out shorter than he intended, because he doesn’t like to be reminded of his weekly lunches with his father. No one else’s father keeps that close an eye on them.

“Fine,” Merlin snaps back, “Sunday, then?”

Arthur opens his mouth to say something snarky back, then closes it. He has to work with Merlin. It won’t do to antagonize him now. “That’d be fine. Do you want to meet at a library?”

Merlin wrinkles his nose. It does not make him look adorable. “I don’t like working in libraries.”

Arthur sighs, mutters, “Of course you don’t,” because he couldn’t be normal, could he.

Merlin ignores him. “You could come to mine, if you want,” he offers with a shrug. “My roommate’s a bit of a slob, but it’ll do.”

Arthur pauses, a moment. The image of him in Merlin’s home, of Merlin inviting him into his home—his room—his bed—it takes hold of him, brings a lump to his throat and heat right down to his cock.

Merlin, of course, misinterprets the silence. “If it’s not good enough for Your Highness—”

Before he can go on, Arthur cuts in. Why does he always have to be so touchy? It rouses every contrary instinct Arthur didn’t even know he had, making him want to press every one of Merlin’s buttons just so he can see the angry flush that stains his cheeks and the flash in his eyes.

“That’ll be acceptable,” he says, looking down his nose.

“Good. See you Sunday,” Merlin says, unwillingly polite, and spins to stalk out of the room. Arthur can’t resist—he paces Merlin, budging him so that he can push ahead on the way out the door. Merlin swears under his breath, incredulous, and jostles him back, not giving an inch. That only encourages Arthur, who surges forward to get through the door first—but either he misjudges the width of the door or Merlin pushes at the wrong time, and Arthur stumbles against the doorjamb, trips over the leg that Merlin inexplicably has in front of him, and goes down hard with a wince of pain.

“Fuck.” Merlin pauses in the doorway, looking back. Arthur is on the floor, kneeling, and there’s more tension in his posture than ever. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he breathes out, voice tight. Merlin takes that to mean no, I actually hurt quite a lot, and so backtracks and crouches next to Arthur.

“Is it your ankle?”

“No, it’s my nose,” Arthur drawls. He shoots Merlin a ‘duh’ look, despite the pain.

“You’re hurt, so I’m giving you a pass,” Merlin informs him with irritated patience. There’s nothing to it—Arthur can’t get help here. “Do you want to go to health services?”

“I just twisted my ankle, Merlin. I don’t need to a fucking cast.”

“I’m so glad. Here, can you stand?”

Arthur gives him another ‘idiot’ look, and shifts his weight. He manages to get about halfway up before he stumbles and swears, fluently and with feeling, and almost goes down again before a lean arm inserts itself under his shoulder. “Okay, come on, stand up.” Arthur glares. He can stand on his own. Merlin glares right back, from under long, dark lashes, for once shorter than Arthur, hunched beside him. “Yes, you can glare all you want but you still can’t stand, so just let me help you.”

“I don’t need help.” Except maybe he does, and so he rests just enough of his weight on Merlin to get him standing. This brings Merlin flush against him, lean lines pressed into his side. So he gives Merlin a little more weight, lets him wrap his arm around his waist, and tries not to think of it as manipulation. He’s allowed a bit of pleasure, after all, and the boy did just maim him.

“Yes, you do. Where do you have to go?”

“Just outside. Leon’ll meet me there.” Or he better. This better not be one of those afternoons he spent panting after Morgana.

“Okay, then, let’s go—no, other leg first.”

“I know how to limp, Merlin.”

“Clearly not.” Because of course Merlin couldn’t be nice to him, even when he was injured. Arthur makes a concerted effort to overlook the fact that he was helping Arthur, with no real reason to. At least having Merlin so close and warm gave him something to focus on other than the pain in his ankle.

So somehow they make it downstairs, painstakingly slow, and then Merlin deposits him on a bench with unnecessary haste, so that Arthur has to catch himself on the arm of the bench before he fell and bruised his butt too. “There. You’re sure someone is coming?”

“He better.” Merlin looks prepared to stay, though, glancing worriedly around the quad. The idiot was actually going to wait with him. Who the fuck did that? What did he want out of this? “I’m fine. I’ll see you Sunday.”

“Okay then.” Merlin bites his lower lip as he looks at Arthur—those lips, damn—but then he nods once, and shrugs his backpack higher on his shoulder. “See you Sunday.”

Arthur would blame the pain, or that perverse imp on his shoulder Merlin seemed to conjure up, for what came out of his mouth next. “Make sure you clean up! I would hate to catch something.”

Merlin’s eyes are actually spitting fire when he spins to look at Arthur. “You bloody prat. What, do you think you’re going to catch poor cooties?” he demands, and stalks away, head held high.

Arthur watches him go. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the view.

*****

The problem starts with Gwaine. It always does. Some day, people will study Merlin’s life, and decide that it started its downhill topple the moment a charming, unbelievably attractive man sat down next to Merlin at a pub, pushed a beer at him, and announced, “Two blondes at a table over there—which one is hotter?” To which Merlin had replied, too taken aback to lie, “I’m not really qualified to judge.”

Gwaine had simply flicked his shiny hair and clapped him on the back. “Brilliant. Then you can be my wingman.”

Merlin has never managed to get rid of him since. He’s not entirely sure why, or how. But it gets him into infinite amounts of trouble he can never tell his mother about. It also means he has someone to talk to who is much, much worse than he will ever be, who doesn’t judge anything he says, and who can charm him out of the worst of his moods, when he has been staring at blank pages or a email from Gaius. Merlin loves Lance and Gwen, for their sweetness and the way they make him believe in the world, for Lance’s soul-deep goodness and honor, for Gwen’s motherliness and practicality and love. But living with Gwaine is easy, undemanding. He has too many dark spots of his own to press.

So when Gwaine drags him to a bar, Merlin is neither surprised nor displeased. It takes him away from the email Gaius just sent—not pushing, never pushing, always wonderfully, horribly paternal and loving, just a hint, a maybe you have something? Or just an idea you’d like to discuss?

He doesn’t. He doesn’t have any ideas. He doesn’t have anything left he wants to say—or maybe he just doesn’t know how to say it. He doesn’t feel empty or drained, like his first books took everything out of him. He just feels blank. No ideas, but even worse, no words to say it in. Even if he tries to start, to just write for writing’s sake, ease himself back in, there’s nothing, nothing to say nothing there, where once he had a font of language and truth in him.

So he really needs a distraction, and somehow Gwaine always seems to know when and how to provide one. Somewhere along the way—after Gwaine has sent him back into his room three times because ‘really, Merlin, just because you haven’t gotten laid in months is no reason to look like it’—they pick up Lance and Gwen, and so it is a party of four who claim a table at their favorite bar, close enough to campus to have a lot of students but not so close that it feels university sponsored.

It’s not particularly upscale, which is good because none of them really have the funds for that (or rather, Merlin doesn’t want to say he does, because there is a lot of money sitting in his bank account but he would have to account for it somehow). But it’s not a total dive either, somehow walking the line between sketchy and uncool. The music is quiet enough to hear yourself think, but on a Friday night like tonight, there are enough people around that the aura of possibility floats through the air, like somewhere out there, in the roiling crowd of people, is someone who could change your life.

Gwaine goes to buy the first round—they know from practice that if he gets any later rounds, he needs supervision or else he’ll forgo the drinks in favor of flirting. Gwen settles against Lance, leaning comfortably into his shoulder. His arm wraps easily around her, and there’s a twinge, somewhere deep in Merlin. Merlin’s not jealous, exactly, not of either of them however much he loves them both—but he sees and it hurts. They know. They know what they are, what they have to be. They have the story of their love written in their bodies, in their intertwined hands on Gwen’s lap and the fond, disbelieving look Lance shoots at Gwen whenever she’s not looking.

Gwen speaks, because she’s not good with silences. “How was your day, Merlin?” she asks, because he and Gwaine are only kind of kidding when they call Lance and Gwen Mom and Dad.

“Fine.” He shrugs. He doesn’t talk about the last three hours he spent staring at a screen. “Classes, work, you know.” Lance’s gaze flicks to him; he must have given something away. He’s never been able to lie worth a damn, except for the important things. So he distracts. “I got an email from Will.”

That entertains them, because his friends are far too invested in Will’s tragi-comedy of a love life, most recently spent pining after a barista in true romance novel fashion. Merlin spends the time until the next round telling them of Will’s latest escapades (including, but not limited to, attempting to write his number on the bills he gave her but then giving her the wrong ones and staying at the café until she got off work but sleeping through it). But when Gwen disappears into the crowd for the next round, Gwaine turns his awful, inexorable eyes to the crowd.

“So, Merlin lad,” he says, laying a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Who shall we find you tonight?” Lance gives an amused snort. Merlin glares. He could at least help, and he doesn’t need this, not right now, though sometimes it’s all he needs, but Gwaine can’t always tell the difference.

“I’m not really in the mood—”

“And that,” Gwaine interrupts him, “is why you must trust your trusty wingman—yes, you pedant, I know I said trust twice, I am using it for emphasis—to put you in the mood. So, Merlin,” he forcibly turns Merlin’s head with one hand, because all those intimidating muscles are unfortunately not just for show. Though they do make a very pretty show, which Merlin knows after two years of living with him. “What d’you fancy?”

Merlin laughs, despite himself, because Gwaine does that. He lets out a sigh, and scans the crowd, because maybe someone will catch his eye. There’s a cute brunette in the corner, but he’s chatting up a girl; a rather fabulous but good looking man with bleached blonde hair surveying the room from a wall in a way that looks a little predatory for Merlin’s peace of mind, and—Gwen, coming back towards them, with a girl even he can tell is drop dead gorgeous.

“Let’s focus on you instead,” he says, and smirks at Gwaine’s speechlessness as he sees Gwen’s companion.

Gwen sets the drinks on the table, then gestures to the girl with a flourish. “Guys, this is Morgana—she’s in my major. Morgana, this is Lance, Merlin, and Gwaine.” Morgana turns sharp, dark eyes on each of them in turn, but her lips turn up slightly and Merlin gets the feeling that if he is being judged, it turned out favorably.

“Charmed,” she says. Gwaine immediately pushes Merlin farther into the booth so Morgana has room to sit next to him, which she does.

“Not as charmed as we are, I’m sure,” he says with his most charming smile and a flick of his hair. Morgana accepts the tribute with a nod.

Gwen rolls her eyes. “Lance is my boyfriend, and Merlin’s his old roommate,” she explains as she snuggles back up to Lance. “We don’t know where Gwaine came from.”

“Heaven,” he suggests with a wink.

“He’s the puppy who followed me home,” Merlin leans around Gwaine to interject. Gwaine just laughs, because they all know he is. “We tried to give him back to the pound but not even they wanted him.”

Gwaine turned big eyes on Merlin. “You say the most hurtful things, Emerson.”

Merlin grins back. He hasn’t been affected by the puppy-dog eyes for years, and they all know he can do them far better anyway. “I say the truest things.”

“You do at that,” Gwaine agrees, and slaps him on the back. Then he turns back to Morgana, even as he snags his glass from the center of the table. “So Morgana, what is a lady as lovely as you doing here alone on this fine evening?”

“Oh, I’m not alone,” she replies with a smirk on her thin lips. Gwaine has never let a little thing like monogamy deter him, so he doesn’t falter with his smile. He must really like this one, Merlin notes; his eyes are staying away from some really excellent tits. When Morgana notes that this does not have much of an effect other than Gwen’s sigh—which she has no reason doing, if anyone it’ll be Merlin who has to deal with peeved boyfriends—she continues, “My brother and his friend are here too. If they haven’t gotten lost.”

“Brother?” It’s Gwen who asks. Merlin shoots her a look. If she doesn’t know that, how are they close enough for Morgana to come over here? He only needs one look to cast her, the Evil Stepmother type, beautiful and conniving and magnificent—he likes her, but he doesn’t trust her.

“Step,” Morgana explains with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Our year, more’s the pity. I’ve tried to get him held back, but it never quite works. You probably know of him, most do—Arthur? Arthur Pendragon?” And Merlin has not quite had time to properly finish choking on that little bit of information before she perks up and raises a hand, “Oh, there he is. Arthur!”

By the time Gwaine finishes slapping Merlin on the back to get him over his coughing fit, two someones are at the table. Merlin almost doesn’t want to look up. Maybe the table can swallow him. He does not want to interact with Arthur Pendragon outside of class. He doesn’t want to deal with him, the arrogant prick who thinks he knows his books better than Merlin. He’s been trying not to even think about Emrys all night, to think about everything but the hole in him.

But then Gwen is smiling and saying, “Hi, Arthur,” and introducing Gwaine and Lance, and Morgana is asking how they all know each other, and when Arthur drawls out, “We have class together. Well, us and Merlin,” Merlin has to look up or never face himself again.

Arthur looks, as usual, horribly good. He’s more causal than usual in jeans and a t-shirt tight enough that Merlin’s eyes skirt nervously up to his face, to that smug grin that makes Merlin constantly want to slap him or kiss him. Or slap him. Mainly that.

“More’s the pity,” he shoots back. The man standing next to Arthur—tall, unassuming but muscled—twitches. Morgana starts to smirk.

Arthur just gives his usual hard stare. “You don’t need to be taking the class,” he points out.

“Nor you.”

Arthur has his mouth open to retort when Morgana cuts in. “Boys,” she says, teasing but with an edge, “Public. Do behave.” Arthur closes his mouth. He has found it best not to cross Morgana unless it’s very important. “That’s better. Now, Arthur, have you introduced Leon?”

Leon lets out a snort under his breath. Arthur makes a face at his sister, who throws one quickly back. “This is Leon,” he says to the group at large.

“Hey.” They all smile back. Even Merlin.

“Let’s pull up some chairs,” Gwen says immediately, as she moves over. Merlin starts making frantic eyebrow motions at her, so clearly Arthur has to reach over to pull up a plastic chair to the booth and sink down into it. Irritating Merlin is his new favorite pastime.

Once he and Leon sit down, though, there’s a beat of silence. Morgana is too busy making evil, evil plans—he knew he never should have mentioned Merlin to her, much less slipped up when describing him and called him attractive—and Merlin is too busy staring into his drink to say anything.

Luckily, Gwen’s boyfriend—Lance, the classically handsome one—says in a soft voice, “What do you study, Leon?”

Leon takes it from there. He can talk about his medical studies for hours, and Morgana only encourages him. Arthur uses that time to study Merlin, because he’s clearly the most interesting one here, and there’s something about him, away from the classroom setting. He’s looked up from his drink, but now he’s focused on Leon, those jewel-bright eyes calm and assessing, in a way Arthur’s more used to seeing in Morgana. On a man, on Merlin—it’s really hot. Of course, once Merlin notices Arthur’s looking, it turns into a glare. Which Arthur returns, with interest. Idiot.

But no one else seems to agree, and the conversation moves from Leon to the rest of them, to classes, to the inexplicable drama that has sprung up over the Dean’s new sex-ed policy and the ridiculousness of university-sponsored dances. Arthur learns, in this conversation, that outside of class Merlin is just as insolent as in class, but with everyone else the viciousness is replaced by humor. Although he has a million wrong opinions about just about everything. He also learns that those damn grins have just as much effect on him when he’s tipsy.

By midnight, Gwaine has managed to coax Morgana onto the dance floor, which means that Leon has to watch them—Arthur just laughed when Merlin gave him a worried glance—and Lance and Gwen have headed home, “because they are lame coupley people,” as Gwaine put it. Which leaves only Merlin and Arthur at the table, sitting across from each other. Merlin is staring at the dance floor, eyes half-lidded and sleepy, one hand tracing the rim of his glass. Arthur is not staring at Merlin. He is just too lazy to look somewhere else.

Suddenly, Merlin speaks, breaking the silence. “Why are you even taking the class? You don’t even like Emrys.”

It takes Arthur a moment to bring his thoughts together, but when he does, he bristles. “What do you mean?” he demands.

Merlin turns his focus back to Arthur, his head cocked and that x-ray look in his eyes. “The things you say about him in class—you clearly don’t like his books. Why are you studying them?”

“I do like them!” Arthur insists. “I mean, I don’t agree with them, but he’s a great writer.”

Merlin’s lips quirk upwards. It’s not his brilliant smile; it’s something quiet, something more intimate. “That’s something,” he mutters to himself.

“And anyway, why do you care,” Arthur shoots, because he can’t deal with that smile. “You don’t like Emrys either! Or you don’t think much of him, anyway.”

Merlin laughs, long and hard and with an edge of hysteria to it. Arthur glares. He hates not getting the joke. “I don’t,” he agrees. “but it’s interesting to discuss anyway.”

“You are fun to argue with,” Arthur agrees amiably, because it’s true. The class without Merlin would just be boring, and at the very least he’s clever. A bit. Merlin’s eyebrows raise, but Arthur leans forward, as if to impart a secret. “You’re actually an alright person, Merlin Emerson.”

Merlin leans forward too, close enough that Arthur can see the long sweep of his eyelashes, the arch of his cheekbones. And then Merlin licks his lips, and Arthur can’t help but look at them, moving inches from his, red and inviting and close enough to kiss. There’s a breath, a moment, as Arthur considers doing that, considers doing something stupid and rash and ridiculous. But then, “I didn’t need you to tell me that.”

Arthur jerks back, stung. Merlin is grinning, his shit-eating, laughing grin, but Arthur is far too busy trying to talk down his libido to notice. “I take that back,” he spits, though it’s hard to stay furious when his pants feel a million times too tight and Merlin is smiling like that, “You’re evil.”

“At your service,” Merlin gives a mock bow.

Arthur scowls, but he’s laughing too, as easy as if he’s known Merlin for years. And he’ll say that, and the alcohol in him, and the way Merlin teases him, is why he says, “I like Emrys because my father hates him. Despises him. Thinks he’s everything wrong with the world. But not even he can control what classes I take.”

Merlin doesn’t say anything for a long moment. His eyes shutter closed, then open, then closed again. They flick from Arthur’s face to his hands and then to his lips—or is that wishful thinking? Then, suddenly, just when Arthur’s considering throwing water on him to wake him up (and get him wet, just maybe, because he’s all long, lean lines, and he wants to see water drip down his neck and onto his chest…), he jolts, bolt upright. “Do you have a pen?”

“What?”

“A pen, do you have one?” His eyes are open now, wide open, his pupils dilated, and his fingers are drumming against the table. He’s almost starting to vibrate.

“No?” Arthur reaches out a hand to touch him, to hold him down, but Merlin swirls out of his seat before he can reach him.

“I’ve got to go—get home—father, of course—knowledge—transferal—” he’s stopped moving to mutter for himself, which gives Arthur time to slide out of his seat and grasp him by the shoulders.

“Merlin?” he asks, with a little shake. But Merlin has focused behind him, isn’t even looking at him, and he really is trembling beneath Arthur’s hands. Fuck. He hasn’t had that much to drink—drugs? Maybe some sort of mental breakdown?

Arthur doesn’t think. He grabs Merlin by a thin wrist, drags him through the crowd to where Leon is standing. “Where’s Gwaine?” he demands, sharp and imperious. Merlin is still swaying, talking to himself, maybe even just reciting a line, unseeing.

Leon takes it in with a blink, then gestures to the dance floor. Arthur keeps his grasp on Merlin as he stalks over and yanks Gwaine away from Morgana. “Is he on drugs?” he snaps.

Gwaine shakes himself, surveys Merlin, then grins, wide and easy and almost relieved. Arthur kind of wants to slap him for being so calm, when his friend is clearly going insane. “No, no, this is fine, this good. I’ll take him home.” He winks a farewell to Morgana, who smirks back, then slides in front of Merlin, leaning over to murmur something in his ear. His hand wraps around Merlin’s shoulder, far gentler than Arthur had ever imagined him being, and he leads Merlin away without another word. Arthur is left gaping on the dance floor. What the fuck just happened?

Morgana’s smirk widens when she’s sees his look. “Have fun?” she asks, ice sharp. His eyes narrow. She’s up to something.

“Did you?” he retorts, because her dark hair is mussed and her lips are kiss stained.

Morgana shrugs. “Acceptable.” When they get back to Leon, she throws an arm around his shoulders. “So what did you and Merlin talk about?”

Someday, Arthur has to get around to assassinating her.

*****

Merlin emerges from his writing-daze two days later, starved and thirsty and unwashed. But he has a short story fully mocked up, all thirty pages of it, the first he’s written, really written and not just forced out, since he sent in his last novel. It’s good. It’s true. The story of knowledge, of a boy looking for truth in all the wrong places, of education and coming of age and rebellion.

He only has vague memories of eating or drinking for the last few days, given that he’s still alive someone must have fed him something, but that doesn’t matter, nothing matters except the sheer relief of having written. But he still takes a moment to stare at the sent message in his inbox, smiling stupidly.

“You look disgusting.”

Merlin starts, tries to spin around to look at who was talking, and almost tips out of his chair. He flails, windmilling his arms, and catches his balance—but not before he hears warm, rich laughter coming from the doorway.

Arthur is leaning against the door. Merlin’s just on the edge of hallucination through sleep-deprivation, dehydration, and euphoria, but he looks golden, backlit by the hall light, arms crossed to pull the leather jacket across his shoulders. Then he pushes off the threshold and walks into Merlin’s room—and suddenly Merlin’s mind starts to compute again. Arthur. In his room. In his room.

“What are you doing here?” His voice comes out hoarse with disuse. Arthur moves through the mess of the room—worse even than usual after his writing binge—like a cat picking through a swamp.

“It’s Sunday.”

Merlin blinks, then checks his computer to confirm. It is, indeed Sunday. He’s sure that would mean something if he had slept in the past twenty-four hours.

Arthur lets out an irritated huff of air. “We were going to work on our project today? Remember?” He leans down to peer at the computer screen over Merlin’s shoulder, his breath hot on Merlin’s cheek. “If you’re not too busy—”

“Ah, no.” Merlin slams the computer shut fast enough that it almost clips Arthur’s ear. “Not busy. Just—”

“Having a mental breakdown?” Merlin is apparently at the perfect height for Arthur to give him a supercilious look down his nose. The look alone is a good reason for Merlin to give a snippy retort, but before he can get around to thinking of one, Arthur continues, “You certainly seemed on the way to one on Friday.”

“Oh—about that—I—” Merlin tries to come up with a better explanation than ‘I got a really good idea for a story and I absolutely had to write it down right away.’ He can’t. This is why he writes, rather than speaks.

Luckily, Arthur doesn’t seem particularly fussed about the lack of explanation. “God, you reek. When did you last shower?” Merlin pauses to calculate—three days? No, he definitely did on Friday—and Arthur snorts and jerks him out of the chair by the shoulder. He’s strong. Of course he is, bloody jock. “God, you’re light. Do you eat?” This time, he doesn’t even wait for Merlin to start to answer before he goes on. “Take a shower, then we’ll get something to eat.”

“But—”

“Shower.” Arthur shoves Merlin towards the door. He takes a step, sways as all the blood rushes into his head, then catches himself before Arthur notices. He hopes.

Unluckily, Arthur seems to have suddenly acquired magical observation powers, because he’s beside Merlin in an instant. “Can you not even stand up right?” He snaps, but his hand is gentle and supportive on Merlin’s arm.

“I can!” Merlin protests, jerks his arm away. He’s steady this time. “I just haven’t in a few days.”

Arthur’s eyebrows raise, but he puts up his hands, palms up, and takes a step back. Which is absolutely what Merlin wanted, no matter what his body is saying, leaning, yearning towards him. His body is exhausted. It has no judgment. Just because Arthur is being nice is no reason to forget that he’s a prat who doesn’t get Merlin at all. Or Emrys. The difference there seems less stark when he’s in his right mind.

“Fine,” Merlin snaps, more angry at the Arthur in his head than the one in reality, and makes his careful way towards the bathroom.

Arthur watches him go, concern warring with something that was somewhere between annoyance, lust, and curiosity. In a room down the hall, water turns on.

Merlin doesn’t just reek, he was also terribly easy to move. Arthur heads to the kitchen, opens the fridge and a few cabinets, and comes up with a packet of stale pop tarts, a bag of popcorn, and one ramen noodle. How do two people live on this? They’ll have to go out.

Which means that he has nothing to do until Merlin gets out of the shower. And so Arthur, who is, he thinks, at his heart a good person but not a saint, turns to Merlin’s room.

It’s a mess. Calling it a pigsty would be insulting to the pigs. There are clothes all over the floor, papers and books and other things Arthur frankly doesn’t want to know the origin of scattered with them. The desk is actually covered with papers, the macbook just set on top of them without disregard for what might be under. The bed has also disappeared under piles of stuff, glimpses of a navy comforter just visible. How Merlin even sleeps in that—and Arthur gets a brief flash of himself pushing all the stuff out of the way to throw Merlin onto the bed, before he shakes his head to rid himself of it. Merlin doesn’t sleep there, or anywhere. He looks about half dead.

Which, of course, begs the question of just why he went insane. Arthur ruled out drugs about five minutes after thinking it; he knows, with a certainty that surprised even him, that there are not track marks on Merlin’s arms. And Gwaine didn’t react in a way that meant serious medical issues. Neither did Gwen, when he conveniently ran into her and asked her where Merlin’s apartment was when he realized he didn’t have Merlin’s phone number. Morgana probably knew it, because she was a sneaky bitch, but he hadn’t wanted to give her any more ammunition. It’s not like he wanted the number to ask Merlin out on a date.

So if it isn’t drugs, and it isn’t something medical—he must just be weird. Which Arthur already knew. Weird and touchy and stupidly nice and beautiful, in an odd way. Not that he’s focusing on that. Anyway—the computer. Where Merlin was trying to hide something, and Arthur doesn’t think it was porn.

Somehow, sitting down would make it worse. He bends over, opens the computer—and is met with a black screen and a menu requesting a password.

Well, damn. Arthur stares at it. He does not know Merlin well enough to guess his password. He makes a few desultory passes with common numerical combinations, Merlin’s name—his own name, just for kicks—and when that fails, starts staring around the room for hints. There are a lot of books, everywhere, but he can’t identify a favorite author. He has quite a few of Emrys’ books, but Arthur already knows that, for all his defense, he doesn’t have a good enough opinion of Emrys to make him his password. He’s got some Tom Clancy, some China Mieville, some more authors Arthur doesn’t recognize and more that are obviously from classes, but nothing specific. In fact, there is nothing in the room that is particularly specific. There are photos on the wall, pinned up haphazardly, of Merlin and friends: Merlin and Lance, Gwen, and Gwaine in various combinations, Merlin and an older woman with his eyes who must be his mother, Merlin and another boy with a round face and a bowl cut, their arms thrown around each other and laughing at the camera. Arthur takes a step closer to that picture. Couldn’t be an ex, it wouldn’t stay up, but there’s something…

A door closes, and Arthur just has time to throw himself across the room to close the laptop before Merlin appears in the doorway. “Were you looking at my computer?” he demands immediately.

He’s only wearing a towel, slung around lean hips. His shoulders are surprisingly broad, in comparison, though still bony; his skin is amazingly pale and fine, like it might bruise if Arthur touched it. The water has pulled his hair down around his neck, dark against the pallor of his skin in a contrast that makes Arthur want nothing more than to touch. The water drips down his chest, traces the dusting of hair on his chest, drags Arthur’s eyes down with it—

“Of course not,” Arthur snaps, hoping he doesn’t sound as dazed as he is. No need to give Merlin more ammunition. He’s not even really that good looking. Arthur grabs the first article of clothing he finds at hand and chucks it at Merlin. “Why would I want to do that? Now get dressed. We’re getting pancakes.”

The cloth hits Merlin on the chest, and Merlin uses one hand to pick it off of him. He turns bright red as it is revealed to be a pair of navy boxers. Arthur can only hope that he isn’t as scarlet. He didn’t mean that. But Merlin’s lips are quirking upwards in something that looks like it’s going to become laughter anytime soon. “Oh, just hurry up,” Arthur spits, and shoves past Merlin to get out.

His arm brushes against the smooth skin of Merlin’s torso as he passes.

*****

Merlin eats an ungodly amount of pancakes for someone so thin. There’s something satisfying about it, though, watching Merlin eat and eat and eat, shoveling syrup-soaked pancakes into his mouth with no regard for etiquette or what anyone else thinks. He eats like he acts—no respect, but in a charming way.

“Do you have any manners?” Arthur drawls, once he’s finished his own stack and leans back to watch Merlin eat, his arms crossed over his chest. Syrup shimmers around his lips.

“Manners are for people without pancakes,” Merlin shoots back, though he swallows before he does. “And for those who can remember eating in the past two days.”

Arthur’s eyebrows rise. Two days? “What were you doing that meant you couldn’t eat?” he asks. Out of purely idle curiosity, not because he wants to figure out what Merlin would prioritize over food—and then shake him and insist he needs to eat, no matter what.

Merlin had taken a huge bite if pancake mid-way through Arthur’s sentence, so he chews and swallows before he answers. His tongue darts out, licks the syrup off his lips, and sends a thrum of want right through Arthur, which he promptly ignores. “Working on a project,” he says easily, “It was due today, and I needed to get it done. And neither Gwaine or I are good at the whole shopping thing.”

That reminds Arthur, he needs to ask about that. “What is Gwaine’s story?” he demands. He won’t have Morgana hurt (though she would kill him if she knew he was asking), or Leon, and Gwaine has already set up a date with Morgana for the Thursday. And who went on a date on Thursday, anyway?

Merlin lets out a long-suffering sigh, though his lips curl upwards in a fond smile. “How many times did he call her?”

“She didn’t say.” Arthur doesn’t like what he’s hearing. “But I take it this is usual behavior?”

“Gwaine isn’t good at waiting. Or at not getting what he wants,” Merlin agrees, slowly.

“I bet he isn’t,” Arthur mutters darkly in return. He seems like a love ‘em and leave ‘em type, too handsome and charming by half. Arthur has never quite understood people like that, who can throw themselves into something without forethought, without weighing the consequences. Arthur can commit—he does, too much, Morgana says, throwing his heart and soul and body into something—but not quickly, and never thoughtlessly.

Merlin’s eyes narrow, and he lets his fork drop onto the plate with a clatter. “I don’t know what you’re implying,” he says, and his voice is cold, his shoulders rolled back as if ready for a fight. His eyes blaze even brighter than when they’re arguing in class. “But Gwaine is my best friend, and I don’t see how his sex life is any of your concern.”

“It is when my sister’s involved.” It’s a statement, not up for argument.

Except Merlin argues it. “Gwaine, for all his shadows, is a good man. If he starts something, he makes sure everyone knows the expectations going in.” He says it just as surely as Arthur had, with the same implacability. “And I don’t think your sister would like you barging in on you affairs.”

That does give Arthur pause for a second, and he shudders. Morgana’s wrath is quick and merciless. But he still insists, “If she’s going to get her heart broken—”

“Gwaine doesn’t deal in hearts.” It’s coolly said, and utterly, ruthlessly precise. Merlin hates himself for saying it, a bit, because it is so true. He wishes it wasn’t, for all Gwaine clearly prefers it that way—but what does he know of hearts, either? He can see it from the outside, read Lance and Gwen’s story, but he can’t write his own. “He deals in bodies and laughter and the push-pull of sex and tenderness and the chase. Morgana will find pleasure in his bed, and mirth and happiness for a time—but that is not where she will stay. She’ll find a different bed to rest in, soon enough.”

Arthur’s eyes are wide when Merlin finishes, and he blushes. He hates it when he goes off like that, like Emrys takes over his mouth and he can hear truths rolling off his tongue, even if they aren’t truths he could ever write down, ever capture on his own. Not when even now he can feel the words fading from him, the page turning white again. Merlin ducks his head to look at his plate, and closes his eyes against the mocking laughter.

It doesn’t come. Laughter comes, but it is breathless and a bit nervous, disbelieving. “You, mate,” Arthur says, and even his voice is hoarse, “Have been reading too much Emrys. That sounded like it could have been a quote.”

Merlin snorts, for the awful irony of it. “He’s been rubbing off on me, I guess.”

“That should be good for our project.” Arthur stands abruptly, his chair squealing as it backs up. The sun hits his hair and sets it alight, his chin is lifted, proud and stern. For a moment, it is Merlin who is left breathless. “Are you done? We should get started.”

Merlin gulps, regains his breath. So he’s a pretty face. Who took him out for pancakes, and paid, and wants to take care of his terrifying sister. He’s still a prat. “Yeah, sure. Back to mine?”

“We certainly aren’t going back to mine,” Arthur drawls. He reaches over to yank Merlin out of his seat. “Come on, Merlin! We haven’t got all day.”

Certainly a prat, Merlin agrees with himself as he follows Arthur out of the building, his wrist still burning from the touch.

*****

“Are you always such an idiot, Merlin?” Arthur asks, throwing his pencil across the table at Merlin. Merlin tries to dodge and fails, so it bounces off his shoulder. Luckily, Merlin stays in his seat, because they’ve already attracted enough attention in the café with their yelling. Merlin is simply incapable of accepting the fact that he’s absolutely wrong about his interpretation of Emrys. He insists on thinking of him as a moderate, as a Thoreauvian conservationist, when clearly the socialist radicalism is simmering beneath the surface.

“Are you always such an ass?” Merlin shoots back. His fingers are clenched around his pen, his knuckles white. “We’re presenting on the water motif in Slip N' Slide, not—” he raises two fingers on each hand in quotation marks—“his idiotic ramblings on the infallible purity of agrarianism!” Arthur’s eyebrows rise. It’s a direct quote. And who uses air quotes anymore, anyway? Merlin’s hand runs through his hair in exasperation. “Do you even know how pretentious that sounds?”

“It only sounds pretentious because you don’t have the intelligence to comprehend it.” Arthur crosses his arms across his chest and leans back, smirking. The color is high in Merlin’s cheeks, and his eyes are flashing. His long fingers are drumming against the tiled table, bitten nails clicking on the porcelain.

Merlin lets out a snort. “I don’t have the intelligence? What do you know about literature? You’re an Econ major, for heaven’s sake—have you even read another book?”

Arthur’s smirk disappears. That’s below the belt. “Some of us are planning to make a living after graduation.”

“Like you need to!” Merlin leans forward, eyes fixed with their x-ray glare on Arthur. But Arthur’s had long practice standing up to Morgana’s scrutiny—which is more aggressive, more judgmental, anyway—and he meets that jewel-blue gaze firmly. “Tell me, Arthur Pendragon, have you ever felt like you had to make money?”

Arthur leans forward too, so they’re mere inches apart across the table. Like they’re about to fight. Or kiss. But more the former. Despite the way Merlin’s lashes brush against the paleness of his skin, dark against light. “To live, no,” Arthur admits, because he knows how privileged he is. His voice is fierce as he goes on, though, because he is privileged but he knows pressure, none better. “But there are other reasons to feel pressure to succeed.”

At that, Merlin pauses. His head cocks to the side, his gaze flicks from Arthur’s eyes, down to the hands clenched on the table, then back up to Arthur’s eyes. The x-ray gaze has softened, somehow, but that only makes it feel more incisive, like instead of taking an axe to see what’s inside he’s using a stiletto. So Arthur, who can’t just let it stand, continues, to make that gaze turn away. “Not that you would feel like you had something to live up to.” If Arthur leaned in a bit more, they would be kissing.

A sound comes out of Merlin’s mouth that is almost a laugh. There’s something more in those bright eyes, though, something painful Arthur can’t quite read. “Of course not,” he agrees, and pulls back. Something twists in Arthur’s stomach. “So, water. A metaphor for things not always being as they seem.”

And they’re back to Merlin being an idiot. Arthur throws another pen at him, and when Merlin comes back up from his dodge-and-flail combination, the pain has been swallowed by his laughter.

*****

Merlin is halfway through throwing his copy of Slip N’ Slide into his backpack when Arthur says, scowling and with his arms crossed, “Do you have plans tonight?”

Merlin pauses, his backpack hanging off his arm by one strap. He reviews his night—more staring at a computer screen, probably. Or maybe Gwaine will drag him out, or a board game night with Lance and Gwen. He looks at Arthur, broad shoulders and charmingly imperfect teeth. “Nothing special. Why?” He grins cheekily, because he enjoys making Arthur scowl. “Are you asking me out?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Arthur shoots back, and sure enough, he scowls more. But his amusement is written in the looseness of his stance, in his sky-eyes and relaxed shoulders. When Merlin is bent down like this, only on the edge of his chair, Arthur seems overwhelmingly tall. “Morgana wants to see you, is all.”

“Oh.” Merlin swallows. Morgana scares him, for all she seems to like him. “Why?”

“Fuck if I know.” Merlin wrinkles his nose up at Arthur, and Arthur sneers back. “But she wanted me to ask you to come out with us tonight.” Merlin’s not entirely sure if he actually doesn’t want Merlin to come, or if he just likes to be contrary, so he takes his time to shoulder his backpack. He thinks Arthur might not hate him anymore—and he doesn’t think he hates Arthur anymore, for all he’s a prat and blatantly wrong. He actually listens to Merlin when they argue, and has been willing to both do half the work and let Merlin do work in the two weeks they’ve been working on this project. And there’s something about him, about the calloused hands and solemn eyes and air of privilege, something that makes Merlin want to find out what makes him tick, to figure out how he would put him on a page. But he has no way of knowing if it’s reciprocated, if they’ve made it past enemies to at least friendly, and he’s not going to intrude.

“Oh, come on, Merlin,” Arthur snaps, and grabs Merlin’s arm to wrench him up. “Suffering my company is worth not getting on Morgana’s shit list.”

“Are you sure?” Merlin doesn’t pull his arm away. “Because it is pretty painful…”

Arthur smacks him on the back of his head, his hand a brush against Merlin’s hair. “Shut up, Merlin.”

“Why?”

“Shut up and move.” He pulls Merlin out of the café with one hand on his elbow, then bullies him a few blocks away until they duck into the same bar in which Merlin first ran into Arthur, which makes him wonder if Arthur comes here a lot and he’s never noticed him. Which seems impossible, because there’s no way Merlin wouldn’t notice Arthur.

“I brought him,” Arthur announces, shoving Merlin into the inner seat of a booth and then sliding in after, effectively trapping Merlin.

From across the table, Morgana’s lips curve into a smile that sends a shiver down Merlin’s spine, and not in a good way. It’s not a mean smile, but it’s not necessarily a nice one either. It’s simply a smile carved into ice. “Merlin,” She says. She’s draped over the booth like a Roman lady, a cocktail glass full of clear liquid dangling from her fingers. “I hope my dear brother didn’t terribly inconvenience you.” Next to her, Leon smiles a friendly greeting. Merlin returns the smile—he doesn’t really know Leon, but he’s a wonderfully uncomplicated face between these Pendragons.

“You were the one who made me bring him,” Arthur retorts. Morgana’s smile doesn’t flicker, but Merlin bristles.

“I can leave—”

Arthur doesn’t let him finish. “Be quiet, Merlin,” he snaps, and punches him lightly on the arm. It’s still a solid punch.

Merlin rubs at the contact point and glares and Arthur, who is busy glaring at Morgana, who is looking smugly at Merlin. It’s an awful triangle of Looks.

“Is he always this violent?” Merlin asks the room at large. Leon snorts.

“It’s how he shows affection.”

“Brilliant.” What is the childhood, Merlin wonders, that makes physical affection into violence, and vice versa? Or that can only handle affection as violence? “I’m unsurprised.”

“Total lies,” Arthur breaks his staring match with Morgana to address Merlin, all lofty indifference. “Don’t trust anything he says.” He scoots out of the booth, ostentatiously ignoring all of them. “My round. What are you drinking, Merlin?”

“Just get me a pint.”

Arthur shakes his head, despairing. “Plebe.”

“And proud!”

Merlin’s grin follows Arthur to the bar. He orders Morgana another Manhattan—she is already halfway to becoming her mother, but who is Arthur to tell her no? –and whiskeys for himself and Leon, and a pint for Merlin, then he turns to lean against the bar, both arms resting behind him.

It’s hard not to look at Merlin. Partly, he excuses himself, because they’re sitting in his usual booth, and he generally has to make sure Morgana isn’t terrorizing any poor prey. But Arthur is honest enough with himself to admit that isn’t all of it. Merlin’s just fun to look at, with his expressive face, ridiculous ears, and lean body. Arthur always gets ridiculous urges to shove him down and make him eat whenever he sees him (along with other urges to shove him down, ones he doesn’t like to think about except in the privacy of his own shower).

Merlin leans across the table to better talk to Morgana. Their heads meet somewhere in the middle, pale and dark and elegant, both of them. Morgana reaches out a hand and rests it, laughing, on Merlin’s. Something twists inside of Arthur. He knows that laugh of Morgana’s, like she’s choosing new prey. And Merlin is smiling and oh fuck, that’s a dimple—one Arthur has certainly never seen, never caused.

Arthur turns around to face the bar again. He doesn’t need to see them flirting. He’s surprised Leon can stand it, but somehow Leon’s never been jealous, not throughout the long years of waiting. Not that—yes, he is. Arthur is jealous. He can admit that. He wants to see those jewel-bright eyes go dark with lust. He wants to run kisses over his collar bone. Damn, he even wants to nibble on those ridiculous ears, just to see what Merlin does. He wants all of that x-ray focus on him again, only him.

He braces his hands on the edge of the bar, takes a few deep breaths. Merlin, for all his bantering and occasional moments, is clearly into Morgana. Which means straight. Which means Arthur needs to get a hold of himself, because he is not going to pine after someone as idiotic as Merlin Emerson. He’s not even someone he could introduce to his father.

“Hey.” Merlin’s voice is warm and soft against Arthur’s ear. He jumps, then jolts backwards. For a second, he’s pressed against Merlin’s body, hip to shoulder, and Merlin’s arms come up to his forearms to brace himself. Then Arthur whirls away, back against the bar, plenty of distance between them. Merlin doesn’t seem to have noticed the moment when Arthur relaxed back into him. “I was sent to make sure you hadn’t gotten eaten by a dragon.”

“A dragon?”

Merlin’s grin is quick. “Well, those weren’t exactly Morgana’s words. But I liked it better than ‘find out what my sodding brother is doing with my drink.’”

Arthur chuckles. “She does have a way with words.”

“A way, yes.” Merlin tilts his head to the side to consider, staring into the air beside Arthur’s head. “That’s one way of putting it. Without the coaxing that’s implied.”

“Morgana would rather use a sledgehammer,” Arthur agrees. That’s not to say she can’t use a knife, if she wanted. She just rarely cares for subtlety if bluntness could do the job. They’re more or less alike in that.

“No, it’s not a sledgehammer. It’s more precise than that.” Merlin’s lips press together. “It’s a…one of those tae kwon do strikes, you know, the ones that can break wood? A lot of force, but precisely applied to the right pressure point to make you break.” He turns, rests his back on the bar next to Arthur. Their arms are almost touching. “It’s an admirable skill to have.”

He is most definitely into Morgana. Okay. Arthur can deal with this. He can tamp down on the attraction, which is ridiculous anyway, because Arthur is not attracted to skinny guys with huge ears and gormless smiles who talk back to him and make him laugh and sometimes look at him like they know him down to his core. That is ridiculous.

“It is,” he agrees. “Morgana’s an admirable person.” Merlin would be good for her, he guesses. He’s actually intelligent to keep up. But there is no way Morgana will not eat him alive. Merlin is far too nice, too obliging, to stand up to her. It couldn’t work.

“Admirable, sure.” Merlin nods, slowly, then shoots Arthur a mischievous, glinting glance from beneath those lashes. “Terrifying, certainly. I am going to enjoy watching Gwaine flounder.”

“Gwaine?”

“Yeah. Their date went well, apparently.” Right. That had been yesterday. He tried not to think too hard about Morgana’s sex life, unless she needed him to step in. “Or so she said. I might know more, except somebody—” He elbows Arthur in the ribs, who winces. Damn, but those are some pointy elbows. Doesn’t he eat? “Dragged me out of the house before anyone should be awake.”

“It was noon.” Arthur accepts the drinks, hands Merlin his pint before paying the bartender. When he turns back to Merlin, he has a blissed out look and foam on his upper lip, a look that does not make Arthur think about beds and what else might make Merlin look like that. Or only a little. “Normal people are up by noon.”

“Not at university. On a Friday.” The way Merlin says it, it sounds like Friday is a god, or some sort of holy time. He probably thinks of it that way, lazy git.

“That’s still a weekday.” Isn’t this the same guy who apparently didn’t sleep for two days straight?

“Not for me, it isn’t. Friday is the start of the weekend.” Merlin takes Morgana’s drink from Arthur and starts back to the table. It isn’t particularly full, but he still manages to slosh some of his beer over the rim of the glass.

“Everyone agrees on that.” Arthur sets his drink on the table and slides into the booth next to Morgana, leaving Merlin to sit next to Leon. He’s doing everyone a favor here. Morgana might feel bad if she ate Merlin. Might.

“Okay, yeah, you pedant,” Merlin makes a face at Arthur, wrinkling his nose. “God. Haven’t you heard of not taking everything literally?”

“Haven’t you heard of making sense?” Arthur shoots back. Morgana is looking between them, and she has an ominous look on her face.

“I have a passing acquaintance with it.” Merlin grins at him, then takes another drink. Foam wells up, coats his upper lip. Arthur only sort of wants to lick it off, and if he does, he swallows it down.

“So, Merlin,” Morgana breaks in. Her eyes are narrowed at Arthur, not Merlin, in a way that makes him nervous. “How is working with my idiot brother?”

“Tolerable,” Merlin allows. “Even if he does not have a passing acquaintance with literary analysis.”

“I—” Arthur starts, but Morgan rolls over him.

“It’s problematic,” she agrees. Leon pats Arthur consolingly on the back. Coward. “He can be so thick sometimes.”

“I know.” Merlin clicks his tongue against the top of his teeth. “He told me today that he thought symbolism was bullshit.”

“It is,” Arthur mutters into his drink. Just because he’s not used to this sort of thing—because he doesn’t know the convention—they don’t have to make fun of him. He’s trying something new, isn’t that what Morgana has been nagging him to do for ages?

“Oh, absolutely,” Merlin says cheerfully, as Arthur glares, because that is not what he had said earlier. “Authors don’t actually think of all the crap. But you’ve got to pretend to get the grade.”

“You’re saying Emrys didn’t think about where he put water into the scene?” Arthur demands. This is why he likes his numbers classes, really. They have so much purpose.

Merlin’s fingers tighten on his glass. His knuckles are white even against the pallor of his skin. “I think,” he says slowly, “That Emrys didn’t always make the conscious decision to put symbols in.”

“Then what’s the point of analyzing his books?”

Merlin’s lips hint upwards in a smile that isn’t the usual blinding grin that makes Arthur’s stomach turn over. It’s the cynical alternative, the one that hints of secrets, of a darkness beneath the smiles. “Couldn’t tell you.” He gazes at the table, eyes dark and deep in the dim lighting. Then he glances up, and laughter is in his eyes again. “Anyway, Morgana, are you going on another date with Gwaine?”

It’s Leon’s turn to stiffen. Merlin’s gaze flicks quickly to him, then goes back to Morgana. There’s something almost to perceptive in that gaze, too knowing. Arthur has the conflicting urges to shield his friend from it and to want to turn it on himself, want to see what Merlin sees in him.

But Morgana simply smirks, and runs a finger through the condensation on the table. “Perhaps.”

“Then maybe I’ll be seeing you for breakfast someday soon,” Merlin goes on.

She takes a long, slow sip of her drink before replying. “Please. I never do the walk of shame.”

“Well, Gwaine has no shame, so that works out.” It startles a laugh out of Arthur and Morgana, though Leon is still tense. Merlin’s smile flashes, and the heat rushes through Arthur’s core.

*****

The page is taunting him. Merlin glares at the white pixels, but he’s losing the staring contest, and his fingers just aren’t moving. He had hoped that something had changed, something had broken with the story, but the blankness is still there. Except it’s worse now, somehow, or maybe just right now. He can’t even think. He had had it, it had been there and he hadn’t been broken except now it was gone again, leaving him blanker than before, and—

He spins his chair around so he doesn’t have to look at the screen, but his fingers just start drumming on his leg. The itch is there, the want-need-push to write, but there’s just nothing, nothing to say, nothing to say it with. He can’t sit still, he can’t write, but he needs to write. He spins around again to stare at the screen. He must have something to say, or why would he feel like this, the manic drive that always worried his mother, like nothing else matters but the words on the page but there were no words just a page.

“Need to go out tonight?” Gwaine sticks his head in the door, his hair swinging around his face. He had his smirk on, the one that spoke of mysteries unsolved, of depths beneath the pretty face. It was that smirk, Merlin thinks, that made them friends, because Merlin has always liked puzzles, wants to see the core of people, see their stories and their thoughts like ink on paper, and it’s when he can’t that he gets intrigued. It’s why he likes Arthur, and none of this is helping him write because Gwaine has a story but it’s not his to tell.

“No, I can’t, I have to—” Can’t say write, can’t say what he’s doing, because he’s not doing it. Gwaine wouldn’t care, but that doesn’t matter, have to keep the secret because it’s a secret and that’s the point of the word. “have to do something, I don’t know.”

“Then let’s go out, it’ll be something to do.” Gwaine slides into the room, sits on Merlin’s bed on top of all the shit that’s on it. That’s why they’re friends, because he does things like that and doesn’t ask, he’s just so easy to be around.

“No, no, I have to do this, I need—there’s something—”

“You need to blow off some steam,” Gwaine interjects, but it isn’t steam. It’s breath, it’s inspiration, it’s the blood in his veins. “Come on, just one drink to calm you down.”

“Get Lance.”

“Boring. And besides, you’re my favorite.” His grin is pure charm and he knows it and he uses it, and Merlin has never had any willpower and if he stays in this chair he will explode, vibrate with energy into the ether.

“Fine, let’s go.” Merlin stands but the page is still laughing at him.

“And that’s why you’re my favorite.” Gwaine pauses, then, “But mate, change first?”

Merlin looks down at himself in surprise. He’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt he might have stolen from Lance and so falls off of him like he’s wearing his father’s shirt, if his father had bothered to stick around. “Yeah, probably should,” he admits, and when Gwaine doesn’t move rolls his eyes and strips off the shirt and throws it at him.

They make it to the club in half an hour, with Merlin dressed to Gwaine’s satisfaction, which means tight enough clothes to be able to pull, which maybe is what he needs right now, with the energy thrumming through his veins and the need to get it out somehow and he has nothing to say so maybe he can push it into another man’s body, into sweat and skin and friction, into fingers through blonde hair and teeth and nails. Gwaine drags him to the bar and shoves a drink into his hands, and because he is a good friend gets him dancing before he goes and finds some girls to flirt with.

Merlin’s barely looked at the face of the man he’s dancing with, it doesn’t matter, all that matters is the press of body to body and the smell of sweat and the man’s lips nuzzling into his collarbone, and he doesn’t care that there are no names, there are no words either and what’s the difference?

And then the song is over and the man has melted away, Merlin might have sent him away, he doesn’t know, because he is still burning up and that man didn’t cut it, so he turns to go to the bar and Gwaine is there with another dark head and regal bearing that he knows, and then Morgana turns and smiles at him like ice and metal and sadness.

“Hey, Merlin. Gwaine was saying you were around here somewhere.”

“Hi,” he says, and orders another drink from the bar. His fingers trace nonsense in the condensation as he waits, letters that don’t make words. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Unpleasant surprise?” It doesn’t seem to faze her. She sips her drink like she’s the queen drinking tea.

“No, of course not.” Merlin’s not stupid enough to make an enemy of her. Not that he wants to, he likes her, for all he thinks she might be planning to take over the world, likes the way she slides through life, above it but never making the world conscious of that. “Although I have to wonder at Gwaine’s motives, now.”

“Me?” Gwaine gives his most innocent smile, which isn’t very innocent. “I never have motives.”

“Pity.”

Gwaine nearly spits out his drink. Merlin rolls his eyes, taps his foot against the ground. He’s shaking, he needs to get back out on the dance floor, needs to find something or someone to make him forget or maybe to remember, maybe he needs to unlock the part of him that knew things. Or maybe he knows things he just can’t get them out, maybe that’s what this is, too many words inside him, ricocheting around until he’ll pop like a balloon, holes sliced in his skin by the words.

“Merlin.” Merlin spins and of course he’s there, blonde hair and blue eyes, too attractive to be real, too attractive and too straight for Merlin to think about, and Merlin still just wants to push against him and mess up his hair and see if he can get that control to break, or maybe he wants to cuddle against him and tell him he can do anything he wants, or maybe he wants to do battle with lips and eyes and tongue, where mouths are for things other than words.

“Merlin,” Arthur says again. His eyebrows are raised. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. Perfect. Dandy. Exquisite.” All those words, none of them are right. He can feel them trip off his tongue and fall to the ground. “You?”

Arthur seems less than convinced by Merlin’s self-report, but he shakes his head and steps over to lean against the bar. “I’m okay.”

“Of course you are, you couldn’t be otherwise, couldn’t tell anyone you were otherwise. Shields and armor, mirrors and mirrors and no windows.” Mirrors wrapped around him, so that no one can see inside, that’s something but no it’s trite and cliché and ridiculous. And it’s making Arthur narrow his eyes at him, and why does he find words now?

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he says again. There’s concern in his voice this time, not just a sneer, and that’s the worst of him, that sometimes the armor has cracks, his shield slips, and the man shines through, bright as the sun, brilliant and kind despite himself.

“Yes.” Merlin shoves away from the bar, because he needs to move again, needs to escape the words thrown around here like missiles. “I’m going to dance.”

He twists to smile at Morgana, and then they’re on the dance floor, and she’s a good dancer, good enough to make up for his lack of coordination, and there’s no eroticism in the dance but that’s okay, it’s still movement and bodies, and then she’s plucked away because Morgana will always be plucked away until she finds it in herself to choose and sees the value of the steady and the solid that won’t hold her down, and he looks and there’s a man eying him, a strong, square face that almost reminds Merlin of Will, and eyes filled with blatant regard, so Merlin smiles an invitation because it’s almost like home, almost like his eyes are dark enough to see stars in.

And then they’re in the back, and Merlin is against the wall and drowning in his lips, in touch, and he grinds his hips against the other man’s and his fingers tangle in his hair and it’s not pretty or nice but it’s what he needs if he can’t write, and the other man’s erection is rubbing against his thigh and he’s about to murmur something about bathrooms and blow jobs when he looks up and there’s Arthur, eyes wide and shockingly blue in the flashing lights, and Merlin doesn’t care, he doesn’t, except for how he does, but so what if Arthur never wants to talk to him again he needs this needs something, so he tilts his head back and lets the other man nip at his neck and when the lights flash again Arthur is gone, and Merlin dives back into bodies and nameless sex as if that will wake the words in him again.

*****

Arthur sleeps badly that night. The image of Merlin haunts him, writhing in pleasure, his lips swollen and pupils blown wide as he looks straight at Arthur, like a dare and a wish and a promise. When he does manage to drift off, he tosses and turns, deep blue eyes flashing in and out of his dreams, a body beneath his that always changes into long, lean lines and dark hair beneath his fingers.

He wakes up surly and still tired. So he does the logical thing and calls Morgana.

“What?” she snaps into the phone. “This better be good.”

“Did you know Merlin is gay?”

“Hanging up now.”

“Morgana.”

“Yes, I knew.” Something rustles on the other side. “Him looking at my eyes instead of my tits was a pretty big hint. Hm?” A deeper voice rumbles. Great. She’s always insufferable after she pulls. “Arthur just realized Merlin is gay.” She pauses for a response, then, “Gwaine says you’re an idiot.”

“You’re with Gwaine?”

“Brilliant deduction, brother dear.” Morgana won’t thank him for interfering, Arthur knows. So he swallows his critiques and only says, “I’ll see you later?”

“Must I?”

“You got out of last week. Father will kill us both if you aren’t there.”

“Fine,” she sighs, with what most people who have not met their father might think is melodrama, then giggles and yelps, “Bye!”

Arthur nearly throws his phone across the room in horror at what might be happening across the phone lines. Then he decides he’d rather think about that than about Merlin, because he doesn’t know how to deal with that. He doesn’t know how to deal with him not being able to deal with it. Merlin is no more than an attractive man, who is occasionally funny, and who may be the first person since Morgana who can argue with him and make him more than just angry. He’s nothing special.

He just won’t get out of Arthur’s head.

So, Arthur does the sensible thing and goes to the gym. He doesn’t think about anything at all as he runs. He can’t go into a meeting with his father feeling ruffled. And by the time he walks into the restaurant and sees his father already seated at the table, he is calm. That won’t last long, but he can appreciate it while it lasts.

“Father,” he says as he sits down.

Uther Pendragon nods. “Arthur. How have you been?”

“Very good. And yourself?”

“Not bad.” Uther adjusts the position of his wine glass. “Is Morgana coming?”

“Last I heard.” And if she would just get here now, that would be great. She makes Uther…easier. He doesn’t know why she escaped all the expectations, why Uther is willing to look the other way at Morgana’s choice of partners and general life choices when he still treats Arthur’s sexuality with a cold disdain that isn’t quite support even if he didn’t disown him.

“Hopefully she’ll be here soon,” Uther says with a small smile. Then the smile disappears. “And how are your classes?”

“They’re going well.” Although Arthur doesn’t know how he’s going to handle his presentation with Merlin. But Uther doesn’t need or want to know about that. “Work is going well?”

“Indeed. Have you given a thought to after graduation?”

Arthur swallows back his first retort. “That’s months away.”

“Yes, of course. But it’s never too early. I’ve been thinking that a managerial position in corporate, or perhaps sales—”

“Father,” Arthur sighs. “I would prefer to get my first job on my own.”

“So you’ve said.” Arthur wishes the note he heard in his father’s voice was approval. He doubts it is. “But there’s no harm in me thinking ahead, is there? Or at least talking to people?”

It’s not worth arguing about. Arthur does have final say in what job he ends up taking. “Of course not.”

“Good.” This time, Uther does smile. It’s a cool smile, but one nevertheless. “I have a meeting with Olaf next week. I can drop your name then.” He pauses, then, “Olaf has a daughter your age, I believe.”

“I’ve met Vivian before.” It wasn’t a pleasant experience. Especially as he hadn’t come out at that point. “She’s—father, she’s a bit awful.”

Uther unbends enough to shrug. “Well, yes. But she’s quite pretty.”

“I wouldn’t know.” That’s all he’ll say. His father won’t dare approach it any closer.

“Of course.”

Luckily, Morgana chooses that moment to make her entrance. Her dress darts dangerously low on her chest and high on her thighs, probably mainly to make conversation. Uther just sighs. She pauses for a moment in the doorway, then slinks towards them. She couldn’t be more dramatic if she tried.

“Uther,” she says without warmth. Then, with what Arthur hopes is more warmth, “Arthur.”

“Morgana,” Arthur says.

“Morgana, dear,” Uther ups the ante.

She smiles and slides into her seat. “So, have you two gotten the awkward small talk about Arthur’s life out of the way?”

“Just about,” Arthur agrees, and Uther just motions for the waiter.

Morgana manages to amuse Uther until they get their food, but then she turns to Arthur, and she has that glint in her eye that Arthur has come to dread. She means to start trouble. “How is your presentation going?” she asks.

“A presentation?” Uther perks up. Presentations can be for important people, or train important skills.

“For his literature class,” Morgana elaborates. “On Emrys.”

“Really?” Uther’s voice is ice.

“And it’s a partner presentation. How is Merlin?”

And there it is. Right there, in Morgana’s smile which is more like Uther’s than she’d ever like to admit, is all the things he’d been ignoring all day, the heat of Merlin’s eyes and the phantom dreams of his touch. “He’s good.”

“Really? Because last night he seemed a little…manic.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Arthur manages to get out between gritted teeth. He’s not thinking about that part of it. It’s worse, in a way, to remember the way Merlin was vibrating out of his skin, how much Arthur wanted to make him sit down and get out all that energy, to find the source of his restlessness and calm him down. To drain the panic out of his eyes.

“Who is Merlin?” Uther inquires. Arthur can read his suspicions in the way he cuts his meat, in the icy glint in his eyes.

“My randomly-assigned,” he stresses, towards Morgana, “partner in the presentation. He’s also a friend of Morgana’s latest fling.” He has no compunction of throwing her to the wolves.

“Oh, me and Gwaine are done,” she dismisses with a wave of her hand. Uther looks like he swallowed a lemon. Arthur narrows his eyes at her, but she doesn’t give a hint of any emotions on the subject. “He was never going to last. He didn’t want to.”

“Clearly,” Arthur agrees, and tries not to remember Merlin’s words about hearts and homes. “Any new ideas?”

Uther clears his throat, and Arthur hides his flinch. He needs to remember where he is. “Sorry, sir,” he says, and Morgana rolls her eyes and tosses back her head but doesn’t retort.

*****

Arthur has been avoiding him.

It bothers Merlin. And it bothering Merlin bothers him, because it shouldn’t. It’s not like they spent much time together, not like they had known each other very long. And he wasn’t even fully avoiding him; they had class together and emailed their presentation progress. And it wasn’t like there was a reason for Arthur to see him, now that Gwaine and Morgana weren’t having sex any more. But—it’s clearly avoiding. It’s in how his eyes flick away from Merlin in class and his emails are strictly formal, how he doesn’t even talk to Gwen anymore, how he’s always polite to Merlin.

And it…itches. Not the writing itch, that overwhelming need, just a little annoyance beneath his skin. He doesn’t get it. It’s not like he cares, not like he even really liked Arthur. He was a prat and an ass and only occasionally a nice person. It’s probably because the only reason Merlin can come up with for the avoidance is homophobia, and as that’s one sin Merlin didn’t think to accuse Arthur of, because he’s many things but noble at the core of him.

So he finds himself waiting outside their classroom two weeks later, his foot tapping against the floor, his fingers drumming against the cover of Slip N’ Slide. He’s never actually been the first one out of the classroom before; it’s interesting to watch people walk out. Gilli charges out with his head down, not looking at anyone. Some others walk out in pairs, chatting and debating. Gwen lingers, but when Merlin jerks his chin she shrugs and keeps going, chewing on her lower lip. She hadn’t approved of the plan. But Merlin, for all he doesn’t believe in confrontation, is also reckless. And he’s still itchy, and even if he’s not entirely restless anymore, he can’t quite calm down, and this is something he can deal with.

Arthur isn’t the last one out, but he definitely delayed, probably to give Merlin time to get away. His face when he sees Merlin is priceless.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, and slides off the wall to fall into step with him.

Arthur rolls back his shoulders like he’s girding for war. “Merlin.”

“Fancy seeing you here.”

“We do have class together,” Arthur drawls. Merlin rolls his eyes.

“Yes, I noticed. I was making small talk.”

“You’re not very good at it.”

“Well, you’re not very good at avoiding me.”

“I haven’t been avoiding you.”

Merlin snorts. “Yes you have.”

“No I haven’t.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nu-huh.”

They realize simultaneously the level their argument has sunk to. Arthur glares at Merlin as if he personally blames him for it. Merlin just grins back. He might believe it more if Arthur’s lips weren’t hinting upwards, if his shoulders weren’t relaxing.

Arthur pulls open the door outside, ushers Merlin through with a hand brushing against the small of his back. His skin is warm through Merlin’s t-shirt. That’s odd; if he was homophobic Merlin would think that he would shy away from any sort of touch.

“But seriously,” Merlin says once they get outside, “You have been avoiding me.”

Arthur opens his mouth, then he closes it again. Something comes over his face like a veil is being lifted, like courage and determination are suddenly draped over him like a mantle. “I know.”

“Is it about the club?” Merlin goes on, “Because if so that is an asshole move, just because I’m gay doesn’t mean you’d catch it like some sort of cooties, I thought we went over the cooties argument already, you can’t catch them. And really, Arthur, I can’t believe you’d be so closed minded—”

“Merlin!” Arthur snaps. Merlin stops talking in surprise. Arthur still has that look on his face, the kind of look a knight might have had just before charging into battle. “It’s not that, okay? I don’t care you’re gay.”

“Then why are you avoiding me?”

“Because—” Merlin can see the war in Arthur’s face. He’s not sure which side wins when Arthur continues, “I’ve just had a lot on my plate. Why do you care, anyway? Did you miss me?”

“No,” Merlin snaps back, automatic.

“Of course not.” Arthur cuffs him on the head, Merlin flails back, and Arthur’s laugh rolls out, warm and rich and unexpected. The sunlight falls on him and paints him gold, unbelievably attractive and bright, and Merlin doesn’t even bother to pretend he doesn’t want.

*****

Ironically, the paper flows easily. He can find the words to talk about someone else’s work. Those who can’t do, critique, he guesses, and bites his lower lip as he finishes the conclusion to his Japanese Literature of the 19th Century midterm paper. He wishes he could care about it. He even finished it in time to read it over tomorrow before he turns it in. But he really can’t be bothered, he decides, and saves the document before he shuts his computer. It’s just a paper, what does it matter? Unless he needs a real job after graduation, which he can’t even think about because that way lies madness and despair. His short story is going through editing now; it should be coming out soon. Maybe that will help.

He pushes resolutely away from his desk and picks his way through his room into the living room, where Lance is lying on the couch, holding a notebook in front of his face. Merlin throws himself down on the armchair and calls a greeting to Gwen in the kitchen. She likes to come over at least once a week to make sure he and Gwaine aren’t starving to death, which they probably would without her.

“Midterms?” Merlin asks. Lance grunts in answer. “Sorry.”

“What I signed up for,” Lance shrugs, and sets his notebook down on his chest. He laces his fingers together and rests them behind his head. He really is an attractive man, Merlin thinks, more objectively attractive than Arthur, but he’s never wanted him, for all he loves him. It would be easier if he did. Impossibly unrequited love has a long tradition of sparking literature. He could write odes to Lance’s smile. To his hands. To Gwaine’s hair. Actually, that last one sounds like fun, because it is great hair and Merlin doesn’t have to be in lust with Gwaine to know it. Straight guys are attracted to Gwaine’s hair.

“Have you ever been attracted to Gwaine’s hair?” Merlin asks, to confirm.

Lance opens one eye. “What?”

“Gwaine’s hair. I’m thinking of writing an ode.”

“Oh.” Lance pauses to think, but he’s known Merlin too long to ask for the thought process that got him there. “It’s really nice hair.”

“Gwaine’s?” Gwen comes in, sits on the edge of the couch. Without looking, Lance’s arm wraps around her waist and pulls her back; she leans against his chest and covers his hand with hers. “It’s really nice hair. It’s so…swishy. And shiny.”

“And how much have you been looking at Gwaine?” Lance asks, eyebrows lowered like he’s trying to be stern. Gwen giggles and shakes her head, lips pressed together. “Oh, for that you must be punished!” He digs his fingers into her side, starts tickling her. She squeals and falls off the couch; he follows her down and continues tickling.

Merlin smiles tolerantly at their flirting. It’s ridiculous and beautiful, how they can still be so nauseating even after going out since they stepped on campus. He wonders, idly, if they’ll keep that. He hopes so, as he watches Lance’s fingers tangle in Gwen’s hair, her smile like a little girl’s, his usually calm eyes glinting with mischief. It’s like a story in itself, those expressions, a story of their future in touches and smiles and looks from across the room. Or maybe…

There’s something there. He can feel it, a new thrumming in his veins, or maybe it’s something settling—the restless vibration becoming almost a beat. Something in that, in stories in stories in stories, in a story written on their bodies. It’s not enough, not nearly enough, but…he breathes. It feels like it might be the first time in weeks he has.

*****

“So did you hear?” Arthur sits down next to Merlin without an opening line. Merlin, who is midway through hyperventilating due to their upcoming presentation, turns to stare at him. How can he be so calm? “Emrys is coming out with a new short story!”

He swallows something that might have been laughter or hysterics. This is really what he needs right now. “I heard,” he says. “It’s all over the internet.”

“Oh right, you’re one of those people who reads the internet,” Arthur shoots back.

“At least I know how to work it.” Merlin has yet to stop laughing about just how bad Arthur is with his computer. He can get Word to work, and he’s good with Excel, and he puts together a PowerPoint like no one’s business, but more than that and he flails like a drowning child.

“I can work what I need.” Arthur scowls and pulls out his computer, flipping it open to reveal their presentation. “So what do you think made Emrys come back after all these years?”

Oh, God, Merlin only has enough energy for one breakdown right now. “He probably needed the money.” He didn’t.

“No, he’s still probably making enough with sales of his other books. And this is only a short story, anyway.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about him.”

“What are you talking about, Merlin? I am the nicest person ever.”

“Yeah, you’re a regular Gandhi,” Merlin agrees, and rolls his eyes. His fingers are drumming against the table, his foot tapping on the floor. He hates public speaking with a passion only equaled by his hatred for blank pages. He doesn’t get why Arthur doesn’t just talk for the entire thing. They both know that would go better. But no, Arthur has to be all about ‘equal division of labor’ and ‘you need to learn how to talk too’. Merlin doesn’t see why.

“I agree,” Arthur responds with a smug grin. Then he lets out an irritated snort of air, reaches over, and covers Merlin’s hand with his. “Stop it,” he says, and his smile has turned warm, warm as his hand, with its callouses rough against Merlin’s skin and fingers shorter and blunter than Merlin’s, heavy with strength rather than typing dexterity. “Even an idiot like you will be fine.”

“You’re not so great at the comforting thing,” Merlin retorts, but it makes him feel better anyway.

“And you’re not so great at the gratitude thing, so let’s not go pointing fingers.” Arthur still hasn’t moved his hand.

“You’ll see why I’m not grateful when you look at the wreckage that was our presentation and wonder why you ever let me open my mouth.”

“I wonder that every day.” Arthur grins as he says it, teasing, and the heat of it rushes through Merlin right to his cock. He wants to tip back his head and bathe in it, like a sunbeams, Danae’s shower, if that wouldn’t make Arthur Zeus and Merlin the girl who got shut in a box. But he still grins back, because he can’t not—

and then the door opens and Gilli stalks in. Arthur jumps back like he’s been stung.

Hmph. Well.

Merlin draws his hand back, slower, and doesn’t let himself react. He reads into things, he knows that, sees significance in things that would only matter in books. He’s never quite figured out how to handle real life in the same way. It’s why Gwaine despairs of him on the pull.

“By the way, Gwaine has declared we need a celebration for our presentation being over,” Merlin says, off hand. Like his hand doesn’t still feel the lack of warmth where Arthur’s was, the negative space it created. “I think I managed to convince him to delay it until the weekend, but I’m not entirely sure. He might just announce it’s earlier, and I can’t really stop him when he gets like that, no one can. So, warn the troops. By which I mean Morgana and Leon.” And maybe he’s babbling. He really has issues with presentations. “And whoever else you’d want to invite, I mean, I‘ve just only seen those two—” Which is odd, really, because for all Arthur is Arthur Pendragon, king of school, he only seems to really trust, really be friends, with those two.

“I thought Morgana and Gwaine weren’t sleeping together anymore.” Arthur pitches his voice low, like he’s afraid to be overheard.

“They aren’t,” Merlin agrees. “Last I heard, at least.”

“Then why does he want her there?”

Merlin shrugs. “I think he’s gotten on the Morgana needs to figure out her shit and get together with Leon train.”

Arthur’s mouth very nearly drops open. “Why?”

“Because they’re obvious?” Merlin tries. “Because—”

“No,” Arthur cuts him off, “I know that. Obviously. I’ve been their friend for a long time. Why does Gwaine care?”

“Because he’s a good person,” Merlin snaps back. “He doesn’t stop liking someone because he’s stopped shagging them.” He turns, abruptly, and starts to go over his notes one last time.

Beside him, he can hear Arthur shuffling paper, clicking on his computer. There’s an awkward sound to it, the noise rushing to fill the sudden space between them, the barbed wire of no man’s land.

That’s actually almost good. Merlin flips a few pages, jots it down. He’ll probably find it eventually, hopefully at exactly the right moment to spark something in him. That happens, more often than not.

“Barbed wire?” Arthur asks, suddenly. Merlin jolts. When did Arthur get into his space?

“Yeah, barbed wire,” Merlin replies curtly, and shuts his notebook before Arthur can read any of the other things he’s noted, the bits and pieces that one day he might sew together into a story. He’s been collecting them for years, bits of shiny like a magpie’s nest, and if he ever wants to use them Arthur can’t see them. “It’s what I’m fantasizing wrapping you in.”

“Kinky,” Arthur says with a grin, then, “heads up.”

Professor Kilgarrah walks in and sits down without a word. Merlin swallows.

He’s read a review of his deepest thoughts. He can deal with this.

Merlin finally stops shaking five minutes after they finish their presentation. All in all, it didn’t go as badly as it could have, so Arthur’s not entirely sure why Merlin was so nervous, but then again, he’s not the one who is bad at public speaking, or whose grade in this class matters. This is in Merlin’s major, he supposes; maybe he needs to bring his GPA up.

But he’s not sure that explains why Merlin was literally vibrating, like the energy and nerves couldn’t be held in his skin. It’s most like that time at the bar, when he went more or less mad—except without the madness. Mostly. Except for that time when he had started babbling about Geoffrey’s backstory and his connection to his friend back home, but Arthur had shut him up fast enough with a pointed look and a discreet kick in the shins.

“We did well,” Arthur says at last, when Merlin shuts his notebooks and then stares at the cover, eyes wide and yet somehow clearly blind.

Merlin lets out a long, shuddering breath. “Well, it is over. There’s that.”

“Though you are lucky you had me to carry you through it,” Arthur continues, because he’s gotten to know Merlin, and sure enough it makes the corners of Merlin’s lips hint upwards. His lips still look bloodless, but at least some color is coming back to his cheeks.

“Prat,” Merlin says, with what Arthur could almost imagine is a hint of fondness, and throws his notebook into his backpack. Arthur has to look away from the mess of looseleaf and computer paper scrunched at the bottom. That means he has to look at Merlin, and he’s been trying to avoid that. He can’t get the image of Merlin at the club out of his mind, and he—he just can’t. He’s not ashamed of himself or who he is, but—Merlin is not who his father wants him to end up with, even without the male part of it. Merlin is brilliant and bright and overwhelming and not polite or restrained at all.

And now he’s looking at him with his x-ray gaze, and Arthur shifts uncomfortably and looks away, because he doesn’t want Merlin to look at him like that. Doesn’t want him to know the dreams he’s had, the moments when his will has weakened and he closes his eyes and pretends his hands on his cock are Merlin’s.

“Shut up,” he says, far too late, and shoulders his backpack before Merlin can read his mind.

“You really need a new catchphrase.”

“That’s not a catchphrase, Merlin, that’s a necessary mantra around you.”

“Hmm.” Merlin tilts his head, but doesn’t retort. Arthur raises his eyebrows as he ushers Merlin out the door of the classroom, and doesn’t let his hand linger on the small of Merlin’s back.

“Has your brain given in the ghost completely at last, Merlin?” he asks, and doesn’t think about those full, red lips, pursed together.

“Very funny. I was just thinking. Mantra. It’s a nice word. Rolls off the tongue. Mantra.” Arthur takes it back. He’ll look at Merlin’s pursed lips. He just needs to stop drawing out the word, letting his lips linger over each sound like a caress, and Arthur can almost feel those lips on his skin.

“God, you’re weird,” Arthur cuts him off so he’ll stop talking. Merlin snorts expressively.

“I’m the weird one?”

“I’m not repeating a word like a broken record.”

“I’m not repeating it, I’m savoring it.” Merlin draws out the ‘a’ in the last word.

“You are such a lit major.”

“And you have no poetry in your soul.”

“Why would I want poetry?” Arthur asks, and means it. He hates poetry with a passion. He can deal with, even enjoy, literature, but poetry…can’t they just say what they mean?

Merlin just rolls his eyes and nudges Arthur with his hip. “You are such an econ major.”

“At least I’ll be making money after graduation.”

“At least I won’t be using my father to make money,” Merlin shoots back, and he probably only means it as another throwaway retort, but it stings like it shouldn’t, and so Arthur retorts with more venom than he should,

“At least my father has a legacy to give me.”

Merlin’s face freezes; then something shifts behind his eyes. “Genetics isn’t everything,” he says, quiet but clipped, “neither is nurture. No one has to be their father. Not even you.” And where did he get that, Arthur wonders, when had he said that? Something else glints in Merlin’s face. His back straightens, and Arthur remembers for once that Merlin is taller than him. “And I never knew my father.”

“Merlin—” but he’s already walking away, backpack bouncing up and down, hair curling on the back of his neck, and Arthur’s fingers curl into fists at his side. Great.

*****

“Hi.”

Merlin looks up from his deep consideration of his beer. Arthur is standing at the table. He looks unfairly good, really, in a polo and slacks, and no guy should look that good in a polo. Not even Gwaine could look that good in a polo. Although Lance might be able to pull it off; he had the same clean-cut thing as Arthur. Arthur’s arm muscles are tensed. He’s probably still angry. He’s been avoiding Merlin for the rest of the week; he hadn’t expected him to come tonight.

“Hey.” Merlin gestures to the seat across from him with his glass. “Didn’t think you would come.”

“Morgana is a force of nature.” Arthur sits down, gingerly. He’s not drinking beer, of course; he has a tumbler of what Merlin suspects is whiskey in one hand. It should be whiskey. If Merlin were writing it, it would be whiskey. Aged whiskey, heavy with flavor and tradition. “And she wanted to see Gwen.”

Merlin nods sagely, and takes a sip, savoring the awkwardness. He won’t apologize, because he didn’t say anything wrong, really, but he won’t bring it up either, because he’s a non-confrontational coward and Arthur confuses him anyway, in the sort of way that’s really unhealthy because it makes Merlin want to dig and dig until he uncovers the heart of him, until he sees what he is made of, because he has a suspicion it is good and brave and golden. He did the same thing with Freya, all those years ago, and their friendship had survived but only just, and only because she left. He doesn’t want Arthur to leave.

“I didn’t know my mother,” Arthur says suddenly. He’s looking at Merlin, eyes like lightning sparking in the dim light. His jaw is set, clenched. “She died when I was born.”

Merlin swallows. He knows an apology when he hears one. “My dad left before I was born. My mom doesn’t like to talk about it.” He runs a finger around the rim of his glass.

“That sucks.”

“I know.” Arthur is still looking at him, peering at him like there’s something to be read on him, like the story of growing up with one parent is written on his skin in parallel with Arthur’s, or perhaps a reflection, mother to father, lonely son to lonely son.

He was never quite as lonely as he could have been, Will saw to that. He wonders how much Morgana did for Arthur.

“You really have a hard time apologizing, don’t you?” Merlin breaks the silence at last with a smile, because this is not a night for tension, and Gwen and Morgana are approaching and the last thing he needs is for Gwen to suspect she’s interrupting a moment. His friends like to meddle far too much for his good. “Does it hurt to remove the stick from your ass?”

The muscles of Arthur’s jaw loosens, his shoulders drop. The intentness of his stare lessens. “I am excellent at apologizing, I will have you know,” he retorts, and is ready to say more when Morgana interrupts.

“No you’re not,” she contradicts, draping herself on the chair next to her brother’s. With one foot, she drags a chair from the next table over close to hers. “It hurts too much.”

“I can admit when I’m wrong,” Arthur forces out, between gritted teeth.

“Not willingly. So, Merlin, what did my brother need to apologize to you for?”

“Nothing,” Merlin replies. Morgana purses her lips, but doesn’t press with a visible effort. “Well, other than being a prat, but I’ve gotten used to that.”

“Oi!” Arthur objects, but he’s smiling, the tension gone. He really was worried about it, Merlin realizes; worried someone might be angry, might be disappointed, might not approve. Worried Merlin might. Which should not be as flattering as it is.

“Okay, the party’s here,” Gwaine announces, throwing himself into the chair next to Merlin. “As in, I am.”

“You’re so modest,” Merlin drawls, and Gwaine just flashes him a grin as Lance hands Gwen her cider and Leon gives Morgana some sort of garishly green drink and sits in the chair Morgana had fetched for him. Gwaine shoves a pint at him.

“I still had some left.”

“Which clearly needs to be remedied. Chug!” Merlin stares at him. He wasn’t aware that the point of tonight was to get him smashed. “Chug!” Gwaine says again, and then it’s Leon who joins in next, then Morgana, and finally even Lance, while Gwen presses her lips together and pretends not to be amused, and so Merlin tips back his glass and chugs the remainder of his first beer.

“You’re just planning to use the drunk friend play, aren’t you?” he accused Gwaine, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

“Now Merlin, would I do that to you?” Gwaine throws an arm over Merlin’s shoulder and pulls him close so he can ruffle his hair.

“Absolutely,” Merlin retorts, and grins as he tires to yank out of Gwaine’s grip. Arthur is just looking at him, eyes wide and almost afraid.

Within a few hours, Merlin is quite conclusively drunk. He arrives at this brilliant conclusion when he tries to stand up and ends up tipping over instead. Arthur rolls his eyes, but reaches out a hand to pull him up from the floor. Morgana just laughs.

“Smooth,” Arthur drawls.

“I am the most graceful,” Merlin announces, and braces both hands on the chair so he won’t fall over again.

“Clearly,” Arthur agrees, lips twitching. “Did you have somewhere to be?”

“Yes. Home.” He needs to get edits in by Monday, he thinks, or maybe Sunday, and he should do that. Soon. Not tonight, because the drunk editing thing is so overrated, and he’s pretty sure that typing is not going to happen tonight, but he needs to work before Gwaine drags him out again tomorrow, or maybe he’ll stay in tomorrow, but he needs to get it done and editing is never like writing, it doesn’t possess him in the same way. “So I’ll just be going, now.”

He tilts his head up proudly, takes two steps away from the table, and promptly topples over. Or he would, if he there wasn’t something soft and warm under his shoulder. Or not really soft, but soft over hard, like bones and muscle are just sheathed in skin and cotton, civilization over the ferocity and drive of the savage.

“Okay, where’s Gwaine?” Arthur asks, sharply, as he braces to accommodate Merlin’s shifting weight. “Merlin is not going home alone.”

“’m right here, you don’t have to talk about me like I’m not,” Merlin objects. His voice whispers over Arthur’s cheek from where he’s propped against him.

Arthur ignores both the feel and the words.

“Over there,” Leon replies, nodding towards the bar, where Gwaine is chatting up some girl with big hair and bigger breasts.

“Not worth interrupting him,” Merlin mutters, “I’m fine, I’m telling you, I’ll get home. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure.” Arthur really hopes he sounds more sarcastic than fond, but given the way Morgana is smirking at him, and Leon is smiling, he doubts it. “Someone needs to get him back,” he tells them, and ignores Merlin’s snort.

“I nominate you,” Morgana suggests.

“Seconded.” Leon is such a traitor.

“But—Gwaine!” Arthur can’t deal with this, with Merlin soft and warm and loose against him, with his stupid eyes and cheekbones and hair and complete lack of personal space.

“Is busy,” Morgana’s smirk only grows. “You aren’t.”

“And you?”

“Don’t know where Merlin lives,” Leon suggests promptly. Arthur glares at him, but he only grins.

“Now go,” Morgana agrees, and makes a shooing motion.

Arthur doesn’t have any more excuses. He doesn’t even think he wants to make any more. He sighs, and feels Merlin move with the deflation of his shoulders.

“So are we going, or am I going to go on my own? Because I can, you know. Just because I can’t quite stand up doesn’t mean I can’t walk.”

“I think it does,” Arthur mutters. Then, louder, to Leon, “If Gwaine ever decides to care where his friend went, tell him I kidnapped him.”

“Are you going to ravish him?”

“No!” Morgana reads too many romance novels.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” And maybe Leon does too. “We’re going.” With that, he levers Merlin out of the bar, away from all the evil people he is for some reason friends with. He really needs to get new ones.

The fresh, crisp air seems to hit Merlin, because he lifts his head off of Arthur’s shoulder and takes some of his own weight once they get outside. The streetlight reflects off his eyes, makes them glint gold, and turns his face into shadows and planes. “Are you kidnapping me?”

“Yeah. Kidnapping you and hiding out in your home. It’s diabolical.” The sarcasm is more for his own sake than Merlin’s, as he doesn’t think Merlin will understand it.

Sure enough, “You’re not diabolical,” Merlin protests. He reaches out one hand, touches Arthur’s temple just to the left of his eyes. “You’re Arthur.”

His touch is feather-light, and not at all sensual, except for how it’s Merlin and so it is, with those eyes and his long-fingered hands. Arthur pulls his head away. “You’re very observant,” he drawls, and gets them moving again.

“I am,” Merlin says, and he’s serious, not snarky and jokey. “I really am except I’m not, and that’s the problem, see.”

“God, you’re weird.” His breathing is coming fast and harsh, and it’s like he’s really worried. “And you’re not observant, you idiot.” If he were, he might take the fact that Arthur is still pressed against him the wrong way. He might take the fact that Arthur can’t stop smiling at him the wrong way.

“No, I really am, but I can’t see. Or I can, but I can’t quite—it’s there but it’s not, it’s like...” Merlin reaches out a hand and grasps at air, his gaze focused on the place his hand closes on nothing, “Just out of reach, and if I could only—could only see, or hear, or whatever, and I might find it again.”

“Find what?” Arthur touches Merlin’s hip, lightly, to turn him, then doesn’t have the self-discipline to move his hand. It’s not like Merlin will remember this in the morning.

“Everything. There’s a hole in me, or nothing coming out of me, and what’s the point of me then?” His eyes are wide and his mouth slack, like a child about to cry. “What am I for if there’s nothing there?”

“To annoy me,” Arthur counters, and draws Merlin closer, like he can shield him from that wide-eyed fear with his body alone. He wants to. He wants to find out where the fear comes from, wants to make Merlin laugh at the ridiculousness of his not having a point, when he is so sure. He wishes that were more of a realization.

“You need annoying.” The fear changes, morphs into something like the x-ray focus, except unfocused. “You’re so—so taut. No, that’s not right. Constricted. No. Tight.” Merlin lets out a breath, nods. “Yeah, tight. That’s it.

“Tight?” Arthur asks, and immediately regrets it. He hates introversion, hates psychoanalysis even more. Hates it worst when it comes from Merlin, who he is terribly worried might see more than Arthur wants him to.

“Yeah, tight. Like if you let go everything might go to hell.” Merlin breaks away so he can tilt his head, like a bird posed with a particularly tough problem. “What’s so terrifying about chaos?”

“I’m neat, sue me,” Arthur counters, because that’s not so bad. He knows he’s more than a little anal. He’s accepted that. It’ll make him good at his job.

“That’s not the chaos I was talking about. It’s like—like—ah!” Merlin throws both his hands up, almost stumbles as he takes his weight off of Arthur. “I can’t—it’s there—” His hands come down, run through his hair. “You’re—I don’t know, okay? I can’t find it, it’s in me, I know it, I can still feel it, my heart beats with it, every breath is full of it, right, that’s what inspiration even means, that I breathe it in, so why can’t I find it?”

“Are we still talking about me?”

“No—yes—I don’t even know. I didn’t think so, I didn’t want it to be, but it might be and that scares you as much as it does me, because it shouldn’t be you, you’re a prat!”

“I think that was an insult.” They’ve made it to Merlin’s, even if Arthur hasn’t understood the last part of the conversation at all. He can’t tell if it’s because Merlin is drunk or because he’s talking in riddles, or both. “Keys?”

“Pocket.” Merlin grins at him, big and cheeky, and Arthur has a sudden, visceral rush of heat at the thought of just sliding his hand into the pocket of Merlin’s jeans, against his thigh, so his fingers could rub against his skin and he could see his eyes go dark and his breath hitch…

“Merlin,” Arthur grates out between gritted teeth, as he swallows down the image and the heat. Merlin is drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Even if he did, it wouldn’t mean anything, because Merlin is too friendly for his own good, and probably flirts like it doesn’t mean anything. And it shouldn’t mean anything, because Arthur just can’t.

“Fine.” Merlin digs into the pocket of his jeans and hands a key ring to Arthur. “That one.”

Arthur nods curtly, unlocks the door, and shoves Merlin in before him. He doesn’t talk to him as he pushes him up the stairs, which Merlin allows with a roll of his eyes. It’s not until Arthur has shoved open the door to his flat that Merlin speaks again. “It’s fear.”

“What?” Arthur says as he turns around from shutting the door, “Can you get yourself to bed?”

“I’m drunk, not stupid,” Merlin shoots back, but there’s no heat in it. He hasn’t turned on a light, so the only illumination is from a light down the hall and the streetlight. It makes the room seem very small; even smaller when Merlin takes a step forward. “And it’s fear.”

“What?” Arthur asks again. He shouldn’t back away, he tells himself. Why should he? So he doesn’t, even as Merlin walks toward him, almost graceful in the darkness.

“That’s what it is, I think. The tightness. Fear.” He’s close enough to touch now, in the closeness of the room. Arthur swallows, but he won’t move. He doesn’t have to.

“I’m not a coward.”

“I didn’t say you were. Just that you were afraid.” One of Merlin’s hand reaches out, cups Arthur’s face, so his fingers are warm against Arthur’s cheek. The fabric of his shirt brushes against Arthur’s; he can count the darker spots of blue in Merlin’s eyes. He tilts his head again. “What are you so afraid of?”

“Merlin…” Arthur breathes. He could kiss Merlin now, just close the distance and press their lips together. Capture Merlin’s breath, whatever the hell he had been talking about before, take the laughter and sight and fog over the eyes.

Then he smells the alcohol on Merlin’s breath, and remembers. Remembers too the unseeing weirdness the first night they went out together, how Merlin hadn’t seemed to know what was happening around him, just because of alcohol, as far as Arthur could see.

Arthur takes a step back. It’s one of the hardest two feet he’s ever crossed. “Get yourself to bed,” he says, hoarse.

Merlin’s hand stays raised for a second before it drops, holding phantom skin.

“Fear,” he repeats, and his voice seems to fill the room for all it’s a whisper. “What are you so afraid of?”

“Good night,” he repeats, and doesn’t look at Merlin again until he’s out the door.

*****

The door to Arthur’s flat is more or less as Merlin expected. Not that there’s that much opportunity for variation of doors, but there is some, and this one is heavy oak that a golden knocker in the shape of a lion—or a dragon, Merlin supposes, for the Pendragon heir—wouldn’t look out of place on.

Unfortunately, there isn’t a knocker. There is, however, a doorbell, which Merlin presses. And then presses again after a minute, when Arthur doesn’t get there right away. And again, because he’s never been good at waiting.

The door is yanked open on the fourth ring, and there is Arthur, and God the universe hates him because Arthur is literally glistening, a fine layer of sweat over his bare arms and legs, then soaking his t-shirt so it stuck to him and outlined all the intriguing muscles of his chest. “What—Merlin?”

“Hi.” Merlin raises a hand in a wave, because he apparently has never learned how to be smooth.

“What are you—I mean, come in.” Arthur steps back so Merlin can come in. He shifts his weight between his feet, then, “Why are you here?”

“You have my keys,” Merlin replied, and turned away from him to look at the living room. He didn’t want to look at an Arthur gleaming from a work out, not after he had made a fool of himself last night, babbling about fear and his own problems and then flirting, oh god. Just because he had thought there had been signs—stories, just the stories he told himself, the narrative he created, no relation to real life.

“Oh. Right,” Arthur says from behind him, “I’ll go get those.”

“Thanks. Gwaine’s shit at waking up to his phone, so I kinda need them to get back inside. Well, I could go nag Lance and Gwen, but they’re probably doing ridiculous couple things and I don’t want to bother them.”

“I could have been doing ridiculous couple things,” Arthur counters.

“Not unless you pulled after you left last night, which I really doubt because you looked pretty tired and I don’t think Morgana would have approved, and anyway, you’re not the sort of person who pulls.” Merlin runs his hand over the sleekness of the couch. Aesthetics rather than comfort, clearly, like the rest of the room—sleek and modern and fashionable and neat, as far from the overstuffed couches and comfortable squalor of his and Gwaine’s.

“Maybe I do.” Arthur speaks from behind him.

“Didn’t you hear what I said last night about fear?” Merlin remarks off-handedly, and picks up a lion figurine that’s sitting alone on the mantel. “Where’d you get this?”

“Morgana said it wasn’t a home unless I had a knick-knack. Do you want those keys?”

Merlin turns at that, still holding the lion. “Is this a home?” he asks. He shouldn’t, it’s prying and he knows it, but—he wants to know Arthur’s story. He wants to trace the tightness, find its source and unravel it.

“Yes.” He’s getting annoyed. But—

“Really?”

“It’s where I live. Let me get the keys.” Arthur spins on his heel and stalks off. Merlin runs his finger over the lion’s head one more time, then sets it down. He moves on to the DVD shelf. Action movies, obviously, no surprise there, some of the slapstick comedies every man seems to need, some classics. Bookshelf is the same thing, classics and non-fiction and text-books and a few Pulitzer prize winners. And Emrys, of course. Merlin doesn’t touch the well-known, well-worn spines. Except, maybe, he can absorb something from them, from these books that obviously touched something in others—

“Here.” Merlin spins, like he was caught red-handed, though he hadn’t even touched anything and had only snooped a little bit and he’s supposed to like Emrys, anyway. Arthur is standing in the door to the kitchen, framed by black wood threshold. The keys jingle, dangling off his finger; one eyebrow is raised.

“Thanks.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to be homeless.”

“I’m far too pretty for the streets,” Merlin agrees, and pockets his keys.

Arthur pointedly looks away, and Merlin is probably imagining the flush to his cheeks. “You’d be an awful panhandler.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m pretty good with the blarney.” Lies, lies, lies.

“You’d lose all money you got.”

“I would not!”

“You’d get distracted and wander off.”

Merlin starts to protest, but then has to concede. “Okay, yeah, probably.”

Arthur shakes his head despairingly, his lips curving into a smile. The muscles of his neck flex with the motion, distracting in their curves and the play of light and the very lickable lines of it. “You’re an idiot, aren’t you?”

“And you’re a prat,” Merlin agrees amiably. “Thanks for the keys.” He turns to go before he says something else stupid.

“Merlin.” He looks back. Arthur pauses, then visibly steels himself. Flattering, that. “I was going to get some—well, brunch at this point. Want to come?”

It’s clearly not a date. It’s two mates grabbing some food. And Merlin is hungry. “Yeah, sure.”

“I just have to—” he jerks his head towards the hall. “Shower, and—”

“I’ll amuse myself,” Merlin says, and grins just to worry him. More time to pick Arthur apart, to see the pieces that make him up.

“Don’t break anything,” is Arthur’s only warning before he disappears back into the hall.

When he comes out again, Merlin has made his way through the rest of the living room and into the kitchen, where he’s examining the mugs.

“You’re incredibly nosy, aren’t you?” Arthur asks, but he doesn’t seem mad, so Merlin answers with an easy “Yes, I really am.” He pulls out a pink ceramic mug with garish red hearts on it. “Where’d this come from?”

“Ex-girlfriend,” Arthur replies, and leans against his counter. Water drips from the ends of his hair onto his neck, draws lines Merlin just wants to follow with his tongue.

“You kept it?”

“It’s a nice mug.” Merlin raises his eyebrows. It’s on the worse side of hideous. “First love. It’s nice to remember. Even if Sophia was an evil bitch.”

“Ouch,” is Merlin’s only comment. He puts the mug back to dig more into the cupboard. He knew it was just imagination. Arthur Pendragon would obviously have to be straight.

“Oh, she was,” Arthur says in a nostalgic tone behind him. “Tried to get me to marry her, even though we were all of sixteen. I almost did, except Morgana slapped some sense into me.”

“Good for her.”

“And by slapped, I mean got me to catch her cheating on me.”

“Even better for her.”

“It was traumatizing.”

“Exactly.” Merlin pulls out another mug, this one dark, with green snakes dancing around it. It’s—rather creepy, really. “This one?”

Arthur’s eyes are steady on him as he answers. Unflinching, because Arthur is not a coward, at the heart of him, not at all, for all the fear in him. “Ex-boyfriend.”

Merlin makes a noise that more resembles a mewl than a grunt. Okay. Okay then. “Oh.” That doesn’t make him any more interested in anything than before. It doesn’t mean Merlin is any more interested in him than before. “It’s creepy.”

“So was he.” Arthur reaches across Merlin and takes the mug from him, his sleeve brushing against Merlin’s chest. “He was more a rebellion than anything else.”

“Why’d he get you a mug?” Merlin swallows.

“Because he saw the one Sophia got me,” Arthur replies. He reaches up over Merlin to put the mug back into the shelf. He’s shorter than Merlin, but he’s broader, and it still feels like being cornered, somehow, like he’s trapped or in the process of being trapped, and it still sends heat rolling over his skin and he’s not sure he likes it. “And now if I’m done being psychoanalyzed, could we get some food?”

“Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

Arthur still doesn’t move. Merlin presses back against the counter, the edge digging into his hips. He has a strong jaw, which Merlin knew already, obviously, but not this closely, so that he could trace it with his lips; his eyelashes are blonder than his hair. His chest rises and falls beneath a shirt of the rich red that he seems to favor.

“Arthur…” Merlin means for it to come out chiding, but it comes out breathless instead, a whisper on the wind, even a plea, because this—he doesn’t think this is what he wants. Except he thinks it might be exactly what he wants.

For a second, Merlin imagines Arthur’s eyes going dark, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. But then Arthur is pulling away, and he’s smiling in an almost self-deprecating way. “Come on, Merlin. I want waffles.”

“What if I don’t?” Merlin counters, but he follows Arthur out the door.

“I don’t really care what you want,” Arthur shoots back, grinning, and lets the door shut behind him.

Merlin most certainly does not read into the fact that they end up at a brunch restaurant. Or that Arthur answers smoothly, to the hostess’s question of how many, “two,” like it’s obvious they’re together. Or that most of the other tables are filled with couples, holding hands or making eyes, clearly busy with the morning after.

Nope. He reads nothing into any of that. He buries himself in his menu instead, and it’s only after he’s ordered a stack of pancakes that will hopefully be taller than him that he braves looking across the table. Arthur is pursing his lips into his orange juice (because of course he doesn’t drink coffee), looking thoughtful.

“Anti-pulp?” Merlin asks, because he can’t really think of other ways orange juice could be thought provoking. Well, he can, but those get increasingly far-fetched very quickly, and he really doesn’t think Arthur is seeing Jesus in his orange juice, or is using its reflection to spy on someone in the ceiling.

Arthur looks up, rolls his eyes. “Not particularly, no. I was just thinking.”

“And that takes a lot of work for you, I understand.”

“When one is thinking more than surface thoughts, but you wouldn’t understand.”

Merlin laughs and takes a sip of his coffee. He’s already had one cup, of course, but one can never have too much caffeine. “So, do you have a lot of work?”

Arthur shrugs. “Enough.”

“But you already have a job, right?”

Arthur winces, nearly imperceptibly. “If I want it.”

“Which means?” Merlin prompts.

There’s a pause. Then, slowly, almost against his will, Arthur says, “My dad’s always expected me to take a job at his company.”

“And you don’t want it?” For all his teasing, Merlin can tell Arthur loves what he does, what he will do. It’s a part of him, as much as blonde hair and gorgeous body.

“I do. Eventually.” Arthur leans back and folds his arm over his chest.

“But not now?”

“No,” Arthur says shortly, and drinks his orange juice.

Merlin doesn’t reply, just waits. Arthur’s shoulders are too taut, his fingers too tight around his glass, to actually want to stop talking.

Sure enough, a moment later Arthur goes on. “It’s not exactly fair, is it? That I would jump the line like that? I should have to pay my dues like everyone else.”

“Even though you’re Arthur Pendragon?”

“Especially because I’m Arthur Pendragon.” It’s a statement, and not necessarily one he likes—simply a fact, something he has accepted. He is Arthur Pendragon. That means something, and he has shouldered that responsibility. It’s almost medieval, in the nobility of it, the honor of it. Something like what Lance has, with his soul-deep commitment to always be good, but heavier, weightier. There’s something in Arthur that makes him feel responsible for the world.

It’s almost…great. And Merlin can’t quite deal with that, can’t quite deal with the lightness in his heart that causes, how much he wants to ease that weight, or help him bear it. Or maybe just to write it, to lay it out in ink on paper and see where it came from, what it might do.

So he makes a face and says, “Oh, so you admit you’re Arthur Pendragon?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, and his shoulders loosen. “Not that you what that means.”

“Nope,” Merlin agrees easily. Arthur Pendragon has never particularly interested him. Arthur, though…

“Well, Merlin Emerson, it means you are a cheeky bastard.”

Merlin mock bows. “Honored to be of service.”

“You’ve never been of service to anyone in your life,” Arthur shoots back, and it’s all so easy, again, to fall back into banter and laughter, and since when is it so simple with Arthur, so easy and simple and good?

*****

“My sources say you had brunch with a certain big-eared literature major.”

“You have sources?” Why was Arthur even surprised? Of course Morgana had sources. “And what does that matter, anyway?”

“Oh, Arthur.” Morgana sighs, long—suffering. “Brunch always matters. So? Was it good?”

Arthur shoots a glance over his shoulder, but his father had already split off from them towards his car, leaving them to walk back together. “Brunch was pretty good. I always have been fond of waffles.”

Morgana rolls her eyes. “Arthur. You’re being deliberately obtuse.”

“Oh, good. You noticed.”

“Arthur,” Morgana repeats, temper in her eyes. Arthur swallows a smile. Irritating Morgana is one of his favorite pastimes. “How was Merlin?”

“As irritating as always.” Making Arthur talk. Making Arthur want to talk. Making Arthur want, period.

“Arthur,” Morgana says a third time, between gritted teeth. Success. “Did you and Merlin hook up last night?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Morgana demands. She stops walking to glare. “Arthur, he was hanging all over you. Why the hell did you not take him up on it?”

Arthur scowls and crosses his arms over his chest. “Why does it matter? I didn’t.”

“Because you have been pining, brother dear, and it’s ridiculous.” Her lips curve, and she starts walking again. Arthur paces her, even though her stride is ridiculous even in her even-more ridiculous heels.

“I don’t pine.” And he’s not pining over Merlin. He likes Merlin, sure. He’s attracted to him. He sometimes wants to just drag him into the kitchen and feed him until all those hard angles are gentled. He wants to see the secrets behind his eyes. But he isn’t pining, or anything like that.

“Sophia?”

“We agreed never to speak of that again,” Arthur snaps back. There are things in his past he doesn’t like reliving. And not only the end of Sophia. The beginning is almost as bad. There are some things Arthur shouldn’t do, and singing is one of them. He should have known better than to trust a girl who actually liked his attempts at serenading.

“You agreed to that. I agreed to no such thing.” She sighs. “Really, Arthur, why aren’t you doing anything about it?”

He’s not sure when they agreed that he wanted to do something about it, but he doesn’t bother arguing it anymore. “There are considerations, Morgana.”

“There really aren’t. He likes you, you like him. What more is there?”

“I’ve known him a few weeks. That’s not—not enough.” Or too much, or not enough time in the way a lifetime wouldn’t be enough time. And isn’t that a terrifying thought.

Morgana snorts. “That’s what, oh, that’s right, dating is for.”

“Really?” Arthur shoots back, annoyed. What right does she have to pick at him so much? He leaves her more or less alone. “Do you get to know all your fuckbuddies on your dates?”

Her eyes kindle, but she swallows down the sharp knife of her temper. “I’m not looking to get to know anyone.”

“You don’t know what you’re looking for.”

“And you do?” This time, she doesn’t bother to hide the slash of fire. “You haven’t had a serious anyone since Val!”

“You haven’t had a serious anyone ever!”

“You’re too scared to actually go after the person you want.”

“You’re too blind to see the great guy right in front of you!” They’ve stopped to face each other down. They’re nearly of a height, with Morgana’s heels; Arthur’s not as sure as he’d like to be that he could take her in a fight.

“Maybe I don’t want him!”

“You don’t know what you want, Morgana! You can’t decide if you want father to love you or hate you, if you want to sleep your way through the school or be the scary ice queen, if you want to save the world or burn it. Make up your damn mind!”

“Make up your own.” She straightens, draws on dignity like a cloak. She’s ice, now, that frozen temper that is far more like Uther’s than Arthur’s. “Do you want Merlin, or do you want to lose him?”

“I don’t know!” Arthur spits out before he thinks. Then he hears himself. “I don’t know,” he repeats, and the temper drains out of him. He sags, moves to lean against the concrete of the nearest wall. “I really don’t know.” He wants Merlin, but Merlin is more than the body that Arthur pictures in his dreams. And he’s not sure—he doesn’t know—if he can deal with everything. With the whole of Merlin.

Morgana’s skirt rustles beside him as she comes to lean next to him. “Neither do I,” she whispers, quiet as when they had whispered secrets to each other in the dark of their backyard tent.

He knows how much that admission cost her, so he nudges her with his shoulder, lets her rest her head against his shoulder.

At last, “We should probably figure something out,” he says.

Morgana lifts her head off his shoulder. “Probably,” she agrees, and wraps her arm around his as they continue their walk.

Morgana has apparently decided that Gwen should be her new best friend, so Arthur spends most of the next month with some combination of Gwen, Lance, and Merlin as well as his Leon and Morgana. Gwen, he figures out, is both everything he would ever want in a mother, as well as probably being someone he would fall desperately in love with if she weren’t so obviously and ridiculously in love with Lance. Which brings up Oedipal things he’d rather not think about, so instead he admires her practicality, her ability to somehow keep Merlin alive and in working condition, and her good influence on Morgana in a purely platonic way. He takes longer to warm up to Lance, because he can’t quite believe that anyone is that good-hearted and honest, but after Morgana bullies Arthur into inviting him to play footie with some mates and Lance wipes the floor with everyone but Arthur, and gives Arthur a run for his money, they’re mates. Some friendships don’t have to be complicated.

And Merlin—Arthur learns Merlin. He learns about his preference for raspberry flavoring in everything, his aversion to any sort of physical activity, his inability to keep his mouth shut for love or money. He learns that Merlin needs a caretaker or else he won’t eat for days, that sometimes he disappears anyway and Arthur won’t see him for a few days, though Lance assures him Merlin doesn’t need an intervention and he isn’t dying in a hole somewhere. He learns that Merlin can break him out of an Uther-funk, or a bad grade fugue, quicker even than Morgana, and so he takes to calling him after every Saturday lunch, though he never tells Merlin why. And with every day, every joke, every bit of banter, every casual touch, Arthur feels himself fall a little more. And every time Arthur’s stomach flips, he takes a step back, and doesn’t say a word.

So the month flies by in a blur of Merlin’s grin and laughter and their ever-growing friendship, and Arthur would be amazed at how easy it all is, except for how nervous he is all the time.

“Good, you’re here,” Merlin says as he jerks open the door. He looks strung out, which never bodes well, especially after Arthur hasn’t seen him for three days. “We can go now.”

“Nice to see you too, Merlin,” Arthur replies mildly, and enters the flat. “I’m fine, thanks for asking.” He nods to Gwaine and Lance, grins at Gwen, scowls amiably at Morgana, and bumps fists with Leon.

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” Merlin rocks back and forth on his heels, his fingers tapping against his leg. His jeans are quite tight tonight. Arthur swallows. “Let’s go.”

“You’re eager,” Arthur observes as everyone else shrugs on jackets and shoes, or, in Morgana’s case, some weird cape thing.

“I can’t stay here. There’s nothing here. I need—I need to go, need to move, need to find something.” His movements are jerky, and there’s something to him Arthur’s not sure he’s seen before, like he’s uncomfortable in his own skin. “There’s nothing in me and I can’t deal with it, can’t look at it anymore, it needs out somehow, come on, come on, let’s go!” He spins on his heel, hurries everyone out the door.

Arthur brings up the rear, after failing to catch Gwen’s eye and ask what’s wrong. Because clearly something is.

“Let’s dance,” Merlin says as soon as they get to the club. He’s shouting to be heard, but there’s something high-pitched and nervous in him nevertheless. He’s already started to move, twitchy, jerky movements that shouldn’t be seductive. “Arthur?”

Arthur shakes his head. He won’t—he can’t. Not here, where the image of Merlin in a club still haunts his dreams.

Morgana rolls her eye and holds out her hand. “Come on, let’s leave the losers, Merlin.”

Merlin grins, or something that’s almost a grin, and lets her drag him into the crowd. Lance offers his arm to Gwen, who takes it with a laugh, and they too disappear. Gwaine is already gone, probably to attract more girls.

Arthur looks at Leon. “Bar?”

“Definitely.”

The fight for drinks takes them at least fifteen minutes, but eventually they can just lean against the bar and sip at bad whiskey. The music pounds into Arthur’s head, the smell of sweat and musk sinking into his cloths, and he wishes he could fool himself into believing he wasn’t watching the dancers to find Merlin.

Ten minutes later, Morgana appears out of the crowd, Merlin-less, and drags Leon in over his protests and Arthur’s laughter. She gives Arthur a pointed look as she does, which he ignores. And then it’s just him at the bar.

Merlin is still dancing. Arthur can see his dark head, taller than most, bobbing. Every once in a while he can see his face, and he isn’t laughing, isn’t smiling. His eyes are wide open, his mouth a little gapped, and Arthur clenches his fists around his tumbler to fight down the urge to close that gap with his mouth. He can’t. Merlin is too much, especially right now when Arthur wants nothing more than to tuck him into bed and make him lose the energy that’s burning him from the inside out. And Merlin…Arthur can imagine the boys he goes out with. Fully out of the closet, lit majors who can talk about books. Arthur doesn’t know what Merlin wants, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have it. Pretty sure it would only end badly.

“Princess!” Arthur doesn’t know where Gwaine got his nickname for Arthur, but he doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like the man, really, hasn’t gotten a read on him yet. He comes out with them sometimes, but usually goes on the pull; he’s rarely in his flat. “Let me get you a drink!”

“I’m good.” Arthur shows Gwaine his still half-full tumbler.

“Than you aren’t drinking enough.” Gwaine shoves back his hair and flashes a grin Arthur can only classify as rakish at the bartender, and thirty seconds later a beer is in his hand. Of course.

Gwaine takes a long drink, then, “Not a club man, are you?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Why’d you come?” Arthur doesn’t answer, but he can’t help his eyes flicking to Merlin, who’s switched partners again. Gwaine follows his gaze. “Of course.”

“What does that mean?”

Gwaine rolls his eyes. It looks a freakishly like Morgana. “It means everyone with eyes can see you two doing your weird little mating dance thing.”

“We aren’t—”

“Yeah, you really are.” Gwaine shrugs. “Personally, I don’t see the big deal, but if you guys like extended foreplay, that’s your deal.”

“It’s not foreplay,” Arthur says sternly, with his best Uther glare.

Gwaine ignores the glare. “Oh, Princess, it really is.”

“It’s—” Arthur stops, takes a breath, and continues, calmer. “I can’t tell you what Merlin thinks, but as for me, I’m not really in a position for a relationship at the moment. I didn’t mean to lead anyone on.” There. That sounds good. It sounds true.

Gwaine just chuckles. “And personally I’d say good riddance to you, if I were Merlin.” Something in Arthur’s gut clenches at the thought of Merlin saying good riddance to him. No. It’s fine. Merlin should. It’d be better all along. “But,” Gwaine continues, “he’s not. Or he won’t.”

“That’s not my fault.” It’s not defensive. It’s a statement.

Gwaine, as seems to be his habit, ignores Arthur in favor of taking a long drink. He looks out at the dancers. “Do you know what Merlin said, first time he met me?”

“Go away, you insane person?”

He raises his glass in acknowledgement of the hit, but doesn’t focus on Arthur. “After that. He asked me what I was running away from.”

“So?”

Gwaine’s lips twist into a cynical smile. “So I told him. But that’s not the point. The point is I hadn’t noticed I was running.” He takes another long sip. “That’s Merlin. He sees to the heart of things. Of people.” His face is serious, set. Arthur can see, for the first time, that maybe there is something to this man, beneath the debauchery and careless recklessness, something true and hard as steel. “Maybe you think you’re not ready or whatever the fuck sort of excuse you’ve come up with. But Merlin sees something in you, something worth waiting for. And I trust his judgment more than mine. Definitely more than yours.”

“Thanks.” Arthur says it sarcastically, and from the way Gwaine’s lips quirk upwards, trusts he hears the sincerity in it. He’s not sure what it means, but he’s sure Gwaine doesn’t show this side of himself easily.

“Of course, the hurt him and I hurt you is assumed,” Gwaine adds with a grin. Then his gaze sharpens, and something mischievous glints in his face. “Though if you wait much longer this might all be moot.”

“What?” Arthur’s head jerks up. Merlin is dancing face to face with some guy, and hands are everywhere and fuck those jeans and he’s lapping at Merlin’s neck, marking him, and that sets a fire in Arthur, everything primitive in him roaring, possessive and furious.

“He’s in a mood tonight,” Gwaine remarks idly with a shake of his head.

“Huh?” Arthur can barely hear him over the roaring in his brain.

“He gets like this sometimes. Needs to go out or else he just gets self-destructive in his room. Why do you think I drag him out so often?” Gwaine shrugs. “Now, are you going to wingman me with that blonde over there, or are am I flying solo?” He grins at the expression on Arthur’s face. “Solo it is. Good man.” He claps Arthur on the shoulder, sets down his empty glass, and sets off.

Arthur barely notices him go. All he can see is someone else with their hands on Merlin, someone else touching, claiming, and his blood is boiling with it.

Maybe Merlin is right. Maybe he is afraid. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t done anything. But Arthur Pendragon has never been a coward.

He downs his glass in one more gulp and slams it onto the table, then moves into the crowd.

*****

The music can’t quite drown out the emptiness in Merlin’s head, the echoing place where words should be and they are but not the right words, the true words, so he closes his eyes and tries to ignore it, to pretend the silence isn’t there but it always is always has been, always will be because Merlin’s empty too, so he dances and focuses on the physical, on sweat and skin against his, on wet lips on his neck and hands grabbing at his ass and if he can feel this it can fill him and pretend, the Diet Coke of meaning, a false truth for comfort.

Then, “Can I cut in?” the voice comes silky smooth over a sharpened blade, and Merlin opens his eyes and there’s Arthur, like an island in the crowd through sheer presence, and his eyes are hotter than the dance floor and furious and possessive, and why would he look at Merlin like that when he’s already run away, but then the other guy has melted away and Arthur’s hand has closed over his wrist and Merlin stares at it like he’s never seen it before. His wrist isn’t that skinny for all people like Lance and Gwaine’s teasing, but Arthur’s hand around it makes it look breakable in his grip. “Come on, Merlin,” Arthur says, stern, “We’re going.”

“But—I need—” Merlin gestures at the room with his free hand, at the chaos and fog and dampening that he needs, that will stop all the circles and thoughts and blank pages. “I can’t—”

“We’re leaving,” Arthur repeats on a growl, and Merlin can’t even think enough to fight him as he drags him outside. The cool air hits him like a hammer, the quiet even worse, and suddenly he can hear all the nothing, and Arthur nearly glows in the darkness, beautiful and sure and changing, evolving, and Merlin is nothing but eyes and a mouth that doesn’t work, so what is he anyway?

“Are you drunk?” Arthur asks, like a knife through the night, and Merlin has to laugh at that ridiculous metaphor in a world of ridiculous metaphors because that is what he’s been reduced to, clichés. Arthur’s eyes widen at the laugh. “Are you?” he demands.

“No,” Merlin replies, because he isn’t, if only he was, because sometimes drunk at least put him to sleep where he could dream in words he couldn’t quite remember in the daylight, but until then drunk just didn’t happen, just sped up the silence until it was a whirlwind and snatched up anything else in its path. “I’m fine.” Lies, lies, lies.

“You aren’t,” Arthur says, because Merlin’s always been a shit liar except for the big secret, and who would think little Merlin Emerson who trips over his words and has nothing in him could be Emrys?

“Am so,” and they’re walking, Arthur’s hand still a vise around his arm, and the stars are drowned out by the city lights. “Will and me, we used to watch the stars,” he says, apropos of nothing, and Arthur only grunts. He remembers those stars, on the late campfire nights or when Will had climbed in through his bedroom window to take advantage of Hunith’s warm home and breakfast pancakes the next morning, stars bright enough for Merlin to spin tales about them, stories of princes and magicians and knights when they were younger and then realer things as they were older, until the stories took over and then Emrys was born from them, from the stars, but he can’t see the stars here and maybe he needs to go home to see the stars.

Then they’re upstairs and it’s Arthur’s flat, modern meets ages-old, and so sleek that there’s no room to grow, does Arthur even know that he’s hemmed in? Arthur closes the door with a definitive click and he’s still holding onto Merlin but he doesn’t say anything and he needs to because it’s even quieter here and he was supposed to be drowning in noise and touch and now there’s only Arthur and the want on top of the need.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Arthur asks again, and he finally looks at Merlin, and his eyes are still fierce and lightning bright and his jaw is set in something that looks like determination and suddenly Merlin is angry, angry that he’s so beautiful, that he actually cares and yet is still so blind, that he took Merlin away from the best he can do.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Merlin shoots back, “Not going to freak out again like last time you saw me in a club? Don’t like clubs, do you, too overt for you, too bold, because you don’t do that, don’t take risks, you can’t, too afraid—”

“I’m not afraid,” Arthur hisses out. He drops Merlin’s hand, fists clench, and good, he’s mad too, this is what Merlin is good at, telling the uncomfortable truths, at least he can still do that part of Emrys. “I’m just not reckless.”

“And that’s trapped you, hasn’t it, caught in mirrors and chains of duty and responsibility, and how are you supposed to break the chains?” Chains written in expectations and love, in success and souls. And maybe Arthur is Arthur because he carries the chains lightly, and doesn’t stumble on their weight, except those places where they chafe and even then he won’t complain, so Merlin has to, has to tell him that it’s okay to feel the weight of irons.

“What is wrong with you?” Arthur spits out, and Merlin winces.

“I’m blank,” he says, because he knows his truths too. “I’m blank and I can’t—there’s nothing there, what am I then?” It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, he’s really put words to it, and it slices right through him. He reels back like it’s a physical blow. “just pretending to be a person, a balloon person and it’s all air and pretense and I’m not even a person just air pretending to be, everything else is just a fluke because there aren’t stars here, where are the stars the stars are gone and I’m gone and—”

“Merlin.”

“And I need them, need to find the words but they aren’t here because the stars aren’t here and where am I supposed to find them? I’ll explode and they’ll just find words and letters and nothing put together—”

Fingers on his chin, forcing his face up, and there’s Arthur’s face, no anger, not anymore, but there’s something terrible in it nevertheless, terrible not awful just awesome, like the steel is showing, gilt chipping off to show something even more valuable underneath.

“Merlin,” he repeats, “Shut up.”

“Can’t, can’t, if I’m quiet then there’s nothing th—” A warm hand comes up over his mouth, gagging him and Merlin stills in an instant.

“There,” Arthur smiles. It’s almost predatory. “I’m not going to pretend I understood half of what you just said because I’m pretty sure it was nonsense. But I am going to tell you two things, and you are going to believe them. Now, I’m going to move my hand, but you are not going to talk.”

Merlin makes a noise against Arthur’s hand that he must take for an assent, because he moves his hand away from Merlin’s mouth so Merlin notices Arthur’s scent from the lack of it. But his hand just moves to Merlin’s shoulder, so he’s pinning him in with his body and heat and chasing away the silence, because he leans in close so that the only thing Merlin can see, hear, is Arthur’s face, his voice. “First, you are not nothing. You are very much a something, and you are not worthless.” Merlin opens his mouth to contradict, to explain, and Arthur’s grip tightens on his shoulder. “No. No talking.” He shuts his mouth. “Secondly,” and he leans in more, his voice a whisper in Merlin’s ear, “I’m not afraid.”

Then his lips are on Merlin’s and it takes him a second to realize this could be happening but then the want and the need explode and he keens into Arthur’s mouth and presses into the kiss and there’s heat everywhere and Arthur’s mouth and his tongue flicks into Merlin’s mouth and he can feel Arthur’s erection pressing against his thigh, hard as his own. Then Arthur breaks away and Merlin makes an sound of protest that changes into approval as Arthur mouths his way down Merlin’s jaw and neck, teeth and tongue and lips, and Merlin moans and Arthur snorts with triumph, and Merlin had known he needed this, needed the pressure of flesh and skin but he hadn’t known he needed this, Arthur’s hands on him and Arthur’s skin pressed against him, pinning him in place, pinning his thoughts in place so they can’t go spiraling off and there’s not enough skin, so Merlin scrabbles at the buttons of Arthur’s shirt before giving up because that’s not the important thing so he goes for the button of Arthur’s jeans instead.

“Merlin,” Arthur moans, and yes, this is right, but then his hand is around Merlin’s wrist again and jerking it upwards. He pulls back a few inches, so Merlin actually has to look at him, his lips kiss-swollen and hair mussed by Merlin’s hands and gaze stern. “No.”

“But—”

“Not tonight,” Arthur spits, and it’s not quite anger in him but it’s just as dark, just as unyielding. “I refuse to be just a warm body that you fucked because you were in a mood.”

His hands find the waistline of Merlin’s jeans and yanks them open, more savage than passionate. He pulls at Merlin’s cock, strokes quick and strong, and Merlin shakes with it, with Arthur. He growls into Merlin’s ear, words into the haze of want-need-lust that is Merlin’s brain, “But I will be damned before I let someone else touch you.”

Merlin bucks at the words, the fierce possessiveness of them, and then Arthur’s teeth scrape at the nape of his neck and his hand gives a final pull and Merlin comes wet and messy and biting off curses.

Arthur smiles with something less than mirth at Merlin, gone boneless against the wall, despite the erection still pressing at his jeans. “Better?”

Merlin’s eyes flicker open and he takes a long breath. He’s stopped vibrating, and something about him seems more present, less in his head, than he has been all night. “Oh, God,” he says, and moves a hand off of Arthur’s chest to run it through his hair.

“Arthur, actually,” Arthur inserts, because he can’t not. “Easy mistake to make.”

Merlin’s smile flutters, but he doesn’t retort. He takes another long breath instead, relief in every pore, like a drowning man coming up for air. Then his eyes slowly sharpen, focus on Arthur. Arthur almost regrets it. He likes this view of Merlin, dazed and soft. He likes that it’s his. “You must be—” he makes a motion towards Arthur, and Arthur gathers all his self-control and pulls away.

“Not the point, I told you,” he says, and it comes out hoarse and sharp.

“Then what was?” The x-ray gaze is back, though lighter, curious.

“You.” Arthur wrenches himself away, goes to the bathroom to get a washcloth.

He pauses once he gets away, braces himself against the sink and looks into the mirror. Thinks of cabbages and his Great-aunt with the cats and the crazy fanaticism until his erection is less of an immediate problem. Only then does he allow himself to think of Merlin in the next room.

This could have been a mistake. Could have been the biggest mistake he’s ever made. There is no way his father will approve. There is no way someone’s heart won’t get broken.

Then he thinks of Merlin’s bright-eyed grin. Of his moans as Arthur sucked his own marks directly over where the other man had touched him tonight. Of the dazed, vulnerable relief after. And Arthur smiles, and runs the water over the washcloth.

When he gets back into the living room, Merlin hasn’t moved. He’s still leaning against the wall, but his head is braced in his hands now, and he’s breathing like he’s meditating.

“You okay?” Arthur asks, again. He looks better, but what does Arthur know?

“Yeah,” Merlin smiles as he accepts the washcloth Arthur offers. It’s not his usual blinding grin, but it’s something. He glances down at himself. “There is no way this is going to be comfortable.”

“I have no sympathy,” Arthur retorts, then immediately regrets it when Merlin’s smile freezes.

“Look,” he says. Then he glances at the washcloth in his hand. “Actually, give me a minute?”

Arthur nods. He doesn’t think he can just sit here and watch, twiddle his thumbs, so he goes to the kitchen. Merlin wanders in as the water boils for tea. “I put the washcloth in your laundry hamper…” he begins, tentatively. Of course he would just go through Arthur’s apartment, his room. Merlin has never had any shame about his nosiness.

“That’s fine.” Arthur pulls two mugs out of his cupboard, two tea bags. He doesn’t look behind him.

After a few seconds, Merlin speaks again. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Well, if he breaks Arthur’s heart now, at least Arthur won’t have time to fall harder.

“For not…reciprocating. It wasn’t well done of me.”

“You tried. I refused.”

“There is that,” Merlin agrees. “Why? I’ve never known a guy to refuse.”

Arthur scowls into the boiling water at the thought of other men in a position to refuse Merlin. “You weren’t in any position to give consent. I’m not going to take advantage of you.”

Merlin makes some sort of choked off, breathy noise, then chuckles. “There is no way you’re real.”

“I’d beg to differ.” He separates the water into the two mugs, then finally turns to hand one to Merlin. Merlin’s gaze flicks down to the lion-emblazoned ceramics, then to him.

“Thanks.” He takes a sip, waits as Arthur adds milk to his. “Anyway, I really am sorry. I get—well, you saw.” He waves his free hand. “And—to be blunt—the best way to deal with it—”

“Is to be fucked into a bed until you forget?”

Merlin doesn’t flinch at Arthur’s purposeful crudeness. He just levels his gaze at Arthur. “The bed isn’t necessary. Clearly.”

“Glad to be of service.” The tea is bitter, over-steeped. Of course the first thing Merlin would do is apologize and disengage. He should have known better than to expect anything else.

“Arthur…” Merlin takes a step closer, then pauses, indecisive. “You know that wasn’t what this was, right? Well, not on my side. I mean, I’d like it not to be. Unless, you know, it was for you, in which case, thanks, I think? Definitely thanks, one should always thank people for orgasms in my philosophy, but I guess I wouldn’t thank you for—”

“Merlin,” Arthur interrupts, and doesn’t bother to hide his smile, or the thing that untwisted in his gut. “Shut up.”

Merlin grins, quick and bright and mischievous. “Make me.”

Arthur laughs, sets his tea aside, and obliges.

*****

When Merlin stumbles out of his room at noon, Lance and Gwen are both perched on the couch. He immediately turns to go back in, but Gwen catches sight of him first. “So,” she says, and why does no one believe she can be evil when they can see that grin? “I hear you didn’t get back until four last night.”

Merlin blinks, because how could she know that, then sees Gwaine hovering in the door to the kitchen. “You,” he accuses, “Are a tattletale.”

“Guilty as charged,” Gwaine admits cheerfully, and lopes into the room. He hands Merlin a mug of coffee, which is clearly a bribe and just as clearly works, then swings into a chair. “So? How was the Princess?”

“Gwaine said he just dragged you out of the club!” Gwen’s eyes are bright, and she leans forward, bracing her chin on her hand.

“He did at that,” Gwaine interjects before Merlin can reply, “Full on caveman.”

“Ooh, that’s good,” Gwen agrees. Lance snorts in indignation. “Not that you’re not!” her eyes immediately widen, and she puts a hand on Lance’s knee. “I mean, like, that time before Spring Break—”

“None of us need to know of your kinky bedroom going-ons,” Merlin interrupts.

“Speak for yourself.” Gwaine’s grin flashes. “Tell us, Gwen love, what’s Lance like in bed? I bet he is kinky. You too. Are there handcuffs?”

“Gwaine…” At Lance’s warning rumble, Gwaine falls silent, though not without a wink at Gwen, who rolls her eyes.

“Anyway, Merlin.” Shit. Merlin had hoped they had forgotten. “So?”

Merlin shrugs, and retreats into his coffee. “So what?” he counters.

Gwaine snorts. “You’re not in a mood anymore, so someone got laid!” He raises his hand for a high five. When no one obliges, he slaps his own hand.

“I didn’t—”

“Are you dating now? Or, I don’t know, seeing each other? Boyfriends?”

“We haven’t—”

“Is he kinky?”

“Gwaine—”

“Shush.” Lance doesn’t have to yell for everyone to listen to him. “Let Merlin answer a question every once in a while, yeah?” He gives Gwaine and Gwen a steady look, then, when they don’t say anything, and Gwen looks vaguely abashed, turns to Merlin and waves a hand. “So.”

“We—well, there wasn’t much talking.”

“Knew it!”

“Gwaine.”

“I mean, there was, and it’s a thing, and he’s taking me to dinner tonight? Or we’re going to dinner, because why should he pay, I am not the girl in this relationship—not that it’s a relationship—or maybe it is…”

Gwen squeals into her hands. Wonderful. He gives Lance a look, but he only shrugs helplessly. He doesn’t even know what this thing is, whether it was Arthur saving him from himself or something more or even if Arthur wanted him with the same intensity because who would want him like people want Arthur?

“Stop it,” Gwen says, suddenly. “You’re doubting. Stop.”

“I—”

“She’s right, mate,” Gwaine agrees, and really, Merlin should never have let them become friends because they both bully him something awful, and if it’s usually for his own good that’s his business and nobody else’s. “Just go with it. Arthur’s crazy for you.”

“But—”

“No buts.” Gwaine rises from the chair and stretches, rolling his shoulders. “Now, I have a girl to call. Behave, children.” He leaves with a flick of his hair.

“I have to call Morgana,” Gwen agrees, with a clap of her hands. “And you should eat and shower,” she tells Merlin, “We’re going to the library later. Can you believe how much reading Kilgarrah gave us?”

Lance waits until she’s out of earshot before he gives Merlin a serious look. Merlin hates Lance’s serious looks, they always make him feel guilty. “Does Arthur know about…” he trails off, but gestures meaningfully towards the bookshelf.

Merlin shakes his head. “No.”

“He’s going to have to eventually. He should. Everyone should.”

It’s an old argument. “Not—not yet. Not now.”

Lance opens his mouth to object, but Merlin talks over him. “I—I just can’t, not when everything’s so—when I don’t even know if I’ll write anything more. When it’s all new.”

He turns away from the concern in Lance’s dark eyes, and heads towards the shower.

*****

“I can’t decide if this is sad or adorable.”

“Shut up, Morgana.” Arthur studies himself in his mirror, then starts unbuttoning his shirt. What was he thinking, going with red? Red is garish and loud, and he doesn’t want Merlin thinking he’s either of those things.

“This is the third shirt you’ve tried on.” In the mirror, he can see Morgana shift on his bed, so she’s sitting up, her long skirt tucked around her knees.

“If you don’t have anything productive to contribute,” Arthur snaps, hanging the shirt on a hanger, “You can just leave.”

Morgana laughs. “And miss all this? Never!” She slides off the bed, glides towards him. She stands next to him as they study his closet. “This one,” she says at last, decisively, and picks out a button down in a deep, rich crimson.

“But—”

“This one,” she repeats, and Arthur knows better than to argue with her when she uses that tone. He obediently buttons it, and looks at himself in the mirror. He likes it, he decides. And that is totally independent of Morgana’s opinion.

Then he glances to the side, and Morgana is pursing her lips at him. “What?” he demands.

Her toe taps against the carpet. “Not sure.”

“Be sure.”

“Arthur.” Morgana rolls her eyes. “You do know that Merlin is not going to judge you based solely on your choice of outfit, right?”

“Of course.”

“And you know Merlin is just as besotted with you as you are with him?”

“I’m not besotted.” Attracted, a little bit infatuated, intrigued, yes. But not besotted. Arthur doesn’t get besotted.

“Sure you aren’t.” Arthur turns to glare at her, arms crossed over his chest. She meets his glare for a few seconds, then reaches out to ruffle his hair. “It’s okay. It’s adorable, remember?”

“I’m not besotted,” Arthur repeats. This is an important fact. Besotted implies him following Merlin around like some sort of puppy, and that is not how he acts or feels. There’s plenty he wouldn’t do for one of Merlin’s huge, dimpling grins.

He just can’t think of anything offhand.

Which clearly means he needs to change the subject. “So how’s Leon?” A good offense is always the best defense.

Morgana stiffens, and her eyes narrow. That may have hit closer to home than he planned. “Fine,” she snaps, “You’ve seen him more recently than I have.”

“Not the point, Morgana.”

“Says the boy who has spent forty-five minutes staring at a mirror!”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Morgana clearly doesn’t have an answer for that, because she retorts, all ice and deceptive sweetness, “When are you going to tell Uther about Merlin?”

That hits deep, because Morgana always knows where to stick the knife. “When I’m ready. Certainly not before the first date.” That’s not being cowardly. There’s just not reason to make waves unnecessarily.

“We both know this isn’t a first date,” Morgana shoots back. “This is—Merlin is serious, Arthur, and you know that or you wouldn’t be obsessing so much. So why don’t you tell Uther?”

“I will. Eventually.”

“Eventually! Like you’ll eventually tell Uther you’re seriously not going straight into working for him? Like you’ll eventually tell Uther that you don’t agree with him? Like—”

“Like you’ll eventually stop rebelling and get your own life?” Arthur interrupts. “Or were you going to keep on doing everything just because father doesn’t want you to?”

Morgana’s eyes narrow into dangerous slits. “Have fun on your date,” she spits, and stalks out of the room. Arthur groans and falls backwards onto his bed.

Great. This is a great omen for tonight.

*****

Arthur only waits at the restaurant for five minutes, which is pretty good, considering Merlin’s penchant for being fifteen minutes late for life. He’s sitting at the bar and glowering alternately into his sidecar and at the bronzed backdrop of the bar and trying not to think about Morgana when he gets tapped on the shoulder and he turns, spinning on his stool.

It’s not that Merlin is wearing anything particularly different, or even looking particularly different. It’s just dark jeans that are a little less used than usual and a blue button down open at the collar. But there’s something—this is a date, and Merlin’s smile is just for him, is his, and so is the way his hair curls around his ears, and the tilt of his eyes.

“Hey,” Arthur says, sliding off his stool. He’s smiling, despite everything with Morgana. He can’t help it.

“Hey.” Merlin grins. He’s tapping his fingers against his leg. Is he nervous? Somehow, that makes Arthur feel better. He’s not nervous. Why should he be? It’s just Merlin.

There’s a beat of silence, in which Arthur maintains very fiercely that he’s not nervous and he’s not besotted either, thank you very much Morgana, even if he feels warmer just with Merlin in the room. Finally, he can’t stand the soppiness of his thoughts, so he cuts himself off with, “Want to go to our table?”

“Sure.” They stay close as they’re shown to the table, Merlin’s hand brushing so lightly it could be accidental against Arthur’s leg, Arthur’s hand an inch away from Merlin’s back as he ushers him forward.

The silence returns when they’re seated, as they both bury themselves in their menu. He broke the last one, Arthur figures with a bit of a sulk. He just can’t seem to break the stewing that Morgana put him in.

Finally, Merlin sets down his menu. “So this is a nice restaurant,” he says, formally.

“Yeah.”

“Would’ve figured you’d take me to a posh place.”

Arthur glances around. It’s not that posh—he chose it on purpose. Uther would have stepped foot in it only under the most severe duress. “Well, it’s not a pub—”

Merlin holds up his menu. “Leather-bound menus, Arthur. It’s posh.”

“That proves nothing. That proves it’s more posh than fast food.”

“Well, all I’m saying is I’m glad you’re paying.”

“Who says I’m paying?” Arthur can’t help but smile as the awkwardness melts away. This is it. This is them. This is what he fell—what he was attracted to.

Merlin widens his eyes so they’re ridiculously large. With his ears, he looks more like a baby deer than anything else. “I’m just a starving student! How would I pay for this?” Arthur opens his mouth to say—something, something about how that doesn’t matter, how that’s not true, how of course he’s going to pay for it, but then Merlin continues, eyes glinting in the candlelight. “You, on the other hand, already probably have a stock portfolio.”

“Since I was ten,” Arthur agrees, “I plan not to live in a box next year.”

“You think I can make it into a box?”

“Well, with my generous assistance.”

Merlin chuckles. “As long as I don’t have to move back home, I’m good with my box.”

“Would home be that bad?” Arthur asks, leaning forward. He’s heard Merlin talk about home, his mother with her surfeit of cats and garden, Will who Arthur’s pretty sure he’d want to kill within minutes of meeting him but he is infinitely amused by, even Gaius, who seems to be some sort of honorary uncle. Merlin talks about them affectionately, and with a hint of homesickness that makes Arthur unreasonably jealous.

“It would be…” Merlin hesitates, drums his fingers against the menu. Long fingers, Arthur notices, not for the first time, his eyes drawn there irrevocably. Those fingers on his skin—he swallows down a shiver at the memory, or the hope. “Failure,” Merlin concludes.

Arthur pulls his eyes back up to Merlin. “Failure?”

“Or admitting it. That I can’t make it in the big city and all.”

“Oh, Emrys stuff.”

Merlin’s head jerks up. “What?”

“The big city contrast that Kilgarrah was talking about a few weeks ago,” Arthur says, probably too sharply, but there’s something accusatory in Merlin’s question. “How Geoffrey wanted to find his way there instead of in a small town.”

“Oh, right. I guess that’s it.” Merlin’s lips curve into a wry smile. “Emrys would know, wouldn’t he?”

“If people knew who he was, maybe,” Arthur scowls into his water. “Who does he think he is, Shakespeare?”

“Maybe he has a good reason.” Merlin shrugs. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be bothered.”

“Or maybe it’s a publicity stunt.”

“In that he can’t have any publicity?” Merlin retorts. “That’s clever.”

“In that there’s mystery,” Arthur shoots back. Merlin’s eyebrows are raising, slowly; he must be able to tell that Arthur’s a little too edgy for their normal banter. “In that everyone is always guessing.”

“Okay.” Merlin folds his fingers over his menu and tilts his head to the side. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re in such a pissy mood before this goes any farther? I don’t want my date ruined by your prattishness.”

“I’m not—”

“May I take your order?” the waiter interrupts. Arthur glares. Merlin gives him a pointed look that seems to say ‘look at yourself’, then orders for himself in horribly butchered Italian. The waiter politely doesn’t flinch, but turns to Arthur. He orders in a much better accent.

When the waiter is gone, Merlin refolds his hands and just stares. It’s not even glaring. Arthur knows how to deal with glaring. It’s just a steady look.

Arthur knows how to deal with looks. He grew up with Morgana. Hell, he grew up with Uther.

“Morgana and I had a fight,” he says at last between gritted teeth. It sounds so juvenile when he says it like that.

Merlin blinks, once. “About?”

Arthur shrugs, because there are some things he’s not going to admit. “Stuff. I just—it’s always kind of been me and her, and so when we fight…it’s weird.”

“So are you going to apologize?”

That gets a snort. “I’m not in the wrong here.”

Merlin nods, slowly. His eyes have a hint of that far-away look he gets sometimes, like there’s someone else looking out from behind his eyes. “Is she?”

Arthur opens his mouth to retort, then stops. She’s not…exactly wrong. She’s not right either, though, and that’s the important part. “We don’t apologize,” he says instead. “That’s not how we work. I’ll buy her some shoes and it’ll be fine.”

Another nod. That look in Merlin’s eyes makes it easier and harder to talk to. Harder, because it isn’t Merlin, and there’s something a little too knowing in that gaze. Easier, because the knowing doesn’t seem judgmental, and it doesn’t seem like Merlin.

And it’s only because of that that Arthur goes on. “She always nags me about standing up to our father.” He pauses, but Merlin’s face hasn’t changed. “And I should. I guess. I told you about the job thing, right?” Merlin nods. “He still hasn’t quite accepted it. But she’s been rebelling since she was fifteen.”

“And you didn’t?”

“I never felt the need.” Arthur runs a hand through his hair, then takes a sip of water. “But that’s not the point.”

“What is?”

“That she does everything because she rebels. It’s why she’s not with Leon, because Father would approve of him. It’s ridiculous, and it’s not getting free of him really.”

“No, it isn’t,” Merlin agrees. “The question is, does she want to be?”

“Pardon?”

“Does she want to be free of him,” Merlin clarifies, and stares into the water like it’s Emrys’s lake. “She’s still his daughter. You can’t escape that, neither of you, caught in a web of blood and duty. His ink wrote the first words of your story.”

Arthur’s heart misses a beat. “You’re doing that weird thing again,” he says, once he remembers to breathe.

“Hm?

“Where you start talking like a lit major.”

It’s like a switch has been hit, and Merlin’s eyes shift back to the here and now, and his grin flashes. Arthur’s heart misses another beat, then goes back into overtime. This is really not healthy. “I am a lit major.”

“I have very graciously decided to overlook that fact.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready to overlook the fact that you’re an econ major.”

“Oh really?” Arthur grins, because he can’t help it, and Merlin grins back, and he can feel his bad mood dissolving.

*****

“There’s no one in my flat right now,” Merlin observes when they step out of the restaurant. It’s not exactly subtle, he admits, but he’s not good at subtle and Arthur’s been giving him hot, melting looks all night, so he thinks he’s excused.

“Gwaine’s out?” Arthur asks. Merlin holds up his phone, displaying Gwaine’s text declaring the flat ‘all yours for the night, and most of the morning, just use a condom!’

“He also points out there are flavored ones in his nightstand, if we want,” Merlin paraphrases the next set of messages as Arthur guffaws. “Gwaine is nothing if not a good wingman.”

Arthur laughs again, then pauses on the doorstep. The streetlight catches his hair, sets it ablaze. “He makes a good point,” he observes, something rough in his voice, “But mine is closer.”

Merlin tilts his head, pretends to consider. “So it is.”

Arthur slides forward, into Merlin, so his hands are wrapped around Merlin’s waist and his breath is hot in his ear, “Come home with me.”

It’s a moment, is the thing, and Merlin can feel it, feel the threads of the Fates twining around this instant, where he go back with Arthur and something will change, in him, in Arthur, in both of them, something will break or be reformed, or he could send Arthur away and he would go without protest and they might still be a them but not in the same way, not in the same burning, changing way that can almost make Merlin forget that he’s blank even as it makes it burn in him, how he is blank and meaningless and Arthur is not.

He looks at Arthur, at his fiery eyes and red lips and broad shoulders. He’s so sick of being blank.

“Let’s go,” he says, and follows Arthur home.

They barely make it inside the door when Arthur pins him against the wall, again, because Arthur has some sort of thing for it that Merlin has absolutely no fucking problem with, none at all, “have I mentioned how much I like your thing for shoving me against walls?” he pants into Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur murmurs his agreement into Merlin’s skin, sucking a mark into that jut of collarbone that has been teasing him all night, white against his shirt. His hands sneak under Merlin’s shirt and up, over the ribs clear under Merlin’s skin, then around to his back and down over his ass, and Merlin groans and grinds his hips into Arthur’s. “Fuck, Arthur,” he stutters, and his hands are roaming too, quick fingers clever between them, unbuttoning and tracing trails of fire across Arthur’s skin.

“Shit,” and Arthur lurches away from Merlin just long enough to yank Merlin’s shirt over his head and away because it is getting in his way, dammit, in the way of his exploration of pale skin over a hint of muscle. Merlin retorts by easing Arthur’s shirt off of his shoulders, never breaking contact with Arthur’s lips, his skin, and Arthur can feel the bulge in Merlin’s jeans pressing against his hip as he lets his lips follow where his hands were before, down Merlin’s chest with its hint of hair and muscles.

And Merlin is grinning too, bright eyes and dimples, and his fingers, quick clever fingers are drawing circles around Arthur’s nipples and he moans, can’t help it, and lets his own hands go lower until they’re working on his belt.

“Not this time,” Merlin says in something that’s almost a growl, and he pulls Arthur’s hands away and spins them in a burst of strength, so Arthur’s against the wall, dear God they haven’t even made it to the bedroom yet again.

“But—”

Merlin’s hands are replacing his own, unbuttoning Arthur’s jeans and diving in, cupping him through his underwear. Then he grins, and goes to his knees, and Arthur can only lean back against the wall and thank God for whatever he did right because Merlin’s slowly easing his jeans down, his briefs with them, so that his erection is achingly free.

“Merlin,” he manages to get out, with the tiny part of his brain that’s still working, “Do you have—we need—”

“Fuck.” Merlin sits back on his heels. “Not unless you count the ones in my place. You?”

“Bedroom.”

“Well there we go, then,” And Merlin gives Arthur’s cock one look, his tongue sneaking out to moisten his lips, and fuck this. Arthur yanks Merlin to his feet, steps out of the pants still around his ankles, and drags him towards the bedroom. “So demanding,” Merlin laughs, but Arthur just turns and captures the laughter with his mouth, in a kiss that leaves Merlin too breathless to laugh.

And Merlin’s skin is warm against his but there’s not enough of it, he can’t wait for the rest of the walk down the hall, so his hands go back to Merlin’s belt and Merlin is still mouthing kisses down his neck, so Arthur makes short work of his pants. But before he manages to get to Merlin’s boxers Merlin is grabbing his hands again. “You first,” he says, as sternly as one can while mostly naked, and this time it’s him who pulls Arthur down the hall.

“Where are—”

“Nightstand,” and Merlin pushes Arthur down onto the bed as he lunges across it, comes out with a condom that he rips open.

“Finally,” and Merlin’s voice is broken, hoarse, and he’s back on his knees in front of Arthur and rolling the condom over his cock slowly, following the motion with his tongue, and then his lips are around Arthur’s cock and his hips buck, and Merlin swirls his tongue around the slit and smiles, the little fucker, smiles as he looks up at Arthur with glassy eyes under long lashes.

He’s not going to last long, he knows that. He’s waited too long for this, and sure enough, pretty soon he’s gasping out, “Shit, Merlin, I’m—” and Merlin just keeps going, until Arthur’s hips jerk and comes hard enough to see stars.

He collapses back on the bed, and Merlin wiggles his way up Arthur to lie next to him. His lips are swollen and his hair is mussed from Arthur’s hands, and all Arthur can do is smile helplessly.

“You’re one of those people who are useless after an orgasm, aren’t you?” Merlin asks, with a grin that belies his resigned sigh, and reaches down under his underwear.

Arthur is, normally, but he can make an exception. So he rolls over, onto Merlin, and licks into his mouth as his hand replaces Merlin, long slow strokes that he liked yesterday, and it’s a little comforting that it doesn’t take long for Merlin to come on a moan of, “Arthur.”

And then Arthur can collapse, back onto the bed, and rearrange Merlin so Merlin’s head is resting on his shoulder, and just breathe in post-coital glow.

The glow lasts about a minute. Then, “Should we clean up?”

“I’m basking.”

“Well, we should clean up, if you’re going to go to sleep. Or—I mean—I can leave—”

“Merlin.” Arthur opens his eyes, glares at Merlin, who is back to chewing on his lower lip. “I will let you up long enough to go get a washcloth. And no longer.”

“Possessive, aren’t you?” Merlin teases back, but he’s smiling again, and it’s almost terrifying, how true that is.

*****

Merlin wakes with Arthur’s arm slung over his chest and most of the blankets on the other side of the bed. Of course he would be a blanket hog, Merlin thinks with what he can’t even pretend isn’t fondness. He considers fighting for the covers, but that would probably involve waking Arthur up and there’s something peaceful about him in sleep, as if all the chains have fallen away and he can relax for once. Merlin reaches out a finger to trace the lines of his mouth, the cheeks rounded with sleep. He wonders if he could read all of Arthur’s history here, in his sleeping face half mushed into a pillow.

Unfortunately, other needs are more pressing, so he eases out from under Arthur’s arm. It drops bonelessly to the bed. The instant Merlin lets go of the scrap of blanket he has left, Arthur pulls it over him. Merlin rolls his eyes, pulls on his boxers because he isn’t nearly shameless enough to wander around naked, and slips out of the room.

He only bumps into three walls on his way to the bathroom, which he counts a success as it doesn’t occur to him until he makes it there that he could have turned on a light. That done, he turns to go back to the bedroom—then pauses when he sees movement in the living room. He considers just leaving it, but he’s not really tired, never really is after good sex, so he continues down the hall.

Morgana is sitting on the couch, her legs curled beneath her as she flips through something on her iPhone. It’s the only thing that lights her, that ghostly glow not quite bringing her out of the shadows, so her pale skin only glows like she is a ghost. When Merlin walks in, she looks up.

“Merlin. I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”

“Yes you were.”

“Yes, I was,” Morgana agrees, and drops her phone into a purse. Her eyes rake over him, bare legs and chest and face, but he doesn’t flinch. There’s nothing sexual in her look, nothing even sensual. It’s all bitterness and defensiveness and lashing out to distract, so he stands his ground. He saw the rip in Arthur from their fight; of course Morgana is the same.

They stand there for a long minute, just watching each other. There’s something about the dark that makes the judgment less painful, somehow; Merlin’s always felt better in the dark. It’s easier to hide there, for the darkness to cover up what’s not in him.

Finally, Morgana rises like a queen from her throne. “Have a smoke with me.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Neither do I.” She pulls a pack out of her purse, and then moves toward the window. Merlin watches her pull it open, then throw her leg over the edge. Merlin makes an aborted movement towards her—then he notices the fire escape outside. “Arthur doesn’t like me smoking in here,” she throws over her shoulder, then disappears outside.

Merlin picks up his jeans and jacket from the floor and follows her up the ladder onto a roof. There’s nothing there, really, just a concrete roof edged with a low stone wall. Someone set a couple of beach chairs up near the edge, green plastic seats neat if faded. Morgana bypasses the chairs altogether, instead leaning against the wall. The wind catches her long, loose hairs, tangling the edges, throwing it around her until it seems to be alive.

She lights a cigarette and puts it to her mouth, takes a drag. The smoke blows out of her mouth, over the lights of the city like a cloud, a fog.

When she doesn’t talk, Merlin leans on the wall and stares out. There are hints of stars in the sky, but they’re probably just planes, the real stars blotted out by bright lights and speed. This is the city that spawned Arthur, his nobility and his chains. Then he looks over, at Morgana with her hair draped over her shoulder like her own chains. It bore her too, her sharpness and her wit and her passion, her chains she’d cast off but still held onto. Except no, that’s not right, he thinks, as she blows out another breath into the night. Her chains aren’t Arthur’s. They aren’t what’s holding her back.

“Arthur thinks your problem is you don’t know how to stop rebelling against your father,” Merlin says into the night.

“He told you about our fight?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course he did.” She sighs, takes a drag. “What else does my dear brother say?”

“He says the reason you won’t settle down is because you won’t do anything Uther would approve of.”

“Really?” Morgana raises an eyebrow, still ice pale, like a statue on this roof, another gargoyle to scare away evil spirits. “Things Uther approves of really aren’t any fun at all.” She waves her cigarette to make her point. The red tip burns in the darkness.

“That’s not it, though,” Merlin goes on before he thinks, before he can stop his mouth. Her shoulders tighten, and her pointed chin comes up in a motion uncannily like Arthur’s when he’s defensive.

“Really?”

“He thinks that your chains are like his, of duty and honor and disappointment. But that’s never what it was, with you. You were bound in different chains, chains of love and dotage.” Morgana’s staring at him now, her eyes bright with reflected light, and the muscles of her neck tighten. “You saw Arthur bound day tighter by day, and then Uther would look on you and smile. You rebelled and still Uther loved you, still Arthur loved you, though Uther looked ice at his obedient son, ten times the man you are. Or so you think.”

Merlin bites his lip but he can’t stop, can never stop this. He doesn’t like the pain in Morgana’s face, the shock and terror of it, but it’s there and now it’s out there, the truth he breathes and sees, even if he doesn’t have the words to put it on paper. “Why would he love you like that, absolutely and unconditionally? What had you done to deserve it? Why would Arthur love you? Why would Leon?” She flinches at that, though she does her best to hide it. “It’s not the hatred that’s your chains, Morgana. It’s love.” He sighs and looks out over the city and its stars, people moving through it in their infinite ways. “Arthur would give anything for that sort of love, so he doesn’t understand.”

The silence grows, holds, tight as a rubber band pulled too breaking. Then, very deliberately, Morgana rubs out her cigarette on the stone. “I think I could come to fear you very easily, Merlin Emerson,” she says slowly, all marble grace and dignity. “Or maybe just hate you.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.” He thinks of Arthur downstairs, curled into his blankets, thinks of his warm, rough hands on him, of his breath in Merlin’s ear, his lips on his, his whispered endearments.

“Why not?”

“Because if you do, Arthur will break up with me,” he says easily, surely. It’s been the two of them against the world for decades. It’s why they bleed when they’re ripped apart. “And I’d really like to continue the awesome sex.”

Morgana laughs at that, and the marble breaks, gains color and flesh again. “I’d rather not think about my brother’s sex life, thank you very much.”

“But he’s so good at it,” Merlin shoots back, and grins as the tension lifts. Morgan makes a face at him, then reaches out to hit him lightly on the arm.

They watch the sun rise together, over the edges of buildings, staining the sky pink and orange and throwing them both into light, out of the shadows. Finally, Morgana turns to Merlin, and she is a stained glass window of colors, reflecting without letting anything through. “You understand,” she says, and it’s not a question.

“What?” Merlin yelps, shock breaking the languid calm that had settled over him, that good sex or good writing always brought to him.

“Self-esteem issues. Chains of love, or whatever you said. Why I can’t make a move on Leon.” She scowls at that, at that admission, but she says it simply and surely. Merlin’s not sure he’s ever admired her more than that, when she sees the writing and reads it without flinching. “You get that.”

Merlin never could lie. He can only hide. “You’re not the only one who pretty sure they’re not worth anything.” His fingers drum against the stone, trace the cracks. Almost like writing, except not at all. Like him. Like the words on the tip of his tongue. He can see into Morgana, can see the truths—but there’s nothing to put down. Nothing in him.

“Hm.” Morgana purses her lips. “I think we should bake pancakes.”

“What?”

“Pancakes. We can wake Arthur up with pancakes.”

“And terrify him with our sudden friendship?”

Morgana spins, throws an arm over Merlin’s shoulder and draws him downstairs. “I like the way you think, Emerson.”

*****

Arthur’s dreams are filled with Merlin. Merlin wrapped around him, Merlin’s eyes and hands and dimples and ears. So when he blinks awake and the only evidence that Merlin was ever there is an indent in the pillow, it hits him like a punch in the gut. Merlin wouldn’t have—it wouldn’t make any sense for him to leave. Not after Arthur had asked him to stay. Even if he wanted to, which Arthur didn’t think—he hadn’t seemed—they have to see each other in class, if not socially. It would only make things even more awkward if he left.

But the mere fact that he might have, that he could have just left—that he didn’t want anything to do with Arthur—in the second before he’s fully awake, something breaks in him, something cracks in half.

Then his mind catches up, and he hears the noises outside his room, and that something is mended, almost. He makes the conscious decision not to think about whatever that moment was, rolls out of bed. After pulling on sweatpants, he opens the door, and follows the sounds of laughter down the hall.

What greets him is possibly the most terrifying thing he could imagine, unless his father was there too. Merlin is sitting at the counter, eating from a stack of pancakes to which Morgana is adding.

“What—” he starts, but then Morgana catches sight of him. She smiles—well, it’s a smirk, but Arthur knows that smirk, it’s the let’s stop bothering fighting smirk, and so it’s a smile.

“Oh look who’s awake, Merlin,” she says on a coo.

“He probably smelled food,” Merlin adds, and spins to look at him. He’s just wearing his jeans, and Arthur spends a minute to rake his eyes over the bare chest, the bruises on his neck and jaw from Arthur’s teeth.

“Oh, stop undressing him with your eyes and eat some pancakes,” Morgana breaks in just as Arthur was considering doing some more literal undressing.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He does, nevertheless, pull out a plate for pancakes.

“I stopped by earlier to see if you were up—” to apologize, she doesn’t say and doesn’t need to “—and Merlin was up, so we talked, and then he confessed that he couldn’t cook to save his life, so I decided to save you an awkward breakfast-after by making pancakes.”

“She does make good pancakes,” Merlin adds around a mouthful of them. Morgana smiles and pats him on the arm.

“She’s had enough practice with morning-afters,” Arthur mutters.

“Love you too, brother dear.” Morgana ruffles his hair. “Now I’ll get out of your way so you can have all that hot morning sex Merlin was telling me about.”

“Merlin!”

“I didn’t say much!”

Morgana cackles as she sweeps out of the room. Arthur takes a philosophical bite of his pancakes. Morgana might be a disaster at most kitchen things, but she makes a mean breakfast.

“So…” Merlin is eying him again from over the counter. He’s chewing on his lower lip in a way that makes Arthur want to replace his teeth with Arthur’s own, and his hair is falling into his eyes.

“So what?”

“So your sister has some pretty good ideas.”

“No.” Arthur holds up a hand. “I don’t care what she told you about me, it’s not true and I don’t want it. Not the cutesy mug or the matching t-shirts or the trip to Paris or—”

“I was talking about morning sex, actually,” Merlin interrupts, matter of fact except for the blush that stains his cheeks.

“Oh.” Arthur takes a bite of his pancakes, chews, swallows. “Yeah, that one is a good idea.”

*****

Arthur looks up from his Econ problems set when Gwen storms into Merlin’s living room. She walks right past him without even a nod, and curls up on the couch next to Merlin, who automatically sets aside his book and wraps an arm around her, immediate and natural. She makes a sound that isn’t a sob and isn’t a squeak, and buries her head into Merlin’s shoulder.

“Lance?” Merlin asks. Arthur feels like he should berate Merlin on Morgana’s behalf about assuming if a girl is sad it’s automatically about a boy, but then Gwen nods into Merlin’s shirt, and he remembers never to second guess Merlin about these sorts of things.

“He’s figured out what he’s doing next year,” she says, quiet. “Peace Corps.”

“Oh, he’ll—” Merlin cuts Arthur off with a shake of his head.

“Its only a year, right?” Merlin says instead. “You guys can do that. And there’s phone sex and skype sex and I guess you could even send letters if you wanted to, but letter sex wouldn’t really be very satisfying.”

Gwen snorts. Arthur can only smile at the babbling, as Merlin’s hand runs up and down Gwen’s arm.

“He’s leaving in June.” Her voice barely quavers, for all she’s curled against Merlin like a cat. “Three months. That’s all we have. He couldn’t have left later?”

“You always knew he had to go,” Merlin says, soft but sure. “Just like you have to stay. I mean, you could go with him, but—”

“But I wouldn’t be happy,” Gwen agrees. “I know. It’s just—hard.”

“Since when is life easy?” Merlin replies. Arthur can’t quite read the expression on his face something between sorrow and anger and bitterness and pain. Maybe he can’t understand it. He knows everything has come easy for him, that he only has rich boy problems. He can’t quite understand the small village that Merlin came from: the hometown connection, the struggle upwards.

But he wishes he could read Merlin’s face. He doesn’t like not knowing what goes on in Merlin, for all it’s the secrets behind Merlin’s eyes that draw him in. He wants to drive that look from Merlin’s face forever, wants to make everything easy.

But he doesn’t have a place here, between the two friends, so he sits quietly and stares at the numbers in his notebook as Merlin goes back to his book and Gwen snuggles gently with him. Half an hour later, he hears soft footsteps, then feels an arm drape over his back. Merlin leans into his side, his shoulders light against Arthur’s shoulder.

“Hey.” Arthur looks up at Merlin. He’s chewing on his lower lip. “She okay?”

“She will be.” Merlin shrugs. “She knew Lance when she got into it. He was always going to do something like this.”

“Are you okay?” Arthur asks, peering at Merlin’s face. He looks a bit too sad to just be for Gwen. “You—”

“He’s one of my best friends. I’ll miss him.” His fingers drum against Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur reaches up, covers Merlin’s hand with his. Merlin’s hand stills, but he doesn’t twitch away, which Arthur counts as a win. It’s odd—he wouldn’t have thought Merlin would be the one who was iffy with touching.

“Okay.” Arthur pauses, but it looks like there’s more on Merlin’s face. “Are you angry?”

Merlin looks honestly shocked. “At who? I mean, the universe, maybe, because I’ve lived with or near Lance for four years and it sucks that I’ll be out of contact with him and it sucks that Gwen’s sad, but I’ve yelled at the universe a lot, and—”

“At Lance.” Arthur only realizes he meant to say it after it came out of his mouth, but it’s true.

“Lance? Why would I be mad at him?”

“Because he’s leaving!” Arthur lets go of Merlin’s hand and stands. Then he realizes that looks confrontational, and leans back against the table. Merlin’s still closing off, his arms moving to fold against his chest. “He’s just leaving Gwen, leaving what they have.”

“That’s the man she fell in love with,” Merlin counters.

“If he loved her, he wouldn’t leave.”

“He loves her, but he has to leave.” Merlin pauses, tilts his head. “And what’s it to you?”

“I like them,” Arthur shoots back. “And he shouldn’t just be thinking about himself.”

“Arthur, he’s joining the Peace Corps.”

“He should be thinking about Gwen! About the people who love him.”

For once, it’s not anger in Merlin’s eyes. It’s just—lack of comprehension. “Who left you? Your mother?”

“What? No!” Arthur straightens, because that’s a sore point and he knows it. “She died, she didn’t leave!”

“I know. Do you?”

“Yes!” Arthur takes a deep breath, shakes his head. Anger won’t help. Anger at nothing at all—because he’s not angry at Merlin, nor at Lance, really—will help even less. “Yes. I just—I think that people should stick by those they love.”

“Even when it’s against everything they are? Even when they couldn’t stay and be happy?”

“If they can’t stay and be happy, then what the hell are they doing there?” Arthur spits, then turns and throws himself onto the couch, closes his eyes. It doesn’t even make sense that he’s so angry. His mother died. It’s not like she left. His mother died and his father—broke, according to everyone who knew him. Arthur has one picture of his mother, one that escaped the purge Uther did of his home, the purge that didn’t work, because Uther still remembers, in everything he does. It’s so painfully clear. That’s why love scares him so much. It’s the only thing that can break you so completely, and he doesn’t want Gwen broken.

There’s a creak of Merlin’s weight settling onto the couch. Slowly, tentatively, Merlin’s hand settles on his knee. “Sorry,” Merlin says, “I didn’t mean—well, I did mean, because I mean what I said, but I didn’t know it was such a sore spot, it’s stupid the argue about it, it’s not either of us.”

Arthur opens his eyes. Merlin’s eyebrows have drawn together as he peers at Arthur, not with his x-ray vision but with something softer, more personal. “It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s not nothing, not if it made you go all supernova, and—right.” Merlin bites his lips, swallows. “Not talking about it. New subject. I would say something about sports but I don’t have any teams. Weather? It’s rainy, big surprise. I wish it would stop raining. Or, you know, it’s not even the raining, it’s the clouds. I just want to see some stars, is that too much to ask?”

“I’ll be sure to put in a complaint,” Arthur drawls, but he’s smiling, he can’t help it, and Merlin is grinning back.

“Prat.”

“Idiot.”

Merlin just wrinkles his nose and moves to the other end of the couch, snatching up his book on the way. He settles into the corner of the couch, his book resting against his thighs. Arthur has a sudden, desperate urge to pull him back, pull him into Arthur and just hold him there. To not let him go.

Instead, he gets up, goes back to his homework. Takes a conscious step away from Merlin, from that overwhelming, possessive urge. Takes a conscious step away from the knowledge that he’s not sure he could forgive Merlin for leaving.

*****

Morgana is late to lunch again. Arthur wishes he could be surprised. But instead, he just sips his water and pretends it’s more interesting than his father.

“So,” Uther says, and he’s not looking away. Arthur can feel the steel of his gaze burning into him. “It’s nearly the end of term.”

“Graduation isn’t for months yet,” Arthur counters. It isn’t. He has months left before he has to make any decisions. Before he has to figure out what to do with Merlin, and the fact that they’re leaving.

“It comes faster than you think,” his father points out. He hesitates, and Arthur almost flinches preemptively, because he knows what comes after that intake of breath. “The position at Pendragon Inc is still waiting for you, you know that.”

“Yes, father.”

“It’ll be good experience for you.”

“Yes, father.” He hates himself, just a bit, for saying it. But there’s no point making more trouble now. He has months to deal with it.

“It’s unnecessary for you to go looking elsewhere, really,” Uther adds, and Arthur has to comment at that.

“I think it’s be valuable to gain insight into how other companies are run,” he observes, and watches Uther nod slowly.

“I suppose.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “I could talk to Bayard. Maybe Caerleon, though he’s not much of a player.”

“I could find a job on my own.” Uther waves the comment away, still thinking of names. Arthur sighs. He made a point, of a sort, he guesses, and butters a slice of bread. He just wants this to be over. To be over so he can go back to Merlin and let Merlin convince him that he is doing the right thing looking for his own jobs, doing it his own way. Letting himself forget that he still hasn’t told his father about the offers pending in his inbox.

“Uther, Arthur,” Morgana appears next to the table in a swirl of emerald scarves. Arthur hopes there is actual fabric underneath that, but he guesses there must be if she got into the restaurant.

“Morgana.” Uther smiles, eyes crinkling at the sides, and Arthur swallows his eye roll. He just nods to her, instead, and waits for her to sit and make polite conversation with their father.

It’s only after they order that she turns to him and there’s a threatening glint to her smile. “And how’s Merlin?” she asks, and Arthur kicks her under the table. She doesn’t react.

“Merlin? Wasn’t he your partner on that project?” Uther asks, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes. He’s—” and Arthur almost says it, almost says boyfriend, but he sees Uther’s eyebrows rise and Morgana’s lips pout and he can hear the disappointment coming. And Merlin has never pressured him into admitting anything, into coming out to anyone or meeting his father or anything. And maybe he is a coward. So he finishes, lamely, “become a good friend.”

Morgana’s eyes spell a long, impassioned rant later, but he just glares back. She brought it up. She backed him into the fucking corner and he isn’t ready yet.

“I see,” Uther says, ignoring his children’s byplay. “And how are your classes, Morgana?”

He let it go. Arthur breathes out, and stares into his water, and doesn’t think about how Merlin will look at him when he tells him what happened—not disappointed, not judging, just…knowing.

*****

“Is Arthur mad at me?” Lance leans towards Merlin as they wait for their drinks, trying not to look like he’s looking back at the table where the rest are waiting and failing utterly, because if there’s one thing Lance is bad, at other than not being perfect, it’s lying.

Merlin follows his gaze with what is probably just as little subtlety, but he doesn’t care, because he’s allowed to look at Arthur whenever he wants. “Don’t think so? I mean, why would he be? You didn’t, I dunno, tackle him on the footie field or something?”

“No, but he’s been glaring at me for the past week.”

“Maybe you—oh, it’s the Peace Corps thing.”

“Peace Corps? Does he not approve of it or something?”

“No, he just has a thing about people leaving. He’s on Gwen’s side.”

Lance blinks, slow. “Gwen’s happy for me.”

“Arthur doesn’t need her approval to defend her.” Merlin smiles, soft, because it’s such a wonderfully Arthur characteristic. It’s also one that Lance can sympathize with. “Like, say, someone who defends a friend against hate crimes when it was just me mouthing off?”

Lance has the grace to blush, though it barely shows on his skin. “I apologized.”

“And so will Arthur. Well, no, he won’t, but you get where he’s coming from, and I tried to convince him but he’s being ridiculous and stubborn.” Merlin shrugs, glances over his shoulder to see where the bartender has gone. Disappeared, apparently. Not gay, then; one of the good things about Lance was he always got good service from women and gay men. “I think he has abandonment issues. And trust issues, but who doesn’t have those? Oh, shut up.” Lance is giving him his patented I’m-worried-about-your-choices look, which is much more admirable when it’s, say, being pointed at Gwaine because he’s drinking too much instead of answering calls from home than when it’s about Merlin not telling Arthur about Emrys. “I’ll tell him. Sometime. Soon.”

“When?”

“Soon, okay?” Merlin sighs, turns around so he doesn’t have to look at Arthur when they talk. His fingers drum against the wood, quick fast rhythm, duh-duh-duh duh-duh-duh, “I just—he doesn’t really agree—if I’m there’s nothing there then why should I say anything?”

Lance’s hand settles onto Merlin’s shoulder, a heavy, anchoring weight, and what will Merlin do without him next year without him to know and steady to accept and honor? “You still wrote the books.”

“And what does that mean when Arthur doesn’t agree with anything in them? He, and his father which means even more, doesn’t approve because he’s a stupid prat and an elitist, stuck-up asshole and then he’ll hate me.”

“He won’t hate you.”

“But he might. He could. It’s a possibility.”

“He won’t hate you,” Lance says again, faithful and loyal to the last, because he doesn’t understand what it’s like not to understand, not to have anything, not to be able to forgive because why should he when he isn’t blank when he knows what he’s for? “But the longer you wait—”

“The harder it’ll be, I know, I know. And there’s a new story coming out next week and that’ll just make everything more difficult.” Merlin rubs his temples.

Lance’s hand moves down to pat his back a few times. “It’ll all be okay,” he says. And the wonderful thing about Lance is that he believes it.

Arthur watches the tension in Merlin’s back, the way Lance leans over to comfort him. “Do you think there’s something wrong with Merlin?” he asks.

Across the table, Leon shrugs. “You’d know more than me.”

Arthur scowls. “Fine. What do you think is wrong with Merlin?”

“You’d know more than me.” Arthur glares. Leon’s face is completely solemn, but he always did have the best poker face.

After another minute of glaring, though, Leon broke. “You could ask him.”

“Shouldn’t he tell me?”

“Would you tell him?”

That, Arthur has to concede, is a valid point. So he tries another tack. “He told Lance.”

“He’s known Lance for years.” Leon has an irritating habit of being the voice of reason.

“But I’m his boyfriend. I should know. I…care about him.”

Leon nods, slowly, and considers the table. “I think that makes it harder, sometimes. To tell you.”

“And how would you know,” Arthur shoots back. Merlin is his boyfriend, he should know things like that. And it’s ridiculous.

Leon raises an eyebrow. Right. He’s been dealing with this for years. This uncertainty and being locked outside. Not that Arthur is locked outside—he’s happy with Merlin, and Merlin does tell him things, sometimes too much. Which is the problem. This one thing niggles at Arthur, the thing Merlin isn’t telling him. He should tell Arthur. After all, Arthur lo—does he? How should he know? How does anyone know?

“Why Morgana?” Leon simply stares, for a long moment. They’ve never really talked about this—well, they never really talk about anything, because they’re men. But especially not about this. It’s simply been a given for as long as Arthur can remember that Leon is in love with his sister.

“Because it is,” he says at last. “because I love her.”

“But she’s a bitch,” Arthur can’t help but point out. He loves her too. But.

“She is,” Leon agrees.

“She’ll hurt you.”

“Probably.” He sighs. “I don’t have any illusions about her, Arthur. That’s why I love her.”

Arthur doesn’t usually consider Leon as a body, but there’s something handsome about him in that moment, something transcendent in his calm eyes and level face. Arthur can’t quite—he’s not sure he knows how to love like that, without illusions, without qualms. He’s a coward and he knows it, but this—that jump—he’s seen what it did to his father. He’s seen Leon suffer for it. He doesn’t—he can’t do it without thinking. Can’t let himself.

“How did you know it was her, though,” he asks, and looks past Leon to Merlin, who has moved on to laughing at something Lance said. His hair curls at the base of his neck, his shoulders are loose. He looks happy, careless. Arthur just…wants. “How’d you decide it was love?”

Again, Leon shrugs. “I didn’t decide. It just was.” He follows Arthur’s gaze, but he doesn’t say anything. Luckily, as Merlin and Lance are coming back to join them, four drinks held between them.

Merlin hands Arthur his pint, then slides into the seat beside him. “Gwaine’s on his way,” he reports, “he’s late and no, Arthur, I don’t know why, you should never ask that of Gwaine on the phone because he’ll tell you the whole story and one, you should never just hear Gwaine tell a story, the actions are the best part of it, and two, it takes forever and then he never gets here.”

“And three, sometimes you don’t want to see him after hearing the story,” Arthur adds.

“And three, sometimes you don’t want to see him after hearing the story,” Merlin parrots back obediently. “And four,” he adds, with a grin, “sometimes you just want to go where he is.”

“I’m not sure I ever want to be where Gwaine is.”

“What about—oh, right, you weren’t there for the Apple incident.”

“Or that time with the cows,” Lance adds in.

“That club—”

“Oh, the one with—”

“And then he—”

“Care to share with the class?” Arthur interrupts. He doesn’t like to remember that Merlin existed before him. It’s possessive and dark and he doesn’t much like it in himself, but it’s there.

“Too long a story,” Merlin waves a hand dismissively. “And we swore ourselves to secrecy.”

“Gwen can’t ever know,” Lance admits sheepishly. Leon snorts. Arthur is, unwillingly, intrigued.

“You’ll tell me later?” he asks Merlin.

Merlin pulls an offended face. “I keep my oaths!”

“Always?” Arthur asks, leaning in, his hand brushing down Merlin’s side and over his thigh.

Dimples appear in Merlin’s cheeks. “I might be able to be convinced.”

“Are you two being nauseating again?” Gwaine drops into the free seat with an insouciant chuckle. “I knew I stayed away for a reason.”

Merlin pulls away from Arthur and flips off Gwaine. “We are not nauseating.”

“Beg to differ. Right, lads?”

“You are,” Leon agrees. Traitor.

“Sorry,” Lance gives an apologetic shrug.

“Screw you all,” Merlin shoots back, and scoots away from Arthur. It hurts, that he does that. That he always does that.

“Anyway, I was late because—”

“Oh, so he tells us anyway,” Leon inserts.

“You really can’t escape it,” Lance agrees resignedly.

Gwaine ignores them both. “Because a certain someone who most certainly is nauseating decided to use all the computer paper printing out his essay, and so I couldn’t get my shit printed out and handed in on time.”

“Oh, right, how’d that go for you?” Arthur asks.

“It’s my printer,” Merlin shoots at Gwaine. “And fine. You?”

Arthur shrugs. “Not as good as it could have been. I took it to the writing tutor and she said my argument was too ranty.”

“Ranty?” Leon asks. “Her words?”

“Her words. I just pointed out that Emrys’s argument is idiotic and ridiculous and totally not based in reality. I mean, what sort of utopia does he think we live in?”

“Direct quote?”

“Not exactly.” But more or less, Arthur can admit. Maybe the writing tutor has a point.

“You’re totally misreading him.” Arthur almost instinctively looks at Merlin, with whom the one he’s used to arguing about this—but it’s Lance instead, a Lance leaning forward with unwonted intensity. “He’s not about a utopia. He’s just about looking for the best in people. For believing in the best.”

“To a stupid extent, yeah.”

“Or a noble one!” Lance retorts, “He’s—”

“Lance.”

“But, Merlin—”

“Lance,” Merlin says again. His face is tight, but he stares into Lance’s impassioned gaze firmly. “Not now okay? Please? Let’s just go to the movie.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” Merlin breaks the eye contact, turns to the others. “Can we go now?”

Arthur can’t read Merlin’s face. He hates it when that’s true. Is this about Emrys? He knows Merlin sometimes gets up in arms about him, and clearly so does Lance—but that’s anger, not this…exhaustion, maybe? Pain? It looks…it looks almost like his father does at the end of a long, bad day at work.

“Of course we can!” Gwaine leaps to his feet, nearly knocks over the chair, and breaking the silence that came with Merlin’s plea. “We need to get popcorn. One cannot go to an action movie without too much popcorn. Think we can do a large each? I think we can. Except for Lance.” He pokes at Lance, who bats at his hand. “He’s probably on a diet.”

“I am not on a diet, Gwaine, I simply eat healthily,” Lance replies on a sigh, but he gets to his feet as well. “And it’s clearly Merlin who needs feeding.”

“That’s Gwen talking,” Merlin objects, with a smile instead of the exhaustion, and follows his friends out the door, bickering.

Arthur hangs back. Leon, when he sees that, does too. He grunts his question.

“What was that?” Arthur responds.

“Something you aren’t supposed to know about.”

Arthur runs a hand through his hair, looks at Merlin’s retreating back, the slope of his shoulders, the way his muscles play under his skin, the way he already knows that skin so well, but somehow everything underneath it is still a mystery. He can respect some mystery. He doesn’t want to be one of those couples that know every tiny detail about the other’s day. But…how can he dive in when he doesn’t know how deep the water is?

*****

Merlin’s fingers are literally on the keyboard. This is honestly ridiculous, just too much, it is literally on the tip of his tongue, the tip of his fingers, just…not quite there, and he would laugh if he wasn’t so disgusted. He can do this. He knows he can. All the reviews for the latest stories are positive, he hasn’t lost anything, he can still do this. He closes his eyes so he can’t see the screen, thinks. Thinks about stories, about words like black ink on skin, ink that is there since birth. His story, he thinks, would just be a jumble of random words right now, of Arthur and need and something that he’s desperately afraid is love, but nothing coherent, nothing that could properly be called a story. And Arthur’s…he knows Arthur’s story now, he thinks, knows the mother who is no more than myth and the father who wrote the story for him. It’s a good story, and it’s one Arthur wants, is the thing; he just wants to be the one who writes it. He—

“Merlin!” Merlin jerks back from the computer, slams it shut on pure instinct. But the call is coming from the living room, not his room, so he breathes again. “Merlin!” Arthur calls again, in his most prattish tone. “You said you would be here, so if you aren’t here I will be very annoyed. I might not give you your present. I might even leave and then where would you be?”

“Presentless,” Merlin observes, and watches with pleasure as Arthur jumps, spins, scowls, and crosses his arms over his chest as if he was never startled. “Also, if I weren’t here, why would I care if you left?”

“Because you would be deprived of my glorious presence when you came back, clearly,” Arthur drawls.

“Glorious presence.” Merlin tilts his head, grins with all the cheek he can muster at Arthur. “Right.”

“Hey,” Arthur drops his arms, moves smoothly over to Merlin until he’s purring in his ear, so Merlin can feel all those glorious muscles that make up Arthur, the way they shift and pull as Merlin’s hands run up his sides to wrap around his waist. “I am glorious.”

Merlin takes a moment to sink into the heat of him, the solid comfort like a lodestone, like a foundation, something that isn’t changing isn’t moving isn’t questioning is simply good. Then he shoves Arthur back.

“Not if you don’t give me my present.”

“Ouch.”

“Present?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning as he turns back to where he dropped his backpack by the door. “Lance told me you hadn’t left the house yet today, so I figured you hadn’t had a chance to get the new Emrys story.” He pulls a magazine out of the bag, a magazine Merlin recognizes, and holds it out at Merlin like he’s offering a sword. “So here, read.”

“Thanks.” Merlin already has a copy. He has copies on his hard drive and hard copies hidden in his desk. He has memorized the magazine’s cover, its typeface, the illustrations they added. But he takes it and smiles, because this is how Arthur expresses his affection, simple thoughtful things that are all the greater for their homeliness. “Have you read it?”

“Of course. We have to for class, haven’t you heard?”

“I got Killgarah’s email, yeah, but that’s not for days. You’ve read it already?”

“It’s in three days, Merlin. I, opposed to some people, actually get my work done ahead of time so I’m not pulling panicked all-nighters.” His glare is truly a sight to behold. He looks like Merlin’s mum after he wrote Slip N’ Slide and barely slept for a month. Merlin can only imagine what he’d be like if he actually knew, there’s a good reason not to tell him, he’s the worst sort of overbearing, no, overprotective, and if he ever saw Merlin actually writing he might just have a heart attack or try to make Merlin stop and that’s a bad idea he can’t do that. “Merlin?”

“What? Oh, right.” Merlin shakes his head, brings himself back. “What’d you think?”

“Want me to spoil?”

Merlin snorts. “Not a problem.”

Arthur’s eyebrows lift, but when Merlin doesn’t seem ready to reconsider, he shrugs. “Your loss. So it’s idiotic, obviously, just like everything he writes is.” Merlin’s fingers clench into a fist around the magazine, pulling the plastic paper into wrinkles. “I mean, it’s even more ridiculously communistic than before. But…it’s got…something. Something new. I don’t know, it just seemed…real.” Arthur chuckles, runs a hand through his hair. “I mean, it’s about a boy and his father, so that’s something I can relate to.”

“Did you like it?” The magazine had. The reviewers did. Gaius did. Mum did. Lance did. Even Will had sent his congratulations, though they were worked into a long email about coffee shop girl and how he was planning to use it to woo her. But this is important, this means everything about them, because Arthur doesn’t like Emrys and he doesn’t like Merlin except for how he does. “Not just what it said or what it meant or the writing but all of it, you know, as a thing, did—”

“Yes.” Arthur cut him off, voice clear and sure. “I liked it. I liked it more than his older ones, to be honest. I think he’s matured. His novels were good, but this is deeper. I can almost agree with it at points.”

Merlin lets out a breath he doesn’t know he’s been holding. His fingers relax on the magazine cover; half-unconsciously, he smooths out the title page. “That’s a concession,” he observes, and he’s almost breathless.

“I’ll give him credit where it’s due. He’s brilliant, whatever else he is as well.” It catches in Merlin, almost makes him stumble back, that single word, ‘brilliant’. Other people have called him that before but it’s never struck him like this, never really gotten to the core of him, brilliant, even though there was such a wait, even though he’s still got blankness ringing in him, he’s brilliant, he can be brilliant, Arthur can think he’s brilliant.

The magazine falls from his fingers. He crosses back to Arthur in four strides, and then his lips are on his and he’s devouring, taking and thanking and filling himself, and Arthur says something of shock and confusion into his mouth but he doesn’t pull away, lets himself be pulled into the kiss until they’re both panting, “Not that I’m complaining,” he says, looking at Merlin with eyes glazed with lust, “But what was—”

Merlin doesn’t let him finish, doesn’t let him ask for explanations. Instead, “Bedroom, now,” he orders, and takes a firm grip on Arthur collar to try to simultaneously walk backwards and make out some more. Arthur’s hand comes around his waist when he stumbles backwards and nearly falls, but he seems okay with this turn of events, and together they half wrestle, half drag each other into Merlin’s bedroom, and it hasn’t been this hurried, this crazed since the first week or so, but Arthur called him brilliant and now his skin is burning with it, with Arthur’s mouth and words and touch.

Arthur shoves all the shit off of Merlin’s bed onto the floor, which normally Merlin might be quite annoyed about but right now he thinks it is an excellent, really an excellent idea and so he helps by adding Arthur’s shirt to the pile, gets to run his fingers over all those pretty muscles and watch them dance for him, and then he goes for Arthur’s belt and Arthur is chuckling and his fingers are over Merlin’s, trying to help but only hindering until Merlin shoves them away and undoes it himself. But then he’s distracted by Arthur’s dragging his lips into a kiss again, wet and sloppy and feral, and then his shirt is gone too and Arthur is yanking his sweatpants down.

Somehow they fall into bed, naked and glorying in it, and Arthur is nipping bruises into Merlin’s skin everywhere he can reach because he’s a possessive bastard.

“Shit’s in the table,” Merlin moans out, broken, as Arthur’s lips make it down to his hipbone. “C’mon, want you to fuck me.”

Arthur’s head jerks up. “Really?” he asks, and he looks totally undone, and they haven’t actually gotten this far yet, because Arthur’s classy or maybe because he’s scared or maybe because Merlin’s scared but it doesn’t matter because the brilliant is filling him up and he wants Arthur in every way possible, wants to savor this moment of worth, and so he just nod and spits out, “Yes, and hurry the fuck up.”

So Arthur goes, and Merlin suddenly feels very open, very aware, but then Arthur’s back, with his fingers slick with lube.

“How do you want—” he begins, nervous, because he doesn’t want to hurt Merlin, he never wants to hurt him even though he probably will because love hurts is a cliché because it’s true and no one, no one in the world has ever had the opportunity to hurt Merlin like Arthur could but he doesn’t care, and he opens up his legs to cut Arthur off and just glares at him until Arthur’s finger is inside him, one, two, and he’s full of him, and he groans and twists and Arthur’s face is wide and blown and “shit, Merlin,” he moans, “Fuck,”

“That’s the idea,” Merlin manages to get out, and Arthur laughs back as he pulls his fingers out, positions himself over Merlin, and then it’s just Arthur, Arthur filling him like he’s whole like he’s complete, and Arthur starts to move and of course he’s good at this he’s good at everything and his hand is hot and rough over Merlin’s erection and it’s like everything it’s like the world exploding it’s brilliant.

“Arthur,” he chokes out, full of him full of everything and then the world does explode as he comes and he isn’t even Merlin anymore, and an instant after Arthur follows him over the edge.

Arthur wakes slowly to the phantom feel of fingers running over his skin. He’s too languid, too full of sleep and sex, to feel worried about it. Especially as the sheets smell like Merlin. Still, he opens his eyes.

Merlin is awake but still next to him, blankets pulled over both of them up to the hips. That’s more unusual than Arthur would like, because he’s a cuddler even if Merlin most assuredly is not. But Merlin is leaning over him, smiling a secret sort of smile, and his fingers are tracing something on Arthur’s chest.

“Merlin?” he murmurs. The sun is setting through the curtains. “What are you doing?”

“Writing your story.” Like that makes any sense. But Arthur is too content right now to comment on that. He’s happy, in bed, with Merlin around him, happy in a way he never wants to let go.

“Uh-huh.” He watches as much as feels the movement on his skin, words etched on his chest. Merlin looks somehow uncanny in this half-light, like something not quite of this world. He could almost imagine him writing spells across Arthur’s heart, the spells that caught him against his will.

He shakes his head to rid himself of that image. “Well, I don’t know what brought that on, but can I replicate it?”

Merlin lets his hand fall flat as he laughs, eyes glinting. “I don’t know. We’ll have to see, won’t we?” but then he topples back down next to Arthur, wiggles over so his head is resting against his shoulder. “Not right now, though.”

“No,” Arthur agrees, and slips an arm around Merlin. He is not going to question cuddling, whatever the reason. “But remind me to thank Emrys for this.” Merlin shakes against him in silent laughter. “Do you think he’s going to come out with more stuff after this?” Arthur asks, idly. He can feel Merlin’s breath moving in and out, can see each rib. Merlin really needs to eat more.

“Maybe.” Merlin’s fingers are drumming against Arthur’s thigh. How can he still have energy? Arthur’s drained. “I really hope so.”

Merlin’s high off of his new story lasts all of a day.

Then he has to go to class to discuss it, and it hurts more than he expects. He’s had time to get perspective on Slip N’ Slide and The Time of Dragons. “The Quest” is still new, still young, still brilliant, still right in a way the others weren’t, or maybe they were then but aren’t anymore.

He respects discussion, respects arguments and other opinions, but not—no, about this too, but this is all he has right now to prove to himself he can do this, to prove to everyone that he can be, that he can find the words, and so he cannot, cannot tolerate a discussion about something so inane as the homosexual undertones in the story, about how Emrys feels about the main character, because he might be a little in love with Arthur, might have been a little infatuated when he wrote this, or maybe a little furious, but that’s not the point.

So his foot is tapping against the floor and Arthur’s already confiscated four pens because their tapping on his notebook annoyed him and Merlin can feel the half moon imprints from his nails digging into his palms because he cannot take much more of this.

“I don’t think Emrys likes Lionel very much,” Gilli says stubbornly, glaring at Arthur. “He thinks he’s dweeby, I mean, look at how he describes him, he seems so weak.”

“Weak?” Arthur shoots back, and grabs another pen out of Merlin’s hand. “Look how much attention he gives to what he’s up against and how conflicted he is. That’s not thinking he’s weak, that’s having depth. If anything, Emrys is mad at Lionel. Angry that he could be stronger.” And oh, isn’t he, wasn’t he, angry that Arthur didn’t see didn’t know couldn’t see his chains except he does, Merlin knows that now, he sees his chains he just doesn’t know he can escape them, doesn’t know if he wants to.

“But the detail he uses to describe Lionel physically,” Rebecca counters, “and how he always comes back to how handsome he is. It’s clearly verbal masturbation.”

“Why does any of this matter?” It’s not until everyone turns to look at him that Merlin realizes he’s spoken, but now he has and not even Gwen’s gentle hand on his arm can stop him. “The story isn’t about how the fuck Emrys feels about Lionel because he feels how he feels about him, and that’s that, and what matters is that Lionel is breaking his chains and getting free and it’s supposed to be uplifting not—not—” He pants out a breath, aware and hating that there are tears in his eyes, but he can’t help it and this is his, the only thing he has right now, “Not some sort of homosexual agenda piece, so if we must discuss this can we do it in a not idiotic way!”

“Mr. Emerson—” Kilgarrah starts, but Merlin’s done, done listening to other people tell him about his own writing, tell him that the only interesting part about the only thing he’s managed the only words he’s found is what he feels about Arthur, which has changed anyway.

“And what do you know,” he interrupts the professor, and he’s on his feet without noticing it and Arthur’s hand is on his shoulder trying to pull him down but he can’t, he can’t stop, “Why do you know Emrys better than any of us, you haven’t read this more than us it just came out, and that’s the important thing because Emrys did it, he did something, he found the words and now if he can find them—” But he can’t he can’t find the words and maybe he didn’t even find “The Quest”’s words they were just pretend and not real because he’s still blank and he can’t do this and Arthur is trying to drag him back down into his seat and Gwen is whispering worried things at him but he wrenches himself away from both of them and out of the room, out of all he has which is nothing.

Outside of the room, it’s all silence except for his feet down the hallways. Inside, outside, and he can’t deal with this he’s breaking he can feel it. He already lost the divide in him that usually keeps Emrys and Merlin apart, if he can’t keep a straight face in class. Shit, what did he just do? He does actually occasionally need grades, and he might need a job—fuck.

He sinks down the hall, curls up so that his head is buried in his knees. He might need a job. He can’t count on his writing. He got one story but what did that mean in the long run? He has something that’s almost a story, almost a novel, but it’s stuck in wordless ideas and images, nothing he can focus on without it slithering away. He doesn’t have anything. And he might never find it again. He has to accept that. Other people live their lives blank, he can too.

He curls himself tighter together, and wishes he could cry.

Arthur finds him five minutes later, after staring down Professor Kilgarrah until he dismissed him to go look after Merlin. He nearly doesn’t notice him, curled up into a corner, his dark hair blending into the shadows. He looks very young, which isn’t especially unusual. He looks tired, though, which is. Merlin is always vibrating with energy, even when Arthur just wants to curl up with him and sleep. But now… even the curls at Merlin’s neck seem to be drooping.

“Merlin?” Arthur says, tentative. It still sounds loud in the near-silent hallway. Merlin twitches, but doesn’t look. “Merlin,” Arthur tries again. He feels oddly like he’s approaching a wild animal. Or maybe not that oddly. “Are you okay?”

At that, Merlin does look up. His eyes are red, but there are no tearstains on his cheeks, and there’s something to the set of his mouth that is determined rather than sad. “No,” he says, thoughtful, or maybe just resigned. “No, I don’t think I am. I don’t think I ever will be.”

That—Arthur drops to his knees in front of Merlin, grips both his shoulders so Merlin is forced to look at him. “Yes,” he says, even though he doesn’t really know what is wrong. He doesn’t care. “You will.” He’ll make it so. He doesn’t care what it takes.

“Saying it doesn’t make it so,” Merlin argues. Arthur just glares at him.

“It does if you’re Arthur Pendragon,” he retorts.

“That doesn’t actually work in this case.”

“Want to bet?” Arthur demands. Merlin chokes out a laugh that is first cousin to a sob, then leans forward to rest his head on Arthur’s shoulder. He’s shaking, Arthur realizes as he wraps his arms around the other boy, shaking but not crying. Arthur just holds him tight, tries to shield him from the world with his arms and body alone. Because that’s what he wants. Not what his father says he wants, not what Morgana says he wants, not what anyone says he should want. To shield him and protect him and be the one who sees Merlin fall apart, to hear Merlin say ridiculous things even when he’s cracking, to feed Merlin until he finally gets some meat on him, to be the one he focuses on with his too-piercing gaze. This is what’s important.m

There are secrets in Merlin still, secrets that are cracking him apart. But Arthur holds on, grips Merlin’s shirt and lets him take hoarse breaths of his t-shirt. This is what he wants.

*****

Morgana, for once in her life, actually manages to make it to Arthur’s apartment early enough to walk to Uther’s chosen restaurant together.

“So,” she says delicately, after a long enough pause that Arthur is immediately suspicious of her punctuality, “I heard Merlin had a break down in class.”

“You can’t say ‘I heard’ so mysteriously when I know Gwen told you,” he retorts immediately, more out of habit than anything else.

“That does not preclude me from having heard it,” Morgana shoots back. Her pause is longer this time, as they wait for the light to turn red. When it does, and they’re across the street, her next question comes almost tentatively, if Morgana could be tentative. Or maybe it’s almost gentle. “Is he okay?”

Arthur opens his mouth to shoot back an automatic, defensive ‘yes’. “I don’t know,” he says, honest. If he can’t tell this to Morgana, who can he talk to? “He says he is. And he’s eating, which is actually a good thing. But…” He can’t quite describe it, how Merlin seems to have diminished somehow. He moves slower, takes longer. It’s as if something’s dimmed in him. Arthur can only compare it to someone dealing with the death of a loved one. Merlin’s functioning, but he’s not living. “Gwaine actually pulled me aside to say he’s been sleeping a lot.”

“Is it actually depression?” Morgana asks.

“I don’t know.” Arthur sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how to help him. I don’t even know what’s wrong.”

Morgana’s fingers brush against his wrist, a deliberate motion. “He might need more help than you can give.”

“No.” He refuses. He refuses to not be enough.

“Arthur, it happens. He needs to see a psychologist.”

“Probably,” Arthur admits, and doesn’t mention that he suggested it. Merlin had simply shook his head and told him that he was fine. “But I can’t make him. And it hasn’t been a week, so he can’t be diagnosed yet.” Morgana raises an eyebrow. “I looked it up. You need two weeks of symptoms,” he explains, “And if he hasn’t seen someone for his other manic thing…”

Morgana’s eyebrow is still up, but her eyes are soft. “You really hate this, don’t you?”

“What tipped you off?”

“Now, now, no sniping. I’m trying to be sympathetic.”

“Well, you’re not very good at it.”

“Are you surprised?” But there’s no heat in it for either of them. “If you need any help…”

Arthur doesn’t make her finish. “I know.”

But he shouldn’t need help. He should be able to care of Merlin. It’s part of making his own way, part of running his own life. He should be able to support Merlin in any way, in every way. It’s his responsibility. Merlin’s his responsibility. And he’ll find a way to help.

Arthur holds the door open for Morgana, so her quick intake of breath is all the warning he gets that this, too, is not going to go well. He follows her gaze across the dining room to their father’s table. There are two men there: Uther, of course, unmistakable, and another who from his profile Arthur immediately recognizes. He does not have the patience for this today, not on top of everything. He should be worrying about Merlin.

“Father,” he says as they reach the table. Both men stand. “Godwyn.”

“Arthur,” Godwyn smiles and shakes his hand. “Morgana! You look lovely.”

“It’s been ages,” Morgana coos. Her society smile is, as always, a wonder to behold. “How nice of you to join us for lunch.”

“How could I refuse seeing you two again?” Godwyn smiles genially. Arthur’s always wondered how he made it so far in business when he seems to have not a ruthless bone in his body. “I feel like I should be pulling candy out of my pockets for you.”

“Elena always stole mine,” Arthur mutters, because he still holds a grudge over that.

Morgana talks smoothly over him. “How is Elena? We’ve totally lost contact.” Which is a polite way of saying the two girls could never stand each other, except for when they teamed up on Arthur.

“She’s well,” Godwyn replies as they take their seats, Godwyn holding out Morgana’s. “About to graduate, of course. She’s going to start training for the professional circuit.”

“For dressage?” Arthur asks. Most of his memories of Elena are either her clawing at him or on a horse.

“Yes. She’s been doing marvelously in university competitions.”

“How lovely.”

“And she’s intelligent as well,” Uther inserts, in a non-sequiter that fools no one. “Weren’t you telling me how much she enjoys her political science classes?”

Arthur meets Morgana’s eyes for a moment, but he doesn’t react. Uther’s not being purposefully intolerant. He is trying to do what is best for Arthur. Arthur knows that.

“What about you?” Morgana asks, steering the conversation onto less thorny ground. Thank God she’s not in a contrary mood today. “How have you been keeping yourself?”

“Good, good. Healthy as a horse, as always.” He thumps his chest, presumably to demonstrate. “And the company’s doing well. In fact,” he shoots a sidelong glance at Uther, then continues, “There’s an opening, in corporate.” Shit. Arthur should have known this was coming. It always had to come, no matter what he’s told his father. “Your father mentioned you were interested. It’s a good place, higher up then you might get otherwise—no mail rooms for the Pendragons!” he chuckles. Arthur’s fists clench. This is ridiculous. He doesn’t have the energy to spare to deal with this; he needs to deal with Merlin. He’s already made his decision. “I have your email, of course, so I’ll send you the information—”

“No.” Arthur almost doesn’t recognize his voice, but it thrills him. Finally. He isn’t a coward. He wants his own life. He wants Merlin.

“Pardon?”

“Arthur,” his father hisses.

“I’m sorry, Godwyn,” Arthur says, his voice clear. Morgana’s lips are pressed together, and her eyes are wide. “I appreciate the offer. But I’m going to start out on my career on my own, where everyone else does.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Arthur,” Uther straightens, all of the terrible dignity that has overawed Arthur for decades coming over him like a jacket. “Getting experiences at companies other than ours made a certain amount of sense, but this is just ridiculous.”

“I don’t want to start by nepotism.”

“Everyone uses nepotism! People would kill for the connections you have.”

“Then let those people have them.” It’s freeing, saying it at last. Arthur can almost feel himself straightening. “If I’m going to run the company I need to know where it comes from, and I won’t get that jumping to the top.”

Uther’s face is terrible, twisted with rage. “You would turn your back on the opp—”

For the first time in his life, Arthur interrupts his father. “I’m not budging on this.”

“Arthur—”

“No. I am doing this my way. I’m doing my life my way.” Arthur pushes back his chair, stands up. He’s over twenty, he does not need weekly check ups by his father. “And stop trying to set me up. I have a boyfriend.”

Uther flinches. Morgana snorts. Arthur turns to Godwyn. “I apologize that you had to see this. I’m sure we’ll catch up again soon.” And then he’s gone, out of the restaurant, away from his father’s flabbergasted face and Morgana’s glee and the other patron’s polite coolness.

He pauses, outside, looks up at the blindingly hot sun. He breathes in the bright, clear air, lets it out, and thinks that now that they’re gone he finally understands all of Merlin’s talk about chains.

Merlin is very dutifully finishing his essay. There are words on the document, precise prosy boring words about themes and motifs and quotations. They are what everyone else is writing, what everyone else always writes, all everyone else writes. He needs to learn to survive on them.

So when he hears the door to his apartment groan open, he gets to his feet and goes into the living room. Anything to distract.

Arthur is standing there, still neatly dressed for his lunch with his father. But his face—it’s elated and astonished and horrified and free, all at once, and it’s almost enough to make Merlin smile.

“Arthur?” he says, when Arthur doesn’t seem about to do anything other than stare at Merlin.

“I just stood up to my father.” He just says it, like a bullet at point blank range.

“What?”

“I told him I wasn’t going to play by his rules. That I was going to get a job on my own. That I had a boyfriend. Then I left.” He takes a deep breath. “I just left.”

“Congratulations? That is congratulations, right?” He’s standing straighter. His chin is up, his shoulders back. Merlin’s almost afraid to go to him, because there’s something in the set of his shoulders that is brittle rather than relieved.

Arthur pauses. But then, “Yes,” he says, and he’s smiling, “God, yes, it is. It’s about time I did that.”

“Then congratulations.” Merlin goes to him now, wraps his arms around him. He can do this. He can support Arthur even if he can’t support himself. “I knew you could do it, you aren’t a coward even if I call you one a lot. How did he take it? Is he cutting you off without a penny? Because that really would be working your way up—”

“He was mad.” Arthur lets go of Merlin, steps back to fiddle with his jacket zipper. “I left before it could get too bad. It wasn’t running away,” he bites off, as if interrupting Merlin even though Merlin hadn’t been planning to say anything. “It was making a point.” He looks up, suddenly, a shock of blue into Merlin’s eyes. “Are you mad I didn’t tell him about us before?”

“No,” Merlin replies immediately. “Why would I be? It was complicated.”

“I should have told him. I was trying to keep the peace, but some things aren’t worth the peace they bring.” He shifts between his feet, as if he would pace, but Arthur doesn’t pace. His energy is sharp and focused; he’s not nervous. This is a new Arthur, though, one without his chains, or with them loosened because he did ask for them, after all. “What’s between us is one of those things—or I hope it is, at least. I think it is.” Or maybe the chains have just moved, bound him at different points when he changed his path. When he rewrote his story. “What I’m trying to say—what I want to say—”

When he rewrote his story.

Rewrote his story.

Rewrote his story.

And just like that, words thunder into him.

It’s as good as sex, as good as anything, the words on his tongue again ready to go onto the page, words to describe and love and build a world of change, and Merlin shudders with the pleasure of it, because how could he have lived without this, he had forgotten just how much he had been missing, and even before he lunges for his computer he throws himself at Arthur and kisses him like it’s life itself. “Thank you,” he breathes into Arthur’s mouth, as he peppers his face with kisses.

Then he pulls away, even as Arthur’s hands clutch at him. Rewriting, it’s the change that matters it’s always the change, he can’t do fathers again and this isn’t really about fathers, it’s about the boy. And maybe, a little, about love.

“Merlin. Merlin!” But Merlin’s gone, back into his room as quick as he possibly can because the words are back he can write again he needs tow rite again in case it all falls away, but right now he’s full, he’s complete for the first time in five years.

Arthur decides to let Merlin wait out the weird mood before he comes back.

He manages to keep away for all of eighteen hours. At that point, when Merlin hasn’t called him and hasn’t picked up his phone, he decides that enough is enough, and goes back to their flat. Gwaine gives half a grin when he opens the door and sees who it is.

“He’s not up for air yet,” he tells Arthur, standing back to let him in.

“Then I’ll drag him up.”

“Not that easy, mate.” Gwaine trails behind Arthur as he picks his way through the living room. “I don’t think he slept last night. Or has eaten.”

Arthur spins to face him. “Why haven’t you fed him, then!” That’s his responsibility, as roommate, as best friend.

Gwaine holds up his hands, but there are circles under his eyes too. “I’ve tried. But I’m not forcefeeding him.”

“You should,” Arthur mutters, and leaves Gwaine behind as he stalks into Merlin’s room.

It is, of course, a mess, but Arthur has learned to ignore that—though he does notice an untouched sandwich on the desk, and gives Gwaine credit for trying at least. But then he sees Merlin, and he forgets about Gwaine. All he can see is the back of his head, the curls at his neck and deceptively broad shoulders, and the hands flying over a keyboard, but still—right, he thinks. this.

“Merlin.”

No response.

“Merlin,” he tries again.

Still nothing.

“If you do not respond to me in the next ten seconds I will unplug your computer.”

At that, Merlin holds up a hand, waves it vaguely for half a second, then goes back to typing.

“Great. Well, when you have a chance in your busy schedule of typing, I wouldn’t mind speaking to you. If you have a moment, of course.” Merlin ignores him, as he expected, but Arthur starts to walk around the room, to pick some things off the bed. It’s amazing how much crap gets on it, no matter how many times Arthur clears it off. “I just wanted to tell you something that I’ve never said before. No big deal.” There’s a mess of pens just lying on the coverlet. God, he is such a slob, Arthur sighs, and gathers them up.
Merlin’s desk is a massive thing, filled with shelves and drawers that are wasted on someone that disorganized, so there must be a pen drawer somewhere. He walks over, lets a hand drift over Merlin’s shoulders because he needs some confirmation that Merlin hasn’t turned into a robot. Merlin’s shoulders relax under the touch, and something loosens in Arthur. There’s that, at least.

The first drawer he opens is full of what looks like scrap paper. The second has a single, empty, beer bottle. The third is, by the title, Gwaine’s diary, which Arthur nobly resists the urge to look through by virtue of Merlin being right there. The fourth is half opened mail.

Arthur doesn’t mean to look. Later, he’ll search his soul and decide that’s true. But he glances at the drawer to make sure that there’s nothing rotten in it, and so he notices the manila envelope addressed to Merlin—and the return address. And normally he wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but he recognizes the name of the magazine, and the cover that peaks out from the top of the envelope. And, because this is the sort of thing he notices, he notices the date on the postmark.

Why does Merlin have a copy of a magazine from before it came out?

Why does Merlin have a copy of that magazine from before it came out?

It takes a supreme act of will to close the drawer, to not look beneath but Arthur does it. This is Merlin’s space. He has no right to look more. No right except love. And that’s not enough. Apparently.

So he turns away, sets the pens in a pile on the desk, and looks back at Merlin. From this angle, he can see his face, tongue sticking out from between his teeth and his cheeks flushed. His eyes are wide and bright, alight with something that is closer to joy than Arthur has ever seen, even during sex. He can’t help but follow their gaze, to read the words on the computer that are making Merlin happier than he ever could.

And it all clicks.

It’s not the words he recognizes. These are new words, new characters, new plot. But—the tone, the phrasing, the way it all fits together. The envelope with the early copies of Emrys’s story. Merlin’s defensiveness of Emrys. All his babblings about words and blankness.

“Merlin,” Arthur says again, slowly, so slowly, because he can’t quite believe it even as he knows its right, “Are you Emrys?”

“Third time pays for all,” Merlin murmurs, “Of course it does, it’s always three, third time is when it works…”

“No, not this time.” He grabs the arms of Merlin’s chair and spins him around. His hands come off the computer with an almost audible sound, but Arthur doesn’t care. He can’t. This is—how could he? How could this… “You are going to answer me.”

Merlin’s pupils are blown, and something that looks like pain comes into them. “But—no, I have to finish this, I have to get it out, it just came back, Arthur, I can’t, I can’t lose it again, I need—”

“Answer me.” He’s pulling, trying to turn back almost frantically, but Arthur holds him fast, his knuckles white on the arms.

“I was!” It bursts out of Merlin like it’s dragged from him, like a pipe unclogging. “I was and now I might be again because the words are back but I need to get it out now, Arthur, or it might go away again and I can’t live like that anymore, I can’t, so let me go I have to go I have to…”

Arthur lets go, half out of shock, and Merlin spins around and his fingers start to fly again and it’s as if Arthur isn’t even there anymore.

So Arthur leaves, before he breaks something. Slams the door, doesn’t reply to Gwaine’s grunt when he sticks his head out of his room. Then, because he has to, he snaps a “Make sure he doesn’t die,” at Gwaine, who probably knew, who had probably been laughing at him the whole time, and then he leaves.

At no time in this does he forget that he still hasn’t told Merlin he loved him. He’s just not sure if he’s glad or not.

Arthur’s not good at dealing with emotions. His father in him, he guesses. But whatever the reason, he’s not one for introspection. He likes to act. He likes to do, to plan, to solve. He doesn’t like to, doesn’t often, think about his emotions.

It’s part, he thinks as he collapses onto his couch, buries his head in his hands, of Merlin’s fascination. Merlin always seemed to know his emotions better than he did himself, could pinpoint it and bring it into the light and then Arthur could look at it and change it. Which makes sense, he guesses. Emrys is good at emotions, at picking them out of characters.

Which just brings him back to Emrys, and the rage and fear and jealousy and betrayal cocktail burning in him. He doesn’t know which is which, which is more or less, only that Merlin didn’t tell him. He had been ready to tell Merlin he loved him, and Merlin didn’t tell him. Didn’t tell him about this huge part of his life. Was probably laughing at him throughout all their classes—and god, Arthur had argued to him about his own writing, how ridiculous was that!

He can’t do this. He can’t think right now, not after all of this.

So, because he likes to act, to do, he goes for a run, pounds out the anger and emotions into the burn of muscles and pull of his limbs. Forgets that Merlin kept him out. Forgets that the man he defied his father for—but he can’t finish that thought, because he didn’t defy his father for Merlin. It might have been because of Merlin. But it was for himself. And that was another thing he didn’t want to think about, his father. His father and Merlin, two people he loved who would always love something more than him. At least his father loved him back, which he did know, despite everything. Merlin, though, how could you love someone and not tell them, how could you laugh at them behind their backs and draw them in except at the same time barricade them from the most important part of you?

He climbs the stairs to his flat without anything resolved. And stops when he sees Lance leaning against the wall.

“Merlin sent you.” Arthur says it half in hope, half in anger.

“No, he didn’t.” Lance straightens, his dark eyes infinitely serious. “Gwaine told me to call about ‘Merlin’s secret writing persona that I absolutely have no idea about.’ I thought in person would be better.” So Gwaine and Lance knew too. He was the only one in the dark. Wonderful.

Lance must read something of that in his face, because he only says, even, “It’s probably best if we talked inside.”

“Fine.” Arthur unlocks the door and keeps it open long enough for Lance to walk in behind him. Once they’re both inside, he spins to glare at Lance. “So talk.”

“You found out Emrys is Merlin’s penname?” Lance doesn’t sit, doesn’t do anything but stand there with infinite patience.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I saw him writing.”

Lance’s eyes light up, then. “He’s writing again!”

“Again?”

“Yeah, he hasn’t been writing, that’s been the problem. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed something’s been wrong.” He fixes Arthur with a chiding glare, as if it’s all his fault now.

“Of course I have,” Arthur retorts. “And if he had told me why, then I would have been able to help.”

“No one could help.” It’s said gently, but absolutely.

“I could have.” Somehow.

“No,” Lance repeats, still gentle, “You couldn’t. Nothing could except writing.”

There it is.

So, because he is Arthur, he attacks rather than think about that sentence.

“Because there’s nothing more important to him than writing, is there? Then fucking Emrys. That’s the really important part of his life, everything else is what, just a game?”

Lance doesn’t falter beneath the blow. “No, it’s not. He does love you, Arthur. He didn’t keep secrets for the fun of it.”

“Then why?”

“Because he thought you’d hate him for it.” No accusation, just fact.

“Why would I—because he’s an author? Who would hate someone for that?”

Lance sighs, gusty and somehow tired. “Because Merlin has no sense of proportion. And—” he hesitates, then.

“What?” Arthur demands. It’s Merlin. There can’t be more secrets. He has a right.

But Lance shakes his head. “It’s for Merlin to tell you his reasons.”

“Then why did you come over?” Arthur demands. “If you aren’t going to explain—”

Lance holds up a hand, sighs again. “I am. Look, I’m doing this wrong. I came over to make sure you understood everything before you talked to him.”

That sounds like oodles of fun. Arthur huffs out a breath, but he collapses onto the couch and gestures for Lance to take a seat as well. Lance does, slowly. He keeps his eyes steady on Arthur’s as he explains. Explains Emrys, and the class, and Arthur.

“He still should have told me,” Arthur says, once the recital is finished. Because that’s what it comes down to.

“Why?” Lance’s shoulders straighten, and he draws himself up like he is putting on armor. “Why should he? How long has he known you, Arthur?”

“Long enough.” Long enough to coax Arthur into love with him despite Arthur’s best intentions.

“A few months,” Lance corrects. Has it really only been that long? Arthur can barely remember a time without Merlin in it. “That’s all, Arthur. And he hasn’t really been writing for most of it. Why should he risk telling you?”

“Because—” Arthur can’t finish the sentence. Because he should. Because it was right. Because he doesn’t like secrets. Because it meant that he was still holding back. Because it meant he was famous, important, loved, in a way Arthur couldn’t be. Because—

“I need to go make sure Merlin’s fed,” Lance says, and stands. Arthur rises too, mostly instinctively, so when Lance turns back at the door he can look right into his eyes, and there is nothing but honesty there. “Merlin might have made a mistake in keeping this a secret. But he didn’t do it to hurt you.”

“Then why’d he do it?” It’s an honest question. Arthur can’t even imagine the answer.

Lance hesitates. “In my opinion? He was afraid.” Then he closes the door, and leaves Arthur standing in his room.

Merlin wasn’t afraid. Arthur’s the one who was afraid, until Merlin showed him how not to be. Now he’s not afraid.

Now he’s just…he doesn’t even know.

*****

“Not that I’m objecting,” Morgana announces as she expertly opens the bottle of red that Arthur had snatched blindly off the grocery store shelf, “But why are we drinking tonight?”

“Because I want to get drunk.” Arthur is so far past caring that he just takes a swig straight from the whiskey bottle, then hands it to Leon. Leon looks from it, to him, then carefully pours himself a tumbler.

“And you aren’t going to tell us why?” Morgana demands.

“Nope.”

“So then it’s about Merlin,” she informs Leon as she gives herself a generous portion of the wine. “If it was about Uther he’d tell me. And those are the only two things he gets worked up about. So, what about Merlin? Not a break-up, because he’d be sobbing into my shoulder—” she pauses, probably for Arthur’s retort, but he just glowers into the newly regained whiskey bottle. “so let’s say a fight.” She’s far too right. As always.

Except for how she’s totally wrong, because a fight would have been good. Would have been better. He can feel his fingers tighten around the bottle. “And if it’s a fight, it’s probably Arthur’s fault, because it’s usually Arthur’s fault.” It isn’t. Or maybe it is. No, it’s not. This time, it’s really not. Merlin lied to him, right to his face. Whatever his reasons, however stupid his reasons, he lied. There’s no escaping that. “So, what could he have done? You wouldn’t cheat on him because you’re stupidly in love, so did you insult him? Did you offer to make him your kept man? Because—”

“Morgana,” Leon cuts her off, a single word. She spins on the couch to glare, but he just meets her gaze steadily, not budging, not retreating beneath the fire of her gaze. And that’s them, isn’t it, Leon’s patience against Morgana’s passion, if she would ever just give in. It’s what he thought he had with Merlin—Merlin’s energy and brightness, Arthur’s steadiness and determination and ability to take care of both of them. But that had all been a lie. Or had it? How much of it had been a lie?

Because Lance said that Merlin hadn’t told him because he had been afraid, but Arthur knows better. He’s seen Merlin’s face while writing, when he got his inspiration or whatever. He saw Merlin’s face when he admitted he was Emrys. It wasn’t fear there. It was something else, something more, something closer to Merlin’s core, his heart. He just doesn’t know what.

And if he doesn’t know what it was, how can he trust Merlin? How can he let Merlin in when Merlin has a secret life he’s been hiding?

He tips back the bottle, but nothing comes out. In surprise, he looks at it. It’s empty. Shit. When did he drink that?

“Arthur.” It’s Leon this time, a little tentative. “Can you at least tell us something?”

He can’t tell them Merlin’s secret. He knows that. He never questioned that. But now he’s fuzzy with alcohol and something that closely resembles grief. “Merlin’s keeping secrets,” he explains morosely.

“I told you it was Merlin,” Morgana shoots at Leon.

“I never denied it,” Leon replies steadily, “You were just pushing too hard.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.”

“He’s keeping secrets,” Arthur goes on, “And I don’t know if I can forgive him for it.”

“Are the secrets that important?”

“Yes. To him, at least. They’re big. Sort of.”

“Sounds simple,” Morgana drawls, but it’s gentler now.

“Of course it’s not, it’s Merlin. I like that about him, he’s not simple. He sees things, you know?” Arthur looks glumly into the empty bottle. “Of course he would, that makes sense. But he sees me. But I didn’t see him. And how does that work? Won’t he get bored? Is that why he didn’t tell?”

“He won’t get bored,” Leon protests, but this time it’s Morgana who quiets him, with a hand on his leg.

“If he sees you, wouldn’t he know he’d be bored?” she asks, like a knife through air.

“And that’s why he didn’t tell, so he would have an easy out,” Arthur explains. Merlin was always too bright to stay with him. Emrys couldn’t be with someone like Arthur. Not that Arthur has an inferiority complex. He knows his worth. He knows that he is smart and going to succeed. But he also knows that he is dull, a numbers man who will look at numbers all day and one day he will sit in his father’s chair and look at more numbers. Merlin, though, Merlin argues and grins and thinks about words and sees truth in stars.

Morgana takes a sip of wine. Then she looks at Arthur, at Leon, and drinks again. “You know that time when I made you and Merlin pancakes after you had sex the first time?”

Oh, Arthur remembers. He remembers the feel of Merlin’s hands on him, his mouth around his cock, the way his eyes almost seemed to glow golden in the light. He also remembers waking up alone.

“Yeah.”

“Well, we talked that night, about a lot of things.” She drinks again, looks down at her cup. “About the fight we had had, earlier.”

“About—” Arthur glances at Leon, who is sitting as quietly as usual, just listening and absorbing and waiting to intervene if necessary. “Oh, right.”

Morgana’s eyes narrow, but when he doesn’t push, she just goes on. “Did it ever occur to you that he didn’t tell you to protect himself?”

“From exposure? Of course. But I’m not going to tell. I’m not even telling you.” He stabs his finger at her.

“Not about that.” She dismisses it with a wave of her wine glass that ends with another sip. When she swallows, she continues, still very much not looking at Leon. “I don’t know what this secret is, and I won’t ask.” Arthur smiles at that, thankful. Because he knows her, and he knows that she could get it out of him if she tried. “And so I won’t tell you what he said that night.” Fair enough, Arthur guesses. “But, Arthur—he’s got his own problems. And this secret has been eating him up.”

“So why didn’t he tell me so I could help him stop it?”

“Because he didn’t think he was worth it.” Morgana says it as only she can, whisper soft but with a knife’s edge. Leon’s head jerks, and suddenly he’s staring at her. She stays looking into her wine glass, her hair falling loose around her face so there’s no way to see her expression. “Because it’s terrifying to let someone see the core of you if you’re sure there’s nothing worth loving there.”

“But—Merlin’s worth everything,” Arthur objects. He’s worth the world. Arthur had been trying to figure out how to give it to him.

Morgana’s head rises slowly, regally, and her dark gaze is terrifying as she looks down her nose at him. “That’s easy to say from the outside.”

“It should be easy to see from the inside, too,” Leon inserts. He’s still looking at Morgana, and his face is unreadable even for Arthur, who’s known him so long and so well. “It should be easy to see that he’s worth loving, because he is. Because you’ve told him so.” Morgana’s lips press together. “And even if he thinks he isn’t, you should convince him. Convince him that you love every flaw, every weak spot, all the things he thinks are worthless. And if you can’t, then you don’t love him enough.”

Arthur opens his mouth to answer, but it’s Morgana who does in a surprisingly lost voice, still not looking at Leon. “What if he can’t be convinced?”

“He will be. You have to trust in that.” Leon, the boy who waited, Arthur supposes. But Arthur doesn’t think he can wait. He doesn’t know if he loves Merlin enough to wait.

No, that’s wrong. He loves him enough to wait. He’s just not sure he’s brave enough to trust that that’s what’s wrong, to trust that Merlin can be convinced that Arthur is worth his secret.

“And if I don’t trust that?” He asks.

Leon turns his grave gaze onto Arthur. He looks old, in that moment, much older than Arthur, though maybe that’s only because he’s sober and Arthur is so very drunk. “Then why are you staying?”

“Because there’s nowhere else to go,” Morgana suggests, with a hint of acid.

“I could go other places,” Arthur objects. “I’m very attractive.”

“I’m sure you are,” Morgana agrees. She’s being nice. That means she must have another motive. Right now, though, Arthur doesn’t really care.

“I don’t want to go anywhere else, though,” Arthur goes on, and crosses his arms over his chest. “I want Merlin. I just don’t want him to be keeping me away. Is that too much to ask?”

“Is it?” Leon echoes.

Morgana shakes her head, slowly. “It’s harder than you think to let people in.”

“Not that hard. I did it,” Arthur points out.

“You stood up to Uther for him.” Morgana sighs, and takes another sip of wine. She leans back into the cushions of the couch, and for an instant, looks tired. “Give him a chance to figure himself out.”

“I’ll give him some time because he apparently can’t talk and write at the same time.” Arthur tries to pretend that his tone isn’t fond, and fails. “But not forever.”

“No,” Leon repeats. “Not forever.”

Morgana’s head rises. For the first time all night, she turns her head to look at Leon, dark eyes against his brown. “No,” she agrees, and her lips curve into a surprisingly tender smile. “Not forever.”

*****

“Merlin. Merlin. Merlin. Merlin. I can do this all day so you really should stop and listen to me. Merlin. Merlin. Merlin. Merlin. I will poke you. Merlin. Merlin. Merlin.”

“He’s not listening, Gwaine.”

“I can keep trying. Merlin. Merlin. Merlin.”

“Let’s just leave the sandwich and go. He clearly doesn’t want us here.”

“No, he just doesn’t notice us. Merlin. Merlin. Merlin. Merrrrrlin.”

“It’s no use. He’ll come out of it when he’s done.”

“He needs to at least talk to Arthur. C’mon, Merlin. You can write later. Merlin. Merlin. Merlin.”

*****

Merlin isn’t in class on Tuesday. Arthur is more relieved about that than he will admit. Gwen is there, and she shoots him anxious looks all hour, but Arthur leaves before she can corner him. He doesn’t want to deal with any of Merlin’s friends right now. He barely wants to deal with his own.

He’s not thinking about Merlin. That’s what he’s decided, and it’s how he gets through the week. By very pointedly not thinking about him. By not wondering why he’s disappeared from campus. By not speculating on if he’s being fed. By not constantly turning the possible reasons Merlin lied over and over again in his head, picking each apart, trying to find the right answer. If he could just know—but that’s the problem, isn’t it? He can’t know. Merlin won’t tell him. Merlin is too busy writing to tell him. Or even call him, or contact him in any way. He’s on the computer, would it kill him to shoot an ‘I’m still alive email’?

He pointedly ignores the fact that no one would ever expect Merlin to think of that. Even the Merlin he had known.

He doesn’t go to Saturday lunch with his father. It’s funny how little that bothers him. He had thought that finally making a stand against his father would be the biggest thing to happen to him in months. Now, though, it just seems petty. So he wants to get jobs on his own. So what? He threw his sexuality in his father’s face, but really, Uther’s never been that bad. He might make pointed comments or try to shove Arthur at women, but it’s not like he disowned Arthur. And even if he does freeze Arthur out, he can manage on his own. He wants to manage on his own. He loves his father, but he doesn’t need him.

He doesn’t think about whether or not he needs Merlin.

*****

“Merlin.” Poke. “Merlin.” Poke. “Merlin.” Poke. “Merlin.” Poke. “Merlin.” Poke. “I know you can hear me. You aren’t deaf even if you are writing.” Poke. “I saw you go to the bathroom earlier, you can move.” Poke. “Merlin.” Poke. “You can’t actually live like this forever, you know.” Poke. Then, suddenly, no more poking.

“Look, I know you think this is better, but it’s not.” Bedsprings creak. “Lance says we should leave you alone until you run out of steam. Gwen wants to take you to a doctor. Your mom wants to come down and visit. But they don’t get it, do they? Me, I know some things about avoidance. Remember when we met? You told me I was running away. And I was. So listen to me now. You’re running away. Maybe that’s why we get along.

“But mate, you can’t run forever. You taught me that. And this thing—not that I’m asking what it is, I don’t know that, obviously, I would never suspect you’re some kind of author, I am absolutely that oblivious—you’re avoiding Arthur. You told him your big secret and then you ran. And that’s not okay. Morgana told me he’s majorly torn up about it. You need to talk to him. Not that I want him in our lives, because I still think he’s a prat. But. He’s not the worst man out there. And he made you better. Not that I would tell you that if I thought you were listening. But this isn’t the answer.

“Anyway, I’ll get you some food when I think about it next. And think about it, okay? I know you have a lot to get out and all, but there’s life too, and that matters.

“And call Arthur already.” A final poke, and then he’s gone, and Merlin is left with just the words again, twisting over and around and through his mind to his fingers to the page, sweet as the sweetest release.

*****

Merlin isn’t in class again the next Tuesday. Arthur refuses to be worried. But he’s starting to consider it. And he’s starting to be annoyed that he is considering it. He’s mad at Merlin. He still doesn’t understand Merlin, which is worse. And he’s having more and more difficulty ignoring it.

So when his father calls him, he can find it in him to be glad of the distraction. And have something else to muse over when Uther sets up a dinner for Thursday evening, just the two of them. Someone else with ulterior motives.

And now Uther really won’t approve of Merlin. Not only is he male, and poor—he’s also Emrys.

But when he gets to the restaurant, it’s surprisingly easy. Uther has had a long and successful policy of simply ignoring everything that he dislikes or finds uncomfortable, and he uses it in full force. They talk about Arthur’s classes, about the company, about politics. It’s surprisingly distracting, surprisingly simple. People always wonder why Arthur loves his father, but this is why.

It’s only when they’re finishing their meals that Uther’s lips purse together. He looks like he swallowed something sour and is forcing it down. But then he squares his shoulders like the old soldier he is. “When we last spoke,” he begins, and Arthur draws back. This could go very badly. “You made some very valid points about your future career.”

Arthur’s jaw nearly drops. “Thank you,” he says, slowly. That was almost an apology.

“You know I was simply trying to assist you, but of course you have the final say on any career decisions, and how you wish to prepare for life.” Uther pauses, then, monotone, “It is admirable that you want to be self-sufficient.”

That may be the first time Uther has ever paid him a compliment. “Thank you,” Arthur says again, because isn’t this what he’s always wanted? “I’m glad you approve.” It doesn’t feel as good as he thought it would, but something lightens, in his chest. Like chains are being unlocked.

Uther nods, and they lapse into silence, sipping at the wine. Well, there. It happened. That was recognition by his father. Morgana would be having a field day. And yet—and yet—

“You also mentioned that you were seeing a young man,” Uther speaks suddenly, into the silence, and Arthur’s head jerks up and his eyes widen, because this is much, much more than he ever expected, more than he would have thought possible. “Does he have a name?”

Arthur starts to respond, then stops, out of long habit. “Actually, we’re—it’s—things have gotten more complicated in the last two weeks.”

“Oh?” Uther asks, and it almost sounds like he really wants to hear more. But it can’t be that, so Arthur only volunteers,

“Yes. I’m not entirely sure of our status at the moment.”

His father’s eyes—grey, not at all like Arthur’s—fix steadily on him for a minute, but when his son doesn’t go on, he sighs, and something in him seems to deflate, until suddenly he isn’t Uther Pendragon, but only a man.

“I know I’ve always been hard on you, Arthur,” he says, enunciating each word clearly, thoughtfully, “And I know it hasn’t always seemed fair. But I am your father. And if you need advice—” his face pinches. “If you need assistance,” he amends, and trails off.

“No,” Arthur yelps, because he can’t think of anything more embarrassing than that. But then—Arthur’s mother left him, in a way. Left him, and broke Uther. Arthur looks like his mother, but he thinks, he feels, he loves, like his father. Even now he just wants to tell Merlin about his father’s compliment, about the look on his father’s face and the sudden sense of release it had given him. He wants to do all that, but—Merlin will leave. Probably. Maybe.

“If you knew my mother was going to die,” Arthur asks. Something painful happens in his father’s face, a twist and paling and stealing, but he goes on, “If you knew you would lose her—would you still have married her? Would you still have let yourself fall in love?”

Uther doesn’t bat an eye at the mention of love. Instead, he rubs at his temples. He looks old, old and tired and heartsick. Does he look like that, Arthur wonders. Is that what it looks like to have your heart torn out?

“I loved your mother more than anything.” It’s so simple a statement it almost hurts. Simple, and true. A fact. “I never had a choice in that. But—if I had a choice—” and now Uther fixes his gaze at Arthur. It’s not the judging gaze Arthur is used to, the one that always finds him wanting. This is man-to-man, honest. “I wouldn’t give up a minute with her, not even for the years after her death.”

Arthur nods. Maybe, if it’s death—that’s not on purpose, and not foregone. It’s not secrets, it’s not Merlin keeping his heart from Arthur.

“And,” Uther goes on, and now there is humor in his gaze, though the rest of his face is still steel. “If he was worth your outburst last week—I don’t think you have a choice, either.”

That’s what Arthur is afraid of, because he’s almost certain it’s true. But love can make him listen. He can still leave, still survive without it.

*****

Merlin closes his eyes to savor the scent of hot coffee. It’s not that he hasn’t been fed for the past two weeks, because he has, Gwen and Gwaine and Lance took care of that, it’s just that it hasn’t been hot, because he usually hadn’t noticed it for hours.

But he can think again now, for what feels like the first time in years. Most of it is out, the first outburst of it. He can think and process and let the words of his novel simmer in the back of his head instead of overwhelming him in a heady rush. He can let the scent of coffee fill his head, and he can quantify it in descriptions and think of Percival considering it on his quest, and still enjoy it for himself. It’s not the blankness, not anymore. The words are still there, in the back of his head, catching on everything he sees. It’s simply—ease.

“You surfaced?” Gwaine asks, sliding into the kitchen and over to the coffee machine.

“Yeah.” Merlin pauses, then, because the man took care of him and clearly needs some sort of explanation, and he probably should have told him years ago anyway, but—“Gwaine…”

Gwaine grins, the cheerful, charming grin that never fails to put Merlin at ease. “I know. You are eternally grateful to me for all the trouble you have put me through and will repay me with copious amounts of alcohol and possibly a dedication.” At Merlin’s shocked look, he just shakes his head, hair swishing around his face. “How thick do you think I am? I’ve lived with you for two years. I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”

Merlin lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. Gwaine always manages to surprise, even him, with that core of nobility and strength that he covers in layers and layers of noise. But he’s always easy, simple. A friendship that doesn’t ask for anything. “Thanks,” he says, and means it. Means it for the talks and the pokes and the things he barely heard, but weren’t any less true for all that.

Gwaine nods, and understands. “You need to call Arthur, though,” he points out as he pours himself a mug of coffee. “I don’t think he’ll be nearly as understanding as me. Gwen says Morgana said that he’s been angsting all over the place.”

Merlin lets go of his mug to run his hand through his hair. Arthur. Shit. Right. He needs to do that, he knows it, but that means he has to explain, and he—well, he’s never explained it, never really had to say it. Lance figured it out then accepted it, Gwaine apparently always knew, he has no idea what Gwen thinks, and it was never a secret from his mother or Will. But Arthur knows and doesn’t understand. He couldn’t.

A hand claps down on Merlin’s shoulder, makes him jump. “Don’t worry, it’ll be okay,” Gwaine says, soft and for a second blindingly sincere. Then he leans away, and his grin flashes. “Just be naked and he’ll be too distracted to be mad.”

“Your advice is always just so sensible,” Merlin retorts, and Gwaine laughs and waves a hand as he retreats.

Merlin scowls into his coffee. He should call Arthur, he knows he should, because they need to have this out, because Arthur deserves to know. At the very least, he deserves to know it was him who broke the dams, who opened the doors something in Merlin had barred shut. He deserves to know, and to know what Merlin was, is. He deserves a chance to break up with him in person once he knows.

He can email him, Merlin compromises with himself, and returns to his room. He can email and then write. And maybe set an alarm.

*****

“Merlin, Arthur’s here!” Gwaine yells. Merlin hears it, he does, but he has one more sentence to finish this idea, and if he leaves now it might be gone forever into the ether—

“I’ll be out in a second,” he calls back, and dives back in. Percival at the lake, because he can’t resist lakes, deep waters under smooth surfaces, ever-changing but always the same, baptism and purity and destruction and all that stuff he and Arthur did their presentation on. And then that leads to Percival leaving the lake, returning to the hag who is not a hag, even if he doesn’t know that yet, the hag who is also the woman he loves and also his salvation. And…

“If you asked me to come, the least you could do is talk,” comes a drawl from the threshold, and Merlin spins in his chair. Arthur is standing there, framed by the door, all golden hair and cold face and shoulders set like a knight going into battle. Arthur, the boy who changed his story. Arthur, the man who most likely wants to kill him.

“Right. Yeah. Sorry, got caught up. Let me save this.” Merlin hits control-S, then emails it to himself just to be sure, because he is not losing this. Once that’s done, he stands and stretches, wincing at the cracks in his back from sitting in that chair too long. He’s going to need to buy that chair a ring soon.

Arthur watches impassively, face set in icy lines that look like nothing so much as his father. “Ready now?”

“I said I was sorry. I had to finish something,” Merlin snaps, because the habit is too ingrained not to. Then he remembers he’s supposed to be explaining, or apologizing, or maybe both or maybe neither, because he’s not sure what Arthur understands and what he doesn’t, not sure what he understands and what he doesn’t. So, he smiles, or tries to. “Want to go into the living room?”

“If you want Gwaine to hear.”

“He’s leaving. Right?” Merlin calls, and then there’s a bang from the hallway and the door slams shut. “See?”

“Fine.” Arthur follows Merlin into the living room, then sits on the couch. It’s amazing how he can sit without looking vulnerable, how he can look like a judge rather than a penitent. It’s nothing in his posture, in his face; it’s the nobility in his soul, if that wasn’t so trite. If it wouldn’t make everything so much worse, Merlin would just throw himself onto Arthur’s lap, try to absorb some of that essential greatness into him, some of that core of steel that never lets him compromise.

Then he ruins the lovely image by speaking. Snidely. “Weren’t you supposed to be talking?”

“Weren’t you supposed to not be bitchy,” Merlin shoots back, and then curses internally. No, mouth. He can do this. Slow breath, in and out. “Look, I’m—” He stops, then.

“Apologizing?” Arthur suggests. He crosses his arms over his chest.

Merlin paces to the window. He doesn’t look at Arthur. “Sort of. I was going to. But. Not really.”

“Articulate.” It’s like they’re back at the beginning, sniping and ice and awkwardness.

“I’m sorry you found out about Emrys like you did.” There, he can say that. That’s true. “It probably wasn’t great and I guess you can ask me stuff if you want, because I didn’t really—well, I wasn’t exactly—”

“Lance explained the pseudonym,” Arthur says stiffly, a concession. “He found the time to talk to me.”

“It’s not that.” Merlin sighs, runs a hand through his hair. He’s never had to explain this, never wanted to. “I couldn’t. If I hadn’t gotten it down now—if I hadn’t started—I had to, I didn’t have time—”

“Clearly, not, as you’ve disappeared for two weeks.”

“Okay.” Merlin spins, puts his hands on his hips and glares, because this is Arthur the prat and not the man he has come to love, the one who interprets Emrys all wrong, totally wrong, putting him into his little predetermined box in Arthur’s mind and never letting him out. “Stop with all the judging, because you don’t know what it’s been like for five years, five fucking years without anything, without anything to say or write and then it all comes back and yes, I had to get it out all at once because the words were back and I could see them and taste them and you know nothing, so just shut up.”

“I only know nothing because you didn’t tell me!” Arthur snaps, and surges to his feet. “You were breaking apart and you wouldn’t tell me why!”

“Because I couldn’t—”

“Because you wouldn’t,” Arthur corrects, “You knew and you didn’t tell me. You didn’t let me help you.”

“You did help me,” Merlin mutters, because it’s all he can say. Arthur helped him in all the ways he could. Arthur fixed him.

“Not on purpose. And not enough.” The muscles are tight in Arthur’s neck, like he’s a rubber band stretched to breaking again, and it almost breaks Merlin heart to see him back here when he had just lost his father’s chains. But these aren’t Merlin’s chains, he didn’t mean to put them on, didn’t mean to it just happened like Arthur just happened, breaking into his life and turning it back on.

Arthur heaves a breath. He glances down at the couch. Then, suddenly, his eyes fly up to meet Merlin’s. “Lance said you kept this a secret because you didn’t want me to hate you for being Emrys.” Merlin opens his mouth to protest, that’s a stupid reason that wasn’t even a tenth of it, but Arthur holds up a hand. “Morgana says it’s because you thought you were worthless.” That’s closer, that’s what he might have said, but something in it sounds wrong, isn’t true.

“And you?” Merlin asks. That’s what matters, in the end. That’s what will get him back to the man who held him while he fell apart. “What do you think?”

Arthur shakes his head. “I need to know, Merlin. If we’re going to—if we have any chance at getting back, I need to know why you lied.”

“I didn’t lie.”

“You omitted. It’s the same.”

“No,” Merlin says, and looks out the window again. It’s night. The stars are up, almost visible against the light pollution. “It’s really not. I can give you reasons. I was scared you’d hate me for what I wrote—you said you disagreed with everything Emrys said. I was scared I was worthless. I was failing, after all, and what’s a writer who doesn’t publish? I had gotten in too deep too fast and there was no way to tell you. There are your reasons. Happy now? ”

The wood creaks as Arthur moves. “And what’s yours?” he asks, quiet as a whisper.

Merlin looks out at the night. Remembers the warm dark of Ealdor, where Emrys started. Remembers the crisp air with Morgana, together in their weakness. Remembers Arthur’s eyes, hot and wanting in the dark, giving without taking.

“I’ve been blank for so, so long,” he breathes. “It’s not emptiness. Not suicidal or anything. Just—blank. A hole where everything used to be. I could see—I could almost see the stories. Almost know. Almost figure out how it all fit together. But there was—just, nothing. Like something in me was erased. Like what made me me was erased.”

“But—”

“It wasn’t a lie!” Merlin spins, and it comes out harsher than he expected, like it was torn deep from him, from the part of him that is made up of words and stories, like he ripped it from the story on his skin. “It wasn’t a lie because I wasn’t Emrys anymore! I wasn’t anything!” He hears the truth ring in his voice, and the pain that came from it. Arthur will leave now, he knows. Leave him because why would he stay for someone so broken? “I was just blank.”

Arthur’s face is pale, and he is braced as if for a blow. Merlin almost wants to touch him, to make sure he hasn’t turned to stone, but he knows better. Knows better than to provoke him. Knows better than to scare him away and make him leave sooner, now that he knows the essential truth of Merlin’s being, the black hole that is him.

He can’t look there anymore, can’t look at what he wants but can’t have and then he’ll fall apart, he’ll just let go. The stars are still there, except they’re not either. He closes his eyes, tries to remember that he isn’t blank anymore, that this is old fear talking, that he has words now at the very least.

It’s the last word that echoes in Arthur’s head. Blank. Not better, not different, just blank. Hiding the most important parts of himself, yet, but not for malice and not for lack of commitment. Just for fear and pain, and Arthur knows both of those. He remembers the vibrating energy Merlin gets, creation without outlet. The way he held onto Arthur that first night, like his last link to earth. That had been the part of him he was hiding, Emrys or whatever—and he had still held onto Arthur.

“You’re an idiot.”

Merlin blinks open his eyes. Deep, deep blue, like his favorite lakes. “What?”

“Really, a total idiot,” Arthur says, “Utterly and completely ridiculous. I mean, honestly, just because you had a little bit of writer’s block.”

“It was more than a little bit,” Merlin replies tentatively. Arthur ignores him.

“Just because you had a little bit of writer’s block you think you’re what, some sort of blank page? Ridiculous. And that’s what scared me?”

“Scared you?” Merlin repeats, and it’s half still dazed and half with a smile, like laughter is rising in him. “Scared the great Arthur Pendragon?”

“Here I was thinking you were keeping me out on purpose, and really you were just having idiotic self-esteem issues because you’re a brilliant writer.” The smile is growing out of Merlin now, just as huge and dimpling and sparkling and engaging as it was in the seminar room the first time he saw it, and his gaze is somewhere between soft and fond and the x-ray gaze that Arthur guess is Emrys, looking into the heart of things. It’s an essentially Merlin expression.

Maybe Merlin isn’t as invested, because he did still keep a secret. Maybe Merlin will leave him to enter the glittering world of literary fame. Maybe they’ll fall apart, two different people with different ambitions. And maybe Leon was right, he has to trust that love will be enough. And maybe his father is right, maybe he never had a choice.

So Arthur jumps.

“I love you.”

The smiles stops. So does Arthur’s heart.

Then it blossoms and Merlin’s eyes are shining as the stars outside. “Well, that’s convenient. I love you too.”

Arthur can’t find the words. So he goes with an old standby. “Idiot.”

“Clotpole.”

“Socailaist.”

“Elitist.”

They meet in the middle, and when their lips meet the words don’t matter.

*****

Later, much later, Arthur wakes to find the bed beside him empty and a clacking noise filling his dreams. Just like before. Like always, he thinks, and wonders if he jumped too soon—but no. He opens his eyes.

The clacking sound is Merlin at his computer, his face lit only by the backlight of his screen, his fingers flying. He looks rapt, exalted, like an artist. Which, Arthur supposes, he is.

And this is what it’ll be. Waking alone, with Merlin writing, caught up in his vision. And Merlin waking alone as he goes to work, spends long hours slogging at thankless tasks. And going to bed alone as Merlin dives into his vocation and forgets the world, and Arthur will have to feed him and water him and make sure he doesn’t dissolve into his words, doesn’t lose reality again.

“Merlin.” His shoulders twitch, so Arthur tries again. “Merlin.”

“What?”

“Come back to bed.”

“But—one more paragraph, I need—”

“Merlin,” Arthur says again, letting the words rumble out of his chest. “Come back to bed.”

The clacking slows, then stops. Merlin lets the chair turn to face the bed. Without the light, he’s not Emrys, he’s just Merlin, with his too-big ears and brilliant smile. Who Arthur will have to feed and water and take care of, and who can coax Arthur out of moods and encourage him and see to the heart of him and not flinch. Who makes Arthur better.

Merlin smiles, quick and sly. “Make me.”

The stars are bright outside the window as Arthur pulls Merlin away from his computer and they tumble, laughing, onto the bed.