Happy Merlin Holidays, corilannam [2/3]

[merlin-hols.livejournal.com]

oooOooo

Arthur remembers only too well the ugly showdown that followed. He remembers how Merlin sat, stiff and pale, on the couch in the corner of the library, while Uther yelled at Arthur in a tone Arthur had never heard before. There were words about insult to the whole royal family, about responsibility and stupid whims, about Arthur being a lousy son and a disgrace to the throne and to his father, about him being a selfish, spoiled brat who always had it easy and had no idea of what serving his people really meant. There were oceans and oceans of angry words pouring down until Arthur couldn’t take it anymore, until he jumped to his feet and yelled:

‘It was just a bit of fun, Father! I’m sorry! I won’t do it again!’

Uther sent him packing to be whisked away from Italy that same night. Arthur turned and walked out of the room, feeling Merlin’s eyes on him. He hadn’t even turned and looked at him – just walked out as if Merlin wasn’t there.

The resonance of that night had followed Arthur home and stayed with him for a long, long time. Morgana had flown in a week after him, bitching about how Arthur’s escapades had rid them all of a holiday. Then she’d looked at his face and promptly went quiet.

It wasn’t his fault, she’d said. He was just a confused little boy who grew up without his mother and came to rely too heavily on the fact that his father was infallible. Arthur yelled at her, angry. And then Morgana told him that Uther offered Merlin the hush money.

And Merlin, all of sixteen and out of nowhere and still reeling from everything that had happened to him that night, told the King of England to go to hell and was escorted out of the building by Leon.

It took nearly three months for Leon to start talking to Arthur again outside of duty. It took his father six month to start talking to Arthur again, period.

But it was only when Arthur’s heart jumped into his throat, during his first day at St. Andrews, at the sight of a skinny, dark-haired boy who looked a little bit like Merlin that it had finally sunk in.

Uther had been wrong, and Arthur had made the biggest mistake of his life by bowing to his will.

The knowledge churned within him for a year, punctuated by new arguments and more ugly rows. For the better part of Arthur’s freshman year, he hadn’t been on speaking terms with his immediate family. It was painful, but it couldn’t have been avoided.

Next fall, after celebrating his nineteenth birthday, Arthur came out on national television, telling the country that he was bisexual and if they had a problem with that, they should advise the king to appoint another heir.

The fallout had been spectacular, but Arthur suffered through it, secure in the knowledge that it had been worth it. The proud smile curving Morgana’s lips; the quiet approval in Leon’s eyes. And Arthur knew that somewhere, surrounded by his precious books and sketches, Merlin was watching, and it made the weight of Arthur’s guilt a little lighter, even if it never really did go away.

And now Merlin is here, back in Arthur’s life, no longer a boy but a man, impossible to ignore despite all the years that had passed, all the people Arthur had dated. Except Merlin clearly still hates him, and Arthur hasn’t got the first idea of how to make it right.

He glances over at Merlin’s castle again and sighs. Talk about escaping fate.


oooOooo

“Let me get this straight,” Gwaine says, staring at the still mildly shell-shocked Merlin across the booth. “You’re quitting your job with Nimueh, who, granted, is a bitch, but also hired you straight out of uni with no experience—”

“Yeah, to do her math and groundwork,” Merlin grumbles, sullen. “It’s not like she was going to give me my own project in the next fifty years or so. And did you miss the part where I won a national contest?”

Gwaine rolls his eyes. “Look, I’m not saying working for Nim was fun, and I know you’re way too talented to slave in her dungeon your whole life, but is working for Arthur bloody Pendragon really the best you could come up with?”

Merlin winces. “Keep your voice down.”

“Gwaine has a point, though,” Elena says softly, looping her arm through Merlin’s and looking up at him with big, concerned eyes. “I don’t care that he’s a prince – he broke your heart, darling.”

“Yes, Merlin,” Gwaine drawls, considerably less sympathetic. “Remember how you didn’t go out on a date for three years after that arsehole threw you out?”

“He didn’t – give it a rest, Gwaine. He is an heir to the throne. He couldn’t just—”

“What, come out? Remember how he did exactly that when it suited him?”

Merlin closes his eyes. He knows his friends mean well, but Gwaine is right, and Arthur’s rejection – or worse, blunt disregard of him – still smarts after all these years.

“If he stayed in the closet, I would have understood,” Gwaine keeps raving. “Not approved, mind, but well, royals and all that. But he came out. And that makes what he did to you doubly inexcusable. He dated that golfer bloke, Ralph something, didn’t he? What, he couldn’t have done you the simple courtesy of looking you up and—”

“Maybe I wasn’t worth it,” Merlin says quietly.

Gwaine snorts, but Elena stares at Merlin, wide-eyed. “You’re actually serious,” she breathes out in amazement, which brings Gwaine’s mirth to an abrupt end.

“What?” he blurts out. “Merlin, do you want me to smack you?”

“Look” – Merlin sits up straighter, extricating himself from Elena’s hold – “so not everyone likes me as much as you do. It’s not a crime, okay? I’m not saying he couldn’t have handled it better, but it’s not Arthur’s fault he’s got more... refined tastes.”

Gwaine claps a hand over his forehead in despair. Elena frowns. “You’re talking rubbish, Merlin, honestly.”

“It doesn’t get more refined than you, mate.” Gwaine pins him down with an intense, heated gaze. “Trust me.”

“Gwaine!” Merlin hisses, blushing. “Your girlfriend is right here.”

“She doesn’t mind,” Elena says, smirking, and tweaks Merlin’s ear. “I could lend him to you, provided there’ll be video footage.”

Merlin buries his face in his hands, hot all over. “You are both horrible, horrible people. I have no idea why I’m friends with either of you.”

“Let’s see,” Elena says, amused. “You had that embarrassing crush on Gwaine since middle school, which he exploited to pass languages, and I broke your arm your first year at uni.”

Merlin stares at Gwaine dumbly. “You—”

Gwaine lifts up his hands. “Hey, it’s not that I didn’t want to bang you, Merlin; it’s just that you were so damn sweet and innocent—”

“I would have helped you with languages anyway, you arse. You didn’t have to be a tease about it.”

Gwaine smirks. “Aw, but Merlin, sweetheart. You’re so much fun to tease.”

Merlin turns to Elena, affronted, but she just grins. “It’s not like he’s wrong about that,” she tells him almost apologetically and ruffles his hair.

“Dear God,” Merlin says and stands up. “I need more alcohol.”

“You need to get laid,” Gwaine says, trailing after him to the bar.

“Right.” Merlin rolls his eyes. “Because that’s your solution for everything.”

“I’m just saying, Merlin – with Prince Charming constantly around, you need to take preemptive measures before you fall for him again like a ton of bloody bricks.”

“I won’t fall for him again.” Merlin scowls. “I’m not that stupid.”

Gwaine wraps an arm around Merlin’s shoulder, giving him a regretful look. “Actually, my big-hearted friend, you kind of are.”

Merlin shakes his arm off and glares at him. “Look, Gwaine, I appreciate your and Elena’s concern, I really do, but I can take care of myself, okay? Just because Arthur’s around doesn’t mean I’m sixteen again. I sincerely doubt he’d want to spend time with me, and I sure as hell don’t plan on stalking him, so that’s it. I’m working for him – and that’s all there is or ever will be. And I don’t want to talk about it again.”

He stalks over toward the bar, hoping against hope that it was Gwaine he was trying to convince and not himself.


oooOooo

Except, of course, Gwaine was right. Merlin is exactly that stupid.

He doesn’t feel sixteen anymore, but, within two weeks of working for the Trust, he feels as defenceless before this new, adult version of Arthur as he once had been. The new Arthur is rather a lot to take.

There is, for instance, Arthur’s insisting on being called Arthur by everyone who works in the building (and Clarence House as well, if rumours are to be trusted).

“He likes to keep things a bit more casual,” Gwen enlightens Merlin on his second day. “His Majesty wouldn’t approve, of course, but this fund is Arthur’s baby.”

“You call him Your Highness, though,” Merlin points out.

Gwen smiles. “I do. I grew up in the Pendragon household. There are certain things you can’t just dismiss, no matter what Arthur – His Highness – says.”

“Do people always fall over their feet to please him?” Merlin asks with a frown, remembering a scene from just that morning. One of the girls from the website developing team nearly took a dive off the stairs, trying to be the one to bring Arthur his coffee.

Gwen’s expression becomes a little closed off and she glances at Merlin unhappily. “You haven’t been here long enough to understand,” she says. “Everyone who works for Arthur is extremely loyal.”

Merlin watches her go and thinks, reluctantly, that he can actually see how that could be true.

According to Gwen, who Merlin only knows through Lancelot but whom he has no reason not to trust, when Arthur took over the Queen’s Trust management, he turned a mediocre charity organisation that hadn’t done anything noteworthy since Queen Ygraine’s death, into a force to be reckoned with. He wrote marketing strategies and developed fundraising campaigns; hired and personally trained the staff; made the fund take a proactive position on every major issue the country was facing; organised a call-centre and was known to personally man the hotline when someone needed a day off. Whenever state business wasn’t demanding his presence, Arthur was here, working twice as hard as any other person in the building.

Merlin realises it’s selfish of him, but he can’t help but feel sadder with every new scrap of information. On top of being gorgeous and a prince, Arthur seems to be a genuinely good guy all the way around. A little spoiled, a little privileged, but good. It would have been easier to face his rejection if he was just another entitled rich kid without a care in the world.

So when Arthur manifests in the doorway of Merlin’s office (Merlin still can’t quite get over the fact that he has his own space – and with a view, too), and asks if Merlin would like to have a drink with him, all Merlin can do is stare at him with a horrible, sinking feeling in his stomach.

Whenever they ran into each other during the last two weeks, they exchanged a cool greeting, trying to maintain a complete strangers act. But apparently Arthur has never been so cold with any new member of his team, and people began to shoot them progressively weirder looks.

“Um,” Merlin says.

He knows it’s not a date. Arthur is wearing the universal ‘We need to talk’ face, and Merlin knows that they probably do. He doesn’t think he can stand to exist in this kind of cold war neutrality for the next two years. With an internal wail of regret, Merlin realises that he might not be too eager to break his neck to bring Arthur his coffee, but he’s been quietly envious of the easy rapport his co-workers have with Arthur. It feels wrong to be excluded, even if it means Merlin has no pride.

“Okay,” he sighs at long last.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Well, try not to sound so excited – it’s embarrassing.”

Despite himself, Merlin grins. He shuts down his computer, grabs his jacket, and follows Arthur out, throwing one last longing glance at his draft table. Work always does bring him peace, and he’s never happier than when he’s ‘in the zone.’

Outside, the evening rush hour is abating. Merlin turns his head, wondering vaguely when it became his habit to stay this late.

“Anytime today, Merlin?” Arthur’s voice brings him back to reality.

Merlin scowls, walking toward a midnight blue monster of a Jaguar that’s casually presiding over the kerb.

“I suppose you driving a Mini Cooper was too much to hope for?” Merlin grumbles.

Arthur looks mildly embarrassed. “I like cars.”

“Well, it’s not like His Highness has to worry about finding a parking space,” a new voice cuts in from behind, and Merlin whirls around to find a familiar face smiling at him.

“Leon!”

Leon chuckles and shakes Merlin’s hand. “Mister Emrys. You’ve grown up tall.”

Merlin laughs. “And you look better with your hair long. And a beard. It’s quite fetching.” He shakes his head. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”

“And you.” Leon nods. “I understand that your project has won the contest? Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Merlin blushes.

“Don’t you have a job to do?” Arthur asks, and Merlin winces before realising Arthur is talking to Leon. “Like keeping me alive or something?”

“My apologies.” Leon’s expression sobers, and he finally lets go of Merlin’s hand. “We’ll be trailing you as always, Your Highness. Please do not try to shake us and kindly obey the speed limit.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I know, Leon; I’m not five. Merlin, get in.”

Merlin throws an apologetic glance at Leon before sliding into the passenger seat.

“You didn’t have to be quite so rude,” he tells Arthur gruffly. “He was only doing his job.”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow, his eyes on the traffic. “By flirting with you? I don’t remember that being in his job description.”

Merlin gives him an incredulous look. “We were just talking, you enormous arse.”

“He’s on duty. He isn’t supposed to be ‘just talking.’” Arthur makes a face and glances sideways at Merlin. “Put your seatbelt on.”

Merlin sighs, sinking into the seat. There’s no point in arguing. “Do they always follow you?” he asks instead.

Arthur looks grim. “Yes. But it’s a relief that I’m allowed to drive at all. I hadn’t been able to for a while, after Belfast.”

“Oh.” Merlin swallows. “Were you scared?”

“Was I scared when a raging homophobe threw a makeshift grenade at me and landed me in a hospital?” Arthur huffs impatiently. “I live for those kinds of moments, Merlin. What do you think?”

“Sorry. Stupid question.” Merlin presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “I had a long day.”

Arthur is silent for a while. Merlin stares out the window.

“There wasn’t any time to become scared,” Arthur says quietly at long last. “It happened too quickly. One moment I was standing next to the mayor, the next I was lying down on the ground and my head was killing me. There just wasn’t any time.”

Merlin looks at him. The plastic surgeons had obviously done a superb job, but he can still see a pale, thin line of a scar that grazes Arthur’s temple, disappearing into his hairline. Merlin remembers the days spent in front of the telly, waiting for news. He wants to say something, maybe tell Arthur how he waited, but he doesn’t. It’s not his place.

He is reminded all over again why he should never have presumed to think of becoming Arthur’s… something. Arthur is a man of action. He saves the world as best he can, leads his people into the new era of acceptance and tolerance by example, gets nearly killed for his trouble, and continues anyway.

Merlin is – Merlin is a dreamer who happens to be good at manipulating maths and shapes. He builds air castles in his head and very rarely, when he’s lucky, he gets to build something on real ground. He’s no match for Arthur, who’s already under fire for his choice of a no-name as the hospital architect. Arthur remained pretty much unflappable about the whole affair, but Merlin still feels his cheeks burn at some of the questions thrown his way.

He’s so fully consumed by his unhappy musings that he barely registers when they arrive at their destination. But in no time at all, he’s standing beside Arthur in the restaurant lobby and being looked over up and down by an elderly maître d’, who seems utterly unimpressed.

Merlin blushes but refuses to cower before him. So maybe he isn’t dressed as smartly, but he didn’t know Arthur would take him out tonight. The fact that Merlin probably doesn’t own any clothes that would be acceptable in this place is beside the point.

“This is like a scene from Pretty Woman,” Merlin mutters under his breath as they are shown to a table.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Arthur smirking. “Don’t flatter yourself, Merlin. You’re not that pretty.”

Merlin elbows him. “Shut up, Audrey.”

Arthur snorts, surprised. Merlin can feel his gaze – assessing, and maybe a little hopeful – but doesn’t turn to meet his eyes. It’s easy to fall into this pattern with Arthur; easier than Merlin thought it would be. He has to constantly remind himself why this would be a spectacularly bad idea.

Out of the sheer spirit of defiance, Merlin flashes the waiter a blinding grin and orders a pint. Arthur looks at him with a shrewd kind of speculation in his eyes and says, “Make that two.”

The waiter doesn’t bat an eyelash, and the drinks appear fast enough to suspect magic.

Merlin looks over at Arthur, who seems to be riveted by the moist droplets on his glass. “So. Is there a reason for this outing?”

Arthur starts slightly, but then his jaw sets in silent expression of determination and he meets Merlin’s gaze steadily.

“Merlin, I wanted to talk to you,” he starts slowly, “about what happened in Italy. I realise that you have every right to be angry with me. I wanted to—”

“Don’t,” Merlin interrupts, surprising them both.

For years, he had longed to see remorse on Arthur’s face. To hear the words ‘I’m sorry’ spilling from his lips over and over again. To see him grovelling and begging for forgiveness.

But, now that Arthur is seemingly prepared to do all these things, Merlin suddenly finds that he no longer wants it. Arthur can only say he’s sorry about the way things ended, not for the fact that they had ended. That’s something he can never give, and Merlin doesn’t want to punish him for it.

Arthur looks confused. “Merlin, I was going to—”

“Apologise.” Merlin nods. “I know. You don’t have to, Arthur. I understand.”

“But—”

“Look, you were seventeen; not exactly the age of wisdom.” Merlin allows himself a small grin. “You are the crown prince, and things really are different for you. I get that.”

“Still, I should have—”

“I was there, Arthur,” Merlin reminds him, picking at the beer mat. “Your father certainly doesn’t hold back his punches.”

Arthur flinches, pursing his lips, but remains silent.

“Look, Arthur.” Merlin sighs. “I just want to move on from it, yeah? I mean, sure, you were a right prat, but it was just one drunken snog – basically nothing.”

Very quietly, Arthur says, “It wasn’t ‘nothing’ to me.”

“Well, obviously, it wasn’t too much of a something,” Merlin snaps before he can stop himself. “Seeing as how you just left me there and never contacted me again.”

“I couldn’t, at first. And later, I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me.”

“I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur repeats and reaches to take hold of Merlin’s wrist. Merlin tries to pull it away childishly, but Arthur doesn’t let him. “I’m really sorry, Merlin. I never wanted to hurt you. That night was such a mess.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“You keep saying that, but it’s clear that I do.”

“No, you don’t.” Merlin jerks his wrist free. “We’re different people now, Arthur. Just because I was stupid enough to fall in love with you at sixteen doesn’t mean you owe me anything!”

Arthur’s jaw drops. “You what?”

Shit. Merlin winces. “… Can we forget I said that? It’s all in the past anyway, and everyone has teen crushes – you can’t blame me for that. It’s not like they were even real feelings, just hormones and stuff, and you weren’t half-bad looking. I mean, for a prat.”

Arthur’s lips curve into a delighted smirk. “You’re babbling.”

“Sorry.” Merlin winces again. “Just – we’re good now, okay? You can stop walking on eggshells around me. It’s really annoying.”

Arthur stares at him for the longest time ever in a way that Merlin can’t read. He tries not to squirm under the scrutiny.

“Would you like another beer?” Arthur asks at last, a small smile lurking in the corner of his mouth.

Merlin sags in his seat. “Yes, please.”

He doesn’t drink enough that night to burst spontaneously into song, but he does curse Gwaine profusely in the morning.


oooOooo

After that, it’s easy. Merlin often thinks that it shouldn’t be this easy, but it is. It’s disgustingly simple to smile every time Arthur smirks at him, to go insult for insult with him during staff meetings to the quiet horror (and amusement) of everyone present, to stomp on a flutter in his chest when Arthur asks to join him and Gwen for lunch. Arthur treats him like an old friend, and Merlin tells himself repeatedly that it’s a very bad idea to continue as they are, but he has no heart to stop it.

The lunches become something of a tradition whenever Arthur is in the building and Merlin isn’t away at the construction site. (He has developed some kind of love-hate relationship with the head of the construction team, and every time Merlin comes back moody and covered in white lime, Arthur makes a point of laughing at him.)

Arthur starts texting Merlin and not Gwen when he’s running late. The first time it happens, Merlin orders for Arthur – a cold pasta salad that he picks over Gwen’s objections. (‘His Highness doesn’t seem to like pasta.’) When Arthur does arrive, he glances at his plate and goes still for a moment. Then he gives Merlin a warm, if slightly pained, look and nods before picking up his fork. Merlin nods and thinks that they’re all right, mostly.

“You’re setting yourself up for a disaster,” Elena tuts at him, scattering crisps all over Merlin’s couch on a rare stay-at-home Saturday.

Merlin shrugs, but he doesn’t look at her when he says, “I like that we’re friends again, that’s all. I missed him. He’s… he’s really – really something, El.”

She shakes her head and sighs. “You’re letting him off too easily, Merlin.”

And Merlin sort of knows that, but also can’t help but think that it wouldn’t be right to hold a grudge. It took seeing Arthur again to understand that he can’t, in good conscience, blame Arthur for not wanting him back as much as Merlin had wanted him. Merlin wishes he could, but it’s simply not happening. Not when he’s confronted with Arthur’s kind smile and not when he’s watching him pull one all-nighter after another so that he could both be on The Sun’s front page playing polo and really help people, away from the paparazzi and camera flashes.

Arthur Pendragon at the peak of his game is hard to resist.

Merlin can’t really complain though. His job is draining and stressful, considering he has no experience with a project this size, but it’s also making him happier than he’s ever remembered being. He concentrates on that, and if there’s also Arthur – well.

There’s also Arthur.


oooOooo

Merlin is rapidly going cross-eyed, staring at the calculations that simply don’t want to fit, when a cup of coffee suddenly appears in front of him. He blinks. It’s a sign of how exhausted and exasperated Merlin is feeling that he takes a sip before he actually looks up to find Arthur smiling at him, bemused.

“Are you a delivery boy now?” Merlin quips, grinning.

“You looked like you would keel over any second,” Arthur says, shoving his hands in his pockets and shrugging.

Merlin finds himself staring at the firm line of Arthur’s shoulders, stretching his white shirt with every little motion. Arthur seems to have some undue fondness for white shirts – much to Merlin’s chagrin, because he looks illegally good in them, especially in his ‘end of the day, rolled up sleeves, undone collar’ mode. Merlin only manages to look away when a sip of coffee he’s carelessly taking goes down the wrong way.

Arthur laughs, pounding his back. “Honestly, Merlin. How you managed to stay alive for so long is a mystery to all.”

“Wanker,” Merlin says without heat, wishing Arthur would take his hand off his shoulder; it’s distracting. Merlin looks up, his head dropping back, to meet Arthur’s eyes. “Do you have a reason for being here, other than disrupting my work?”

Arthur stares down at him for a long moment with a strangely arrested expression on his face.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” he says softly.

Merlin swallows, his throat feeling suddenly as if it’s filled with sandpaper. “Um, yeah, I – I use them for reading. Sometimes at the end of the day, the strain is just – and I, um…”

“I like them,” Arthur says, still in that quiet, gentle tone. “They make you look smart.”

His thumb grazes the skin of Merlin’s neck above his collar, and then Arthur steps back, the touch gone as suddenly as it appeared, leaving Merlin bereft.

“What are these?” Arthur asks, standing in front of the drawing board Merlin had installed that morning.

“Ah, yes.” Merlin pulls himself out of the chair awkwardly and joins Arthur. “Bors and I were having a bit of an argument about the wiring. I did a similar project in my third year, and I thought I’d take a look. Maybe pull a few things.”

Arthur turns page after page carefully, studying the blueprints and sketches. “All these are yours?” he asks, sounding awed. “Merlin... these are incredible.”

Merlin chuckles, trying not to blush. “No offence, but you’re hardly an expert.”

“Oh, I’ve probably seen more blueprints than you, trust me,” Arthur says absently, still intent on the board. “People send us all kinds of stuff for our projects, but we’ve never had anything this good.” He looks at Merlin sharply. “Have you shown them to anyone?”

“Well.” Merlin pushes the glasses up his nose, glancing down for a moment. “Nimueh, my former boss, she wasn’t really interested, and, um… yours was the first contest thingy I entered, apart from those at uni, I mean. These might need some work, depending on where they’d be built, but it’s not like I can actually sell them to anyone, so it’s kind of a moot point. I mean. Right?”

Arthur stares at him blankly for so long that Merlin begins to shift from foot to foot awkwardly and fiddle with his glasses again.

“What?” he blurts out at last.

“Merlin,” Arthur says slowly, “exactly how daft are you?”

Merlin scowls, but Arthur grabs his shoulder and turns him around, almost pushing him nose-first into the blueprints.

“These could bring you a fortune and make you the most sought-after architect this side of the Pond.”

Merlin snorts. “Yeah, right.”

Arthur actually groans, his fingers digging into Merlin’s shoulder. “Merlin, listen carefully, because I’m only going to say this once. You’re bloody brilliant, okay? Do you think you just happened to pick a lucky number when you won this contest? Do you know how many experts were on the technical board for it? You didn’t get the highest scores by accident, you dimwit. And these – these are awesome, and I’m taking them.”

“What?” Merlin jerks up, extremely confused and blushing furiously. “Where?”

Arthur is already gathering the sheets into a neat roll. “To Morgana. She’ll know the right people to show them to.”

“But—”

“I’ve just found you an agent, Merlin. Thank me later.”

“You can’t just—”

“Oh, yes, I can. Somebody has to, and you’re too bloody stupid to do it yourself.”

“You just said I was brilliant.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “In architecture. The rest of the time, you’re a complete idiot.”

“You really think they’re good?” Merlin asks quietly. “You’re not just… being nice or something?”

Arthur gives him a long-suffering look. “Let me put it another way, Merlin. If I don’t bring those to Morgana, and she finds out later that I could have and didn’t, she’s going to cut my balls off. Since I happen to like them where they are, I want to make it very clear that I’m not doing this for you. Is that clear?”

Merlin s grinning. “Crystal.”

“Good.” Arthur nods. “I’m glad we had this little talk. Don’t stay up too late or I’ll send Leon to drag you out of here.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Your Highness. It’s not like you’re setting an example or anything.”

Arthur shakes his head, but his lips are twitching. “You and your bloody cheek, Merlin, I swear to God.”

“Arthur,” Merlin calls after him. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Arthur doesn’t turn around. “You’re welcome.”


oooOooo

“Well,” Morgana intones, bemused, stretching on the sofa like a cat once she’s done flicking through the sketches. “Looks like our baby boy is all grown up. These are really good, Arthur.”

“I know,” Arthur says, stopping for a moment in his pacing. “That idiot, though. He hasn’t got a clue about their worth.”

Morgana shrugs one shoulder delicately. “Merlin probably knows that academic praise doesn’t count for much in the real world. And Nimueh Blake isn’t exactly known for honing young talent.”

“Can you do something?” Arthur asks, trying to curb his impatience.

“Hardly more than you’ve already done, brother dear.” Morgana smiles at him sweetly.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I mean, show them to the right people?”

“Of course.” Morgana nods regally. “You should make some introductions yourself, though. Why don’t you take him to the charity ball in December? Everyone he needs to know will be there, and I can spread these out by then. Prepare the turf, so to speak.”

Arthur stops to stare at her. “That’s a brilliant idea, Morgana. I was going to invite him anyway, but—”

“As your date?” she asks slyly.

“No,” Arthur says, fighting down a blush. “Yes. Maybe?”

She laughs. “My, my, Arthur. So decisive.”

“It’s just that—” Arthur throws his hands up in surrender. “It’s Merlin. And I’ve no idea if this is – what this is.”

Morgana purses her lips, obviously enjoying his struggle, but she eventually takes pity on him.

“You’re asking yourself if you only like him because you had already liked him once before, is that it?”

Arthur looks at her helplessly. “Er… something like that?”

“Okay. Then imagine that you and Merlin have no history. Imagine the first time you’ve met him was when he actually won that contest of yours. Do it and see if you’d done anything differently.”

Arthur closes his eyes and tries.

He sees Merlin walking into that conference room for the first time – not being dragged in by Gwen, but just stepping in, smiling shyly, a look of disbelief on his face. Arthur would shake his hand and probably let it linger too long in his, because Merlin’s eyes would be right there, hopeful and brimming with excitement. His skin is warm and smooth to the touch, he’s got long fingers – artist’s hands – and Arthur would only let go when Gwen clears her throat.

He sees Merlin as he is every day – storming into the headquarters late, barely awake, tripping over the steps and his own feet, desperately craving coffee. He’s rescued by the girls from the website team, who ply him with coffee while trying to do something about his hair. It gives him that delicious ‘just shagged’ look, and the girls coo at him and tease him while he smiles guilelessly and draws quick sketches for their new banners. They give him biscuits and more coffee before they send him off.

He sees Merlin going blow for blow with Bors as the giant of a man tries to get him to change his design to make it more comfortable for the construction team. But Merlin holds his own. He spent months, he snaps, creating the most cost-effective, eco-friendly, aesthetically pleasing design, and he would not be swayed just because someone wants an extra smoking break. Bors tries to ambush him with figures, but Merlin has everything backed up, including extensive ground research and a full list of materials with suppliers’ addresses and bargain prices on top. No one should look so hot while going on a tangent about white clay or bricks, but watching Merlin trounce Bors always makes Arthur hot under the collar.

He sees Merlin in his small office during the quiet, late evenings as he constantly moves around between his laptop, the draft table, and the drawing board. Merlin owns exactly two suits, which makes Arthur sad, but he rarely wears them to work. Merlin says that it’s too much to ask of someone to look like a ‘bloody Esquire cover’ when they have to spend half their day in a hard cap and up to their knees in cement. So Merlin wears skinny jeans and wrinkled jumpers that look like he’d bought them back at uni. And of course, late at night, there’ll be glasses – those goddamn glasses that drive Arthur absolutely mad, and he didn’t even know it was a thing before.

Merlin would look at him helplessly and ask, his voice rough with fatigue, if Arthur thinks Bors was right and Merlin should stop yelling at people who, unlike him, have done this before. Arthur would talk to him quietly about working with people, not lecturing but advising, and Merlin would listen silently, absorbing it all, and he wouldn’t mind or even notice Arthur’s hand resting on his back all the while, rubbing little circles unconsciously, daringly venturing into his hair a few times under the guise of ruffling it.

Merlin would smile then and ask, ‘So I’m not fired yet?’ Arthur would cuff him on the head lightly, and pull his glasses off, and drag him into the empty staff room. They’d order takeaway, and watch some telly, flicking mindlessly through the channels, too tired yet to stand up and go home. If Arthur is lucky, Merlin would doze off slumped against his shoulder (that had happened twice), and Arthur would let him be until Leon comes to drive them both to their respective homes. (The second time, Arthur fell asleep, too, and was woken up by a flash to find a grinning Leon stuffing his mobile into his pocket.)

Once, when Merlin was very tired and little bit tipsy from a single glass of champagne (they’d been celebrating the foundation being finally in place), he went as far as kiss Arthur sloppily on the cheek when Arthur dropped him off at his flat.

Arthur opens his eyes and stares at Morgana. She lifts an eyebrow, and Arthur groans and falls into an armchair.

“Tea?” Morgana says innocently.

“Please,” Arthur moans, rubbing his face.

“Would have treated him differently then, I take it?”

“Yeah.” Arthur pulls the cup closer. “I’d have asked him out ages ago.”

Morgana laughs. “You boys and your big, scary, manly feelings. Did it hurt much – working that out?”

“You know, you don’t get to be so smug after that story with Tristan,” Arthur grumbles.

Morgana shoots him a dark look. “I thought we were never speaking of it again,” she hisses. “You, Arthur Pendragon, are no gentleman.”

The mention of his family name makes Arthur wince. “Shit. Father will go ballistic.”

Morgana shrugs, pouring so much milk into her tea that Arthur cringes. “It’s your life, Arthur, not Uther’s. Besides” – she smirks – “you can always abdicate.”

Arthur stares at her for a moment before bursting out laughing. “You witch! You’re always after my crown.”

Morgana smiles at him sweetly. “I just think it’d look better on me, that’s all.”

Arthur smirks and drinks his tea and tries not to think about how, if it actually comes to that, the choice might be easier to make than anyone, even Morgana, suspects.


oooOooo

Arthur walks into Uther’s study, trying not to flinch. The room has always felt a bit oppressive to him, with its abundance of dark wood and red drapes.

“You wanted to see me, Father,” Arthur says, coming to a halt before Uther’s desk.

It was a sad day in Arthur’s life when he realised that his relationship with his father was not irreparable and would mutate, in time, into one of mutual respect, but it would never again be cordial. It was several years past, but the reminder still stings and will probably never cease.

“Yes.” Uther looks up from whatever paper he’s been studying and gestures with his hand. “Sit down, Arthur.”

Arthur obeys, watching as Uther reaches into his drawer to pull a medium-size yellow envelope.

“The press doesn’t have these yet,” Uther says, handing the envelope over to Arthur.

Curious and mildly concerned, Arthur opens it.

Photos. About a dozen of them, with a kind of black-and-white high-grained quality only produced by professionals who don’t care about the art, but do care about snatching every detail.

Arthur and Merlin at the construction site with Bors. Bors is clearly displeased with something and is glaring at Merlin. Arthur stands close at Merlin’s side, hand wrapped around his forearm, holding him back and instinctively shielding him.

Arthur and Merlin at the construction site alone. Merlin is pointing at something, excited; Arthur is just staring at him with a soft smile.

Arthur and Merlin at the HQ entrance. Merlin is trying not to spill his coffee while pulling out his mobile. Arthur’s hand is at the small of his back, the other one holding the door open for him.

Arthur and Merlin by Arthur’s car, bickering.

Arthur, Merlin and Leon at the small café across the street from HQ.

Arthur and Merlin at the same café alone, Merlin snagging cheese off Arthur’s plate and smirking.

There are quite a few more, none incriminating in any way but all painfully obvious. Arthur realises suddenly that he’s smiling, being drawn into the captured moments, forgetting where they came from. He looks up to find Uther staring at him.

Arthur lifts an eyebrow; Uther sighs.

“I suppose,” the king intones in a flat, disinterested tone, “it would be unviable to assume that Merlin Emrys has suddenly become a common name?”

Arthur purses his lips. “I imagine so.” At Uther’s continuing scrutiny, Arthur frowns. “I didn’t go looking for him, if that’s what you’re implying, although I probably should have. This was chance. But I don’t intend to let him go again.”

Uther contemplates him silently. Arthur shrugs. “You can always make Morgana the first in line.”

Uther lifts his eyebrows. “I’m not that keen on resurrecting the Third Reich.”

Arthur smothers a snort. At least their opinion of Morgana is something they still have in common.

At long last, Uther says, “At some point, an introduction would be in order. Preferably before you take this to another TV show.”

Arthur scoffs. “You’ve met him.”

Uther’s glance is steely, but something softens in his expression. “A proper introduction, Arthur, if you are serious about this.”

Arthur bites his lip to keep from responding at once. He knows Uther will never apologise – his father doesn’t apologise to anyone for anything. But this is as much of an equivalent as Arthur is ever going to get.

“I am serious,” he says. “And I will introduce him when we figure things out.”

If we figure things out, he thinks, but doesn’t say. Because, while Arthur looks unquestionably smitten in the photos, Merlin can’t, strictly speaking, be called anything of the sort. He seems friendly and perhaps a little bit flirtatious, but that’s all.

Uther seems satisfied with Arthur’s response and changes the subject, talking about Arthur’s planned royal appearances for the next month.

When Arthur leaves, he takes the photos with him.


oooOooo

“You cook?” Merlin stares incredulously as Arthur selects ingredients from his fridge before laying them out on the worktable.

Arthur shoots him a narrow-eyed look. “Don’t look so surprised, Merlin. It’s insulting.”

Merlin lifts his hands up, grinning. “It’s just that I never pictured you, of all people, bent over a cooker. Don’t you have, like, an army of servants to wait on you?”

“Not here, I don’t.” Arthur shakes his head, gesturing vaguely at the flat. “This is just me, mostly. I mean, someone comes to clean and stock the groceries, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Merlin is grinning.

Arthur glares at him. “Stop that.”

“I’m sorry, but you – you have an apron.”

Arthur’s cheeks colour slightly as he begins to deftly chop the vegetables. “Irene gave me the apron, if you must know.”

“Your housekeeper from Clarence House?”

“Yes. She likes me; I’m good with my employees. I’m also good with animals, if horses and dogs are any indication. And I sign photographs for little children.”

Merlin opens the fridge, hoping for some ice cream. “And you’re telling me this why?”

“I just thought I’d point that out in case you haven’t noticed. You’re not very bright, Merlin – what are you doing?”

“Augh, let go,” Merlin grunts when Arthur hooks a finger through his belt loop and tugs him back.

“No sweets before dinner, Merlin.” Arthur snatches the box from his hands and shoves it back into the fridge unceremoniously. “Honestly, it’s like you’re five.”

“You promised me to feed me when you dragged me here.” Merlin pouts. “I’ll starve before you’re done with your three-course meal of doom over there.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “It’s just an omelette, Merlin, it won’t take that long.”

“An omelette? You’re making me an omelette?”

“Is there some significance to that action that I’m not aware of?”

“No, it’s just – it’s night!”

“So? You said yourself you were hungry. And anyway, it’s not just any omelette, and I happen to like them.” Arthur finally looks up and catches his expression. “Oh, for God’s sake, Merlin. Open some wine and shut up.”

Except of course the bottle opener is an instrument of evil, and Arthur doubles over laughing as he watches Merlin struggle to pull the cork free.

“You could have helped, you prat,” Merlin complains, red-faced with effort. But he can’t help grinning at the sight of Arthur’s infectious mirth.

“And rid myself of such a spectacle? Not on your life.” Arthur pants with laughter. He scrutinizes the bottle and his eyes go wide. “Merlin. Am I to understand that the cork is now inside?”

Merlin bites his lip. “Um. You can still pour that way.”

He reaches to demonstrate, but Arthur grabs him in a headlock, hand diving into Merlin’s hair, ruffling it mercilessly. “You” – tug – “are” – tug – “unbelievable.”

He pushes Merlin off, but his palm remains pressed against the nape of Merlin’s neck for a moment longer. Merlin swallows.

Arthur shakes his head, grinning. “Just sit down, Merlin, before you ruin something else, I swear to God. How are you still alive?”

“No one really knows.” Merlin shrugs, watching as Arthur pours him a glass of wine, still snickering at the drowned cork.

Arthur slides the glass over to him; their fingers brush. Merlin looks down, nodding his thanks. Arthur turns back to the cooker and clears his throat.

Merlin traces the rim of the glass with his finger, trying to make a sound. It stays silent. He sighs.

“Arthur?”

“Hm?”

“Not that I don’t appreciate all this, but, um... can I ask what brought this on?”

Arthur glances at him over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you never brought me here before, for one. I didn’t even know you kept a city flat.”

Arthur shrugs. “Clarence House can get a bit much.” He upends the bowl into the saucepan with a certain hand. “Despite appearances, I don’t really enjoy living in the same building as my office.”

“Okay,” Merlin concedes. “But still. I mean—”

“Are you worried that this is a date?” Arthur asks, his attention on the softly sizzling pan. “It’s not a date, Merlin, you can relax.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Merlin protests, but it’s a bit hard to swallow his disappointment. He doesn’t know if a date with Arthur is a good thing, but, now that he knows this isn’t one, he feels strangely down all of a sudden.

“Of course you were, Merlin, because you’re a girl,” Arthur says, but it sounds automatic. He glances over his shoulder with a wry grin. “Can’t I enjoy a quiet meal with a friend?”

Merlin smiles and lets it go.

The meal is quiet and pleasant. Arthur talks about the upcoming visit of the King of Spain, and how, the last time he was in London, he forgot he was the guest of honour and kept everyone up till sunrise. They talk and laugh, and Arthur caves in the end and gives Merlin his ice cream, watching him with fond exasperation.

Merlin is relaxed and slightly buzzed and isn’t expecting it when Arthur suddenly asks, “But what if this was a date?”

Merlin blinks, startled. “Wha-what do you mean? You just said—”

“Yeah, I know.” Arthur sighs. “Just forget it, okay? No need to look so scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Merlin says, trying to sit up a little straighter. “It’s just that... Arthur, back in Italy, I thought the problem was that you couldn’t be gay, being prince and all. But then you came out, and – and so the problem was me, wasn’t it? You didn’t like me.”

“I didn’t like you?” Arthur stares. “Merlin” – his eyebrows pinch painfully – “I came out because of you.”

“But—” Merlin slides to his feet, lost and restless. “But that doesn’t even make sense.”

“Yes, it does. Merlin – what I put you through – I never wanted to treat anyone else like that ever again. I wanted to be honest. And it was all because of you.”

“Oh,” Merlin says, and suddenly, it all slots into place. He thought he was being careful, but it’s obvious he has misjudged his own emotions, because it’s all he can do not to sway at the staggering force of his disappointment. “Right. Of course. How very – very noble of you.”

Arthur walks toward him carefully, a soft, gentle expression on his face. “Merlin.” Arthur speaks quietly as his fingers skim lightly over Merlin’s cheekbone. “If I hadn’t met you, my life would have been all lies and pretence. I’d never have gotten to be myself, to be happy. I owe it all to you.”

Merlin tries desperately not to tremble, but he knows he can’t take much more of this. Arthur is grateful, and Merlin should be pleased about it, but he just can’t.

He can’t.

Arthur is right in front of him, touching him, speaking so softly. He’s so close – Merlin can feel the residual scent of his aftershave, and his head is spinning. He shouldn’t have been drinking.

“Right,” he blurts out hurriedly, trying to take his voice under control. “You’re welcome and all that. I’ll – I’ll just be going now, yeah?”

“What?” Arthur looks taken aback. “Going where?”

“Home.” Merlin shrugs, stretching his lips forcibly into a pained grin. “Leon promised to take me.”

“Leon?” Arthur steps back and his face becomes suddenly blank. “Right. Yes. Of course. Don’t let me keep you then.”

“Yeah.” Merlin nods, not really sure about what he’s saying. “Thank you for the – the omelette, and um. It was lovely. Thanks.” He picks up his jacket with numb hands.

“My pleasure,” Arthur’s response sounds wooden. He keeps looking at Merlin as if fearing for his sanity.

Merlin wants nothing better than to flee, but he can’t just leave it like that. He turns around in the doorway. “You know, you’re wrong.”

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. “How so?”

“You’re your own man, Arthur. I might have – that is, meeting me might have given you a push in the right direction, but you did what you did because of who you are. I was just a random factor, and if it wasn’t me, it would have been someone else. What you did – only you could do that.”

Merlin bites his lip and makes himself finish. “You don’t owe me anything. But for what it’s worth, I’m glad it was me.”

He walks out without giving Arthur time to respond, stumbling down the steps in a daze.

Leon takes one look at his face, and says, “Let me get the car.”

Merlin grabs his sleeve. “I don’t want to go home.”

Leon studies him for a moment, then nods. “You don’t have to.”

He wakes up the next morning on Leon’s lumpy couch and prays for a hangover, but he feels disgustingly sober, every minute of the previous evening bright and clear in stark detail. He borrows a change of clothes and goes to work, and tries not to think about Arthur at all.

Part 3