Happy Merlin Holidays, flypaw! [2/2]

[merlin-hols.livejournal.com]

He can’t stop feeling around his eye, patting it with his fingertips and bringing them down to see if there’s blood. It’s too dark to make out, though, so he just keeps on touching his cheekbone—pressing too hard, hissing. It’s burning and he can still feel the indent of knuckles, the force of Merlin’s fist. “Fucking hell,” he laughs the words, amazed. Merlin gives a snort, and Arthur looks at him—sitting next to him on the dusty floor, head tilted back, pressing the hem of his fraying shirt to his bloody nose. They’re both still breathing hard. “How’re you doing there, buddy?” “’M not your buddy,” Merlin answers, sounding silly with his nose pinched. Arthur smiles down at the floor, one elbow propped on a drawn up knee. “You know that doesn’t work, right. Tilting your head back. It’s a myth, it does nothing to stop the bleeding.” “Oh,” he says, then sniffs. Bends his head back into place. Wipes at his nose with his shirt, folding his thumb under the collar. “Sorry,” Arthur says. “I didn’t really mean it, you know. I . . . didn’t mean to piss you off like that.” Merlin gives another laugh, harsh puff of air. “Of course you did. That’s exactly what you meant to do.” “All right. Yeah. Fair enough.” His smile tightens when he looks up. “Still though. Can’t believe you punched me.” “You punched me back!” “Well, yeah!” Merlin doesn’t reply. He sniffs quickly, trying out his breathing now that the bleeding’s stopped, and Arthur toys with the hilt of his sword. Scrapes some dirt from the etching in the handle. “I’ve never really been in a proper fight before,” he says, eventually, a little quieter than he meant to. “What d’you mean?” Merlin gives him a look, half a smile. “We got into fights all the time. You scratched like a drowning cat, you did.” Arthur lifts his eyes up for a brief, frustrated moment. “I mean as an adult.” “You’re certainly using that word broadly.” “Hey. I have a proper job, okay. I own suits now. Several.” On a bit of a whim he reaches out to poke two fingers at Merlin’s face, his cheek, saying, “You haven’t even learned to shave yourself.” Merlin pushes him away with a, “Fuck off,” but even in the dark light of the first flight landing Arthur can see his smiling—can hear it. The back of his neck heats up in a way he knows and that has always made him somewhat fearful—wary of his body. In a way he’s always thought, quietly and somewhat accusing, had started with this boy, some odd decade ago in a puddle of mud. He pulls away perhaps a little too quickly. His breath escapes him in a sigh. “Why’d the doors disappear?” Merlin shrugs. “That was not a part of the plan. It wasn’t supposed to . . . “ He shakes his head to himself. “There was never any indication in the texts about any of us and—And Marge never had any shots on me being here with you, so I don’t know what—“ “Whoa hey what? Shots? Marge?” Merlin turns to look at him. Licks his split lip. The heat spreads higher up Arthur’s neck.

“Premonitions. Marge? The dark-haired girl? She’s one of the seers on the team. The head seer.” “Fucking hell,” is what Arthur has to say to that. “I did not think today was going to be a day where I got to hear someone use the word head seer in a serious context.” “Well. You know. First fight, first time in magical prophecy. First time slaying a cat bat.” “Bastet, I believe.” “There you.” Merlin laughs. “Today’s full of firsts.” Arthur barks out a laugh to this—not because it’s particularly funny, but there’s just something about the way he says it, something about that tone that makes Arthur want to laugh with him. Or let him think he’s funny, so that maybe he’ll do the same back, and laugh at Arthur’s jokes as well. The thought itself quiets him down, slowly, and the conversation falls into a lull. “There’s so much written about this,” Merlin says eventually. He sounds quiet. Arthur hums. “Is there?” “It’s the first day that one of the greats come back.” “The greats?” “Yeah. You know. One of the people. Who—like. Change things.” He looks down the one end of the carpeted landing, then back, at Arthur, eyes glinting in the dark. “Can’t really believe I get to be here when they show up. You know it says their magic will be—like. Unlike anything we know. We’ve tried to work out who it was going to be, and . . . some people have narrowed it down to a few. Just some names they think could fit the profile, but I think it’ll have to be someone we’ve never even heard of. Something completely unexpected.” Arthur nods, vaguely. He only gets half of what Merlin is saying, his mind still catching up on the smaller notions of magic in his own reality, of the sword cold against his side and of monsters—that he will have to face. Grand magicians and their expected arrival seem ridiculously unimportant to him now. He looks up again, into the dark void of the high ceiling. He thinks he hears something at a distance, thinks he feels something of a gust of air, and it makes his hairs stand on end—makes the chills run over his spine, pool queasily in his stomach. “I just wish we could have some light in here.” “Hm,” Merlin replies, a vague agreement, and turns on a light. Or at least that’s what Arthur thinks he does at first. He’s about to say thanks, not really thinking, but looks before he speaks and finds he can’t even think the words anymore—let alone voice them. Merlin’s hand is somewhere between them, a bright blue bulb of light in his palm, twisting and hovering in itself—the silvery illumination seeping out between his fingers and casting their little circle of the floor in an eerily bright shine. The shadows are long, the railing takes on a bluish shade, and Merlin’s face—pale white in this light—is frozen in shock. He’s staring at his hand, not moving, not blinking. His mouth is half open, lips dry and sticking together at the corner. “Well,” Arthur croaks out. “You said it’d be unexpected.” And just like that, the bulb blinks out of existence.

~

Even with the empty pillowcase over his eyes he still can’t block it out. He’s turned around and about and tried all angles, buried his face in the stuffy mattress, tried to sigh loudly a few times but it’s not working—Merlin won’t stop. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, blinking a light in and out of his palm, letting it dance over his fingers, sending it out with a sharp gesture. Arthur’s lost track of how long they’ve been locked inside, but it feels like it might be a new day now and the monster has still not shown—and he’s so tired, so exhausted, all he wants is five minutes of proper sleep and— “Lin. Merlin. Please. For the love of god, just—“ he yanks the pillowcase from his face, squints at Merlin through bloodshot eyes. “Ten minutes. Five. Just . . . “ he reaches to pull his arm down, a bit weakly, to get him to stop the lights. “But look,” Merlin says instead of answering, turning to him, still with that same whispered voice of excited wonder. He makes a movement resembling someone turning on a lighter, thumb clicking an invisible trigger, and a little fire shoots up from the circle of his fist. He holds It to his mouth, lighting a non-existent cigarette, and the end of the air glows red. He inhales, takes the non-cigarette from his lips, makes to blow out the smoke but Arthur waves at his face right that moment—dispersing the magic and then lightly shoving at Merlin’s face. “Nnngh,” he grumbles. “Stop.” “But it’s so cool,” Merlin breathes, smiling. “Whatever. Let me sleep.” It’s Merlin’s turn to huff an annoyed sigh at Arthur, shifting around and flopping back onto the bed next to him. He’s got his arms folded high up his chest, and he’s staring up at the fabric canopy in a determined way that’s possibly louder than his game of lights from earlier. Arthur ignores it, closing his eyes, and manages for no longer than a few beats before giving in with a quiet snort and a, “So are you gonna tell anyone?” “Tell what?” “That you’re him. That you’re the magic man. You know, oooh,” he says, wriggles his fingers above them to indicate a spell. Merlin is silent at first. Then he shrugs, shoulder brushing against Arthur’s. “Probably not.” “Why not? I thought this was like some kind of magic jackpot.” “It is. It—is. But . . . “ He shifts, again, raises his crossed arms to prop under his head. “Not much of a point. They won’t remember.” “Christ, what kind of issues do you have? Of course people will remember it’s—“ “—When I was eleven, Arthur,” Merlin cuts in, calm enough but sharp in his tone, giving him a quick glance. “When I was eleven, I was recruited. Which probably sounds a lot cooler than it was, because—well. I wasn’t a seer, was I, or a shifter, or a healer. I was—“ Arthur’s head shoots up. “There’s healers?” Merlin frowns at him. “Magic doesn’t thrill you at all but making a papercut disappear—that gets you excited?” Arthur grins at him, close as he is, and catches himself glancing down at his mouth—automatic, it feels, and he has to still, has to grind the flirty reaction to a half as he settles back. He swallows and frowns over it, hoping it wasn’t obvious, and if it was then Merlin doesn’t react—continues to explain as Arthur blinks overhead. “I was what they call a John. Someone who can seek out other people who—well, who I’m supposed to find. Important people. Sense them, you know? Like I know where they are when I need to. Which meant I didn’t get a proper training or something, like Marge did. I mean, believe me—they went all out for her. God. And to think all this time I—“ he stops himself. Laughs a little, a soft, wry sound. “Anyway. All I need is to make sure I don’t get noticed. So I’m untraceable.” “Oh yeah?” Arthur says, amused. “How d’you do that? You don’t exactly strike me as a master of stealth.”

Merlin makes a small noise, a nasal exhale that could be amusement, could also be nerves. “Nah,” he says. “People just don’t remember my face.” “Sure they do.” “No, Arthur.” Merlin looks at him, and Arthur looks back, frowning. “I mean. They don’t remember me.” Arthur stares. Blinks, blinks rapidly, and he starts to understand—something from long ago, he remembers that—“Fucking hell. Oh. Fuck. Fuck.” He turns back to the canopy. “Holy shit. I thought—my father was . . . I used to talk about you, Merlin. And he’d reply like, as if, you were someone I’d made up, and I thought, Oh that’s just another one of his twisted ways to get me to get over—but . . . “ He runs out of steam. Breathes. Thinks about it for a moment, then— “But I didn’t. Forget.” “I know.” He moves, again, restless now—taking his arms from under his head, placing them on his stomach. Elbow pressed to Arthur’s. “It’s weird.” “Huh . . .” Arthur replies, vaguely. His mind is racing. “So when you say no one, do you actually mean no one . . . who . . . “ “Well—but. It’s not that bad. I mean, I’m used to it. And my mum remembers, so. And the recruiters. Though they’re not much of a laugh, really, so I wouldn’t count them.” “Wow. Your life sucks.” “Your face sucks. Whatever.” He’s insulted now, tensing up. Arthur can actually feel his muscles coiling. “Besides, I have magic now, so.” He sniffs, feigning indifference. “Things’ll be different.” “Yeah. That’s for sure,” Arthur says. His voice quiets, he’s talking partly to himself when he says, “If we get out alive, that is.” Merlin pushes himself up on his elbows to look at Arthur. He scowls down at him, huffs, says, “The hell are you worried about? You’ve got a wizard at your side.” The scowl shrinks into something smaller, an abashed, hesitant thing, and Merlin can’t quite look at him when he adds, “Have faith.” He pinches at a bit of sheet, stares at it. “Oh yeah?” Arthur replies, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice—the softness that feels pathetic and inevitable, saying, “What’re you gonna do, then? Light the monster a cigarette?” Merlin is fighting a smile now. He gives a half shrug, looks up with his head still tilted down—a puppy dog glance, devastating and hitting Arthur in the pit of his stomach when he says, “Might do,” with a crooked grin, looking away and looking back, and Arthur can’t say for sure but he thinks he’s blushing. He knows he is, hot below his ears where the blood rushes the loudest. They catch each other’s eye without meaning to, and the gaze settles in a fraction—turning from shy to a thicker substance, stilling the air between them. Arthur swallows. Merlin’s eyes flicker to his lips. He seems to sway, seems on the brink of movement, and Arthur opens his mouth with a puff of air, quietly curling his fingers around Merlin’s elbow. He wants to pull him down. And the building starts shaking.

~

“Are we running from it or toward it!” Merlin, rounding a corner too sharply and holding on to the wall for balance, shoots back with an, “I don’t know!”, glancing over his shoulder every other second—checking for something coming from behind. The walls are moving, or at least it seems they are—the sound that Arthur didn’t know was a foundation of a building creaking from the inside and the monster, wherever it is, seems to be coming at them through the brick and stone. “What happened to having fucking faith!” Arthur shouts at him as they jog down the stairway of the third flight, his sword bouncing heavily against his leg. He’s out of breath already, sweating and scared out of his mind, suddenly wondering how he’s been calm so far—how come he wasn’t freaking out hours ago, ages ago, wasn’t running out the moment the word monster was dropped. He wonders wildly, as Merlin shouts back, “Fuck that shit!”, laughing with panic, and thinks—oh yeah. Someone told him he was special. They’re rounding the second flight, holding on to the shaking railing, occasionally slipping on torn carpets and the marble of the stairs, almost falling but still managing to keep onwards, their laboured breaths a faded sound in the grand bustle of clanking and crashing—old lamps falling from their hold, drawers shaken out of tables in deserted rooms, and the distant whoosh of crystal, of glass, of something so loud it almost sounds like water. Bits of plaster start showering down on them. Arthur has a sudden vision of the building collapsing on top of them. “Is downstairs really the way to go?” he asks, calling it as loud as he can—drowned out by the noise and short of breath. Merlin is lighter on his feet, a short distance ahead and quicker in thinking—jumping the last few steps over the banister, landing in the foyer on two feet—stumbling a little, but only a little. It has to be for show. It has to be, Arthur thinks, chasing after, not bothering with the jump and just shouting, “Merlin!” and “Merlin!”, trying to get his attention, get a confirmation for what’s happening, and finally stopping him with a last, “Merlin, damn it!”

Merlin stops to turn to him so quickly they almost crash, the smooth black-and-white blocked floor serving no foothold—Arthur steadies them with two hands to Merlin’s arms, Merlin with a fist clenching at the front of Arthur’s shirt. “No one’s called me that for years,” Merlin tells him on a short breath, grinning like a madman, panting. Arthur’s answering laugh carries on a high exhale. He means to say something, means to give something of a clever retort but a movement out of the corner of his eye distracts him and he looks up—sees nothing at first, just the same shadows from before, just the dark emptiness of the grand entrance. At first. “Holy mother of God.” Merlin looks up, slowly, looks behind him. He’s moving like he doesn’t want to move at all. The panther has crashed through the wall, too big for the door, too big for any door at all—the hooked ends of its wings, folded, scratching paths into the walls as it moves by. For something that makes such a racket, it moves almost silently now. It is the largest living being Arthur has ever seen in his life. “What . . . “ he whispers, lips to the shell of Merlin’s ear as Merlin inches back, pressing against him with slow setting horror. In reply to his unfinished question, the beast roars.

~

—and he remembers, without quite meaning to, a flash of the night when they’d sworn their friendship in blood and how Merlin said something that had forced Arthur to pester him relentlessly not five minutes after they’d earnestly decided they were brothers for life, something about too bad that they were both boys because otherwise they could marry when they were older. Arthur, who even at that age felt there was something about that statement that made him want it to be true a bit too much, felt that he was somewhat off and wanted to prove himself louder and grander than he necessarily should, reacted with a mean flow of comments and laughter that made Merlin go red with shame and anger and not quite wanting to show that he was taking it seriously, answering Arthur’s crows with a calculated shrug and a mumbled whatever. Later that night Merlin fell asleep while they were listening to a Dr Who episode on the radio, and Arthur couldn’t, his stomach churning sickly. He remembers the small monster truck Merlin got from an aunt and how he hated it, gave it to Arthur instead, remembers the first night in the city and looking at the sky from the hotel window and seeing no stars and a lot of cars below, remembers Pete Newman in year eleven who’d tossed him off in a changing room by the pool, remembers the last time he saw his father and remembers the— “No, you—get back!” He pushes Merlin away, back behind the broken remains of the service desk. Merlin tries to crawl back up but Arthur is livid, won’t allow it, holds him off by blocking the path with his sword. Merlin falls back against the wood, holding on to his arm. He closes his eyes and breathes. The blood has seeped down to his fingers now, and if the grimace is anything to go by it’s starting to hurt properly now. When he opens his eyes again he looks faint, angry and determined and this close to passing out. Arthur watches him, feels the trickle over his eye and wipes the blood from the cut in his brow with the back of a hand.

“You can’t do this alone,” Merlin tells him, voice hoarse. “And you can’t do this bleeding to death.” Arthur glances over the fallen stair banister, sees the beast licking at its small wounds. This is not working at all. “I’m going back. Don’t move.” “No! Arth—“ He grapples for Arthur’s arm before he can stand up, talking through clenched teeth. “Wait. Just—let me think. There has to be a—shit!” He lets go to grab at his wound again, hissing, eyes screwed shut. “Hey.” Arthur cups his cheek, says, “Hey.” Merlin squints one eye open at him. It’s sad and it’s ridiculous, and Arthur smiles. He feels the stretch of it in the bruises on his face. He runs a thumb over the line of Merlin’s cheekbone, slow, says, “See you later, Lin Emirs.” With a comical click of his tongue he pulls back, tosses up his bloody sword to catch it again. “Oh-kee,” he says to himself, nods once, and climbs back over table, over the remnants of the banister—ignoring Merlin’s angry protestations, intermitted with swearing and cries of pain—he’s probably trying to clamber after, Arthur thinks. He is probably failing.

~

“How about you magic us out of here right about now?” “How about you go fuck yourself right about now,” Merlin grits back. Another claw reaches under the small nook below a heap of fallen stairs, a set of nails barely scraping them—they manage to press back enough to avoid it by a hair’s breadth. Arthur laughs madly, nervously. “Don’t stay mad now, dear.” “Fuck you! I thought you were dead!” “Merely passed out,” Arthur mumbles, words pressing to the back of Merlin’s neck—cramped together as they are, pulling him back with a rough arm as the claw makes another try to get at them. Merlin cries out, surprised. The beast is getting closer with every try. “How’s your arm?” “Falling off. How’s your head?” “Just a bump,” he says, feeling the blood running down behind his ear. “Any last words?” Merlin huffs a shaky breath. “I’m not playing that game.” “Merlin.” The pile of broken stone and marble moves above them—the beast is pawing at it, trying to push it off them. It knows how to get to them. “Shit,” Merlin says, and they hear the beast flutter its leather wings with frustration—making the hall shake, making the high chandelier clank loudly overhead, sending several crystals flying down. “I have an idea,” Arthur whispers. “Oh shit,” is what Merlin has to say that, breath hitching.

“Okay,” Arthur says. “Okay. Okay. I can do this. Okay. Yes. Okay.” “Okay?” “Okay. When I say go, Merlin. When I say go . . . “ “When you say go.” “When I say go, you give me light.” “I give you—?” But Arthur’s moving, sliding out from their hiding spot with a hard push to the brick behind them, unwinding his arm from around Merlin’s waist. He clambers up to his knees as fast as he can, swirls his sword to the ready in a flash and shouts, “Go!” The light from Merlin’s palm floods the ruins of the foyer. The beast flinches back in surprise, and that’s all Arthur needs. “Up!” he shouts, and Merlin, angling himself out of the makeshift cave as though he hasn’t a scratch on him—limber as ever—throws up the light. It goes with an unexpected speed, illuminating the spheres of the dome ceiling with an eerie glow, glinting off the majestic masterpiece in its centre. Arthur’s hurling movement follows within heartbeats, and the sword twists up and up—whooshing circles as it flies higher than it should, higher than the laws of nature would predict, following a neat arch over the chandelier, cutting straight through the single wire holding it up. In the moments it takes it to fall from the ceiling, in the bare seconds that it crashes down, Arthur falls to the ground next to Merlin, pulling them back into the nook—as he holds on as tight as he can, face buried against skin and hair, the sound of glass shattering echoes endlessly through the building.

~

In the end Arthur finds him outside the bustle of cars and flashing lights—of yellow tape shutting off the street for traffic, the people who’ve collected at the end to peer over each other’s heads, to catch a glimpse of whatever it is that is happening—they are not sure. Merlin is sitting on the end of the pavement, right on the kerb, inspecting the back of his hand. Someone has put a shock blanket over his shoulders. It seems ridiculously pointless. Arthur sits next to him, lowering himself carefully. It’s not necessary, exactly, but he can’t bring himself to trust it quite yet. The dawn of Christmas day is pale and thickly grey—a small puddle by the side of the road has frozen overnight. A winter bird croaks from a streetlight, waiting for an answer. “How’s your arm?” Merlin shows him by flapping open the cut in his jacket. The skin is smooth—whole, not even a scar. “Creepy, that.” Arthur absentmindedly feels at his cheekbone where there’s no pain, not a scratch. “I don’t know how I feel about the whole healing thing anymore. It doesn’t quite feel . . . right.” “Right?” Merlin gives him a look. “Saved your bloody life though, it did.” “Aaah,” Arthur waves it off, like he didn’t have a head injury and a piece of glass lodged in his back no less than an hour ago. Merlin doesn’t answer. He sets to inspect a piece of blackened gum stuck to the pavement. “So,” Arthur says at length, tired of listening to a woman walking her dog trying to shoutingly question an officer as to what is happening from the other side of the street. “So the beast was . . . not really a beast.” Merlin doesn’t look up. He digs his nail into the dirty gum. Arthur sighs. Runs his teeth over his bottom lip, shooting Merlin a glance. “You knew her.” Merlin’s reply comes in the form of a quick movement—the back of his hand wiping at the one eye, the inside of his wrist the other. He clenches his jaw. Doesn’t let a sound escape. Arthur is unsure of what to do, settles for looking down at the tarmac and rubbing his hands up and down his thighs a few times before drumming on his knees. He looks behind him at the building. Looks back to Merlin.

“I don’t know about you, mate, but um—I could use a drink right now.” Merlin snorts wetly. “Yep,” he croaks, then clears his throat. Arthur gets to his feet with a conclusive clap of his hands to knees, holds out a hand to help Merlin up. He takes it with a deprecating glance up, mouth a thin line as he quickly lets go of Arthur’s hand once standing. Arthur’s doesn’t know how to react. Instead he squints up, sniffs at the cold and stuffs his hands into his pockets. When he looks back to Merlin, he does it with a quick sideways nod, gesturing that Merlin come with as he starts walking. They’re about to duck under the yellow tape when someone calls them from a distance, shouts— “Rees!” They both stop. Merlin looks back, confused. It’s Marge, standing by a group of important looking suits, looking as meticulous as when Arthur last saw her—this time wrapped in a heavy fur coat. “I expect a report first thing Monday morning,” she tells him, smiling slightly. It’s still an unnerving sigh. Merlin waves her a vague agreement, as though to say sure fine yeah, and she raises her eyebrows in reply. Shifts her attention to Arthur. “And I suppose I’ll see you soon, sir. I take it you’ll want your sword back.” “Um . . .” Arthur starts, but she’s already moved on with a crinkle of her nose that he thinks is supposed to be a goodbye. “Okay,” he finishes, quietly. When he looks to Merlin, the man is holding up the tape, motioning for him to move. They walk in silence for a while, Arthur having an idea where to go, and Merlin following wordlessly. They’ve been wandering through the dimly lit, somewhat empty city for a while when Merlin says, “Huh.” Arthur blinks at him, tiredly. “Hm?” “She knew my name.” He sucks air in between his teeth, thinking. “I’ve known her for almost twenty years and she’s never remembered my name.” “Rees is not your name.” “It’s as good as.” “I don’t like it.” “You only like Merlin because then you can make fun of me.” Arthur grins at the ground. Shrugs an admittance. Merlin replies by shoulder bumping him off the kerb, making him stumble and jog a few steps onto the empty road—walking backwards to face him, chuckling as he goes.

~

From his kitchen, looking over the open refrigerator door, Arthur can see the last newspaper he’d left on the small table by the door before leaving the house some odd days ago—a number he’s lost count of and that might as well have been years. He still has an odd urge to pick it up and flip through, looking for mentions of the hotel in small headlines in the back. He flashes back to the first sight of the beast. To the moment it sunk its claws into Merlin’s arm, hurling it across the hall. He shakes his head to snap out of it, looking back into the fridge—taking out two beers. When he walks back into the living room Merlin is standing by the shelves, going over the music collection—the movies, the few books, head cocked to read the titles. He stops short at the small unfilled space, taken up by only by a small group of little figurines—some plastic Kinder surprises, some elaborate netsukes he’s purchased overseas, some made of glass. They are all dragons. Merlin puffs out a laugh, touching one of them with a careful finger. Arthur puts the beers on the coffee table. “Thought you reckoned dragons were stupid,” Merlin mumbles, quietly, slowly pulling back his finger. “Yeah.” Arthur scratches the back of his neck, the line of his hair. “I guess they are. I don’t know why I collect them, really, it’s just a . . . “ he trails off for a moment, suddenly aware of the tens of paper cut outs on his fridge and strewn around the house, of his quirks, of his box with old monster trucks under his bed. He finishes with a quiet breath, a whispered, “ . . . habit.” Merlin turns to him with a beginning of a mocking smile that disappears the moment he sees the way Arthur is looking back, wrapping his mind around something, getting at it, trying to understand. Suddenly he is frazzled, blinking fast and frowning, breathing faster and glancing from the floor to the corner of a table, to a single hair on the arm of the couch and up at Merlin—his expression as lost as Arthur’s, pale in the sad light of a winter morning climbing its way higher and further into Arthur’s apartment—stretching the square shadows of the windows.

“I . . . “ he starts, can’t finish whatever thought bloomed for a fraction and disappeared, and the next moment Merlin is walking—toward him, fast and sudden and it only takes a few steps and he’s sliding his hands over Arthur’s neck and carding them into his hair, pulling close, pressing their foreheads together. Arthur fists the back of his tattered, bloody shirt, holds up, clings. “When I said I didn’t know,” Merlin whispers, eyes closed and his nose brushing Arthur’s. “When I said I didn’t know where you lived, I—that wasn’t true. That wasn’t . . . “ He stops—swallows, voice thick. He tilts his head a little, closer, and Arthur’s breath hitches, his heart thudding like an echo against his temples. “I knew where you were,” he continues, lips brushing the fine hairs near Arthur’s mouth. “I’ve always known where you are. Before I even knew who you were, before we met, before I even knew what—knowing was. I’ve . . . always . . . “ Arthur kisses him. Kisses him and can’t stop, kisses his cheeks and closed eyes, his brow, over and over, the corner of his eye and his mouth again—and Merlin lets him, tilts his head to it, breath fluttering close and pulling him in with a hand fisted in his hair, making it deeper, proper, sliding their tongues together with a shudder. Arthur muffles a groan into the kiss, and the ache he thought would settle down at being this close—the empty hunger in the centre of his chest—only seems to want more, make him more frantic, desperate and adoring and hopelessly screwed. Merlin isn’t much better off, though, and at least that’s something—putting his hand over Arthur’s heart as they lick into each other’s mouths, test the waves of the give and take—at least they’re both at the mercy of a love that never goes away.

~

In the deep of their self-proclaimed night-time—curtains drawn against the noon and a towel stuffed against the crack of light below door—Merlin touches his face, delicate fingers tapping out the highs and lows of his skin. Arthur makes as though to bite them, then loudly claps his teeth at Merlin, pretending to be some kind of animal. Merlin laughs, nips at the tip of his nose, his chin, and on the verge of a kiss asks if he— “—still talk to your other best friend?” “Hmm?” Arthur is distracted, kissing his bottom lip, trying to get him to play along. But Merlin just smiles into it, says, “You know. Lee Jameson.” Arthur stops for a moment, thinking back—then cracks up, laughing, head thrown back the one moment—flipping the two of them over in bed the next, sliding between Merlin’s legs, propped up to look down at him properly. “Oooh,” Merlin says, staring at his chest—feeling at his pecks. “This is nice. I appreciate this. Very lovely.”

Arthur laughs, chest moving under Merlin’s hands. He eases himself down, lets Merlin wrap his arms around his torso, quietly saying that— “I think I have his number somewhere. In case you, you know. Turn out to be a real bore.” “Mmm.” Merlin considers this, fanning his fingers over the small of Arthur’s back, and wonders at, “What’re the chances of that happening though?” Arthur mouths a smiling noooo at the same time as Merlin mock whispers a not very likely no, spreading a bit of wayward magic into the room when Arthur kisses him between the eyes, perhaps a bit by accident, not quite having learned how to keep it in. One of the little sparks of light escapes through a corner by the door where the towel couldn’t reach and floats into the living room where it bobs about aimlessly for a moment—until a gust of wind blows in through the transom over the French balcony, first pushing the magic further back, then pulling it out with a sudden whoosh, twirling it out into the air—swirling about with a flock of leaves, brushing against the glass and then out, away, down the street.

(End)