(love, or) A Feeling Like It (one)
It Doesn’t Have to be Beautiful - Slow Club
A real love story is like cake.
Not in the sense that is it easy because it isn’t but the analogy is still there because the moment you cut through the mush of it all (or dip your fingers in the icing, depending on what kind of person you are and whether or not the manners your mother did or did not teach you have any hold on your life) you immediately want more. You pick up a paper plate and take your share and go back for seconds or thirds until the layers are gone and all that’s left is the shape of the pastry that once was.
After this, you spend a few joyful hours with your stomach sated and the smell of sweetness still on your sleeves and cheeks until you realize it will never be enough and it will never be the same. The baker might change kitchens, the icing might not be as pink as you once thought it was and the euphoria isn’t there as it once was. You try to find the same cake, the same feeling that came with the cake but you know full well you’ll never find it and you are doomed forever more to walk the earth with a hungry belly and a fond memory.
People will say there are better cakes, different cakes. They don’t know. It’s like this every time. The cake always finishes and you are always the one that needs it more.
Merlin knows this analogy is only going to be greeted by raised eyebrows as they serve him his breakfast in their much-too-clean kitchen or a few tsk tsk tsks and a few looks of pity because they think he’s crippled when he’s in love. But he’s pretty sure all of this is quite true.
And, no, Merlin Emrys, despite spending the last fifteen minutes talking about cake and its relation to love to his flatmates, is not fat.
Merlin Emrys, is, in fact, too skinny for his own good. He really doesn’t know how, though, because his mother fed him quite a lot as a child, being the only son of a single mother would do that to someone, and, now as a grown adult, his flatmates have the responsibility of feeding him.
Morgana will always make him a sandwich or cookies and put it on his table (which is pretty much off-limits, because it is clearly marked as his, with him carving his name in the wood and the mess that can only be his. Off limits to anyone who has sense but, clearly, Morgana has none) and he’ll see when he starts to write and he’ll take a few bites until she breathes down his neck and urges him to finish it. Leon will cook hearty lunches and dinners, when he’s home, and Merlin always finds himself at the table, even if he has one last sentence to write, one last page to finish, not because of the smells of Leon’s wonderful cooking but because of the sounds of all three of them, together.
Leon has been his friend since his university days and Morgana’s been Leon’s plus-one since the general population coined the term ‘love at first sight’. It was this fact that only made it logical that after months of straying away from ties and strings of friends and family, Fate made Merlin and Leon meet in the market with a few awkward hellos and then induced Morgana to chirp in, saying he’s much too thin and they should take him home and feed him like he’s a stray dog with no collar around his neck. Two years later, he’s still here, with his own table and his own seat around the wobbly countertop of the kitchen.
Most writers he knows (three, including himself) don’t live with flatmates, they prefer to live alone with strange sounds in the night and rats and old sandwiches and pudgy couches like complete invalids but something about the company triggers something in him that encourages him to write more, to send them to the editor of the magazine he works at, and even to write the things he actually feels passionate about. It’s something about the sandwiches and the cookies and seeing Morgana and Leon wrapped around on the couch so much that he can’t see the end of him and the beginning of her and the normalcy of it when they invite him over, as well.
He likes sandwiches and being part of theirs.
As Merlin stretches his legs on the couch, having fallen asleep the previous night on Morgana’s lap when the TV was playing something nonsensical, he makes a mental information list.
Name: Merlin Emrys
Age: 24 (42 on hangover days)
Occupation: Opinions writer
He takes off his shirt in the bathroom, sees the disaster of his face and starts wiping it, as if the water and soap can erase his genetics.
Family
Father: Whereabouts unknown
Mother: (space intentionally left blank)
Siblings: William Dempsie (honorary sibling because he might as well be his brother, anyway)
Significant other: -
He sits at the counter of the kitchen and is surprised to see Morgana awake because, usually, she’s the last of them to roll out of bed. Sometimes Leon can just step over her to get to the other side and she won’t even groan.
Home: Surrey, England
Residence: In a flat
Leon stretches out of his room, manoeuvring himself to put on a t-shirt and kissing Morgana on the cheek (they never kiss, not really, until afternoon, when it will matter) and ruffling Merlin’s hair like a kid’s. They don’t talk during breakfast; not really, just small talk over food but it is that comfortable, almost warm, type of silence that doesn’t feel awkward at all.
In Case of Emergency Contact
Leon Knight: (insert number here)
Morgana Faye: (insert number here)
Will Dempsie: (insert number here)
“Merlin, mate,” Leon says. “You alright?”
“Fine. Just fine.”
His room is an utter mess. For such a small space and such a young man, it shouldn’t be a problem and he honestly thinks it isn’t. The layout is simple, with a closet that he likes to think opens up to Narnia at one side, a bed slightly larger than a single at the other that’s usually piled up with clothes (except when Leon’s out of town and Morgana doesn’t want to sleep alone then he usually rolls them all up in a snowball to chuck in the closet) but when it’s clear, it’s quite evident that he has a child’s sheets. There’s a window in front of him and the door behind him and two book shelves under the window but most of the books that should be orderly in stacks on the shelves that Leon made for him are everywhere. His copy of White Teeth (Smith, 2000) is stacked on A Short History of Nearly Everything (Bryson, 2003) and Paper Towns (Green, 2008) on the foot of his bed, those kind of light-reading sorts of books, while on his bed, there’s that Watchmen comic and the latest issue of the Discovery Magazine that he remembers he fell asleep on, on a night when he didn’t even have the capacity to take off his jeans.
Merlin doesn’t know where his messiness comes from. His mother was such a clean woman when he was growing up, a lifetime where the couches were lumpy but dusted off with any grey bunnies and the floors always sparkled so much so that she would joke that he could “eat dinner off it, not that he ever wanted to” (he did, one day, attempt at eating dinner off the floor but his mother had made that tsk tsk tsk sound she did whenever he did something wrong). Merlin had to clean up his room every two days because his mother would say that just because they didn’t have the money doesn’t mean they don’t have to have the neatness. Maybe that’s why his room is in such a state: he just wants to be messy since he was the denied the almost privileged right for the first half of his life.
Thinking of cleanliness makes him miss his mum.
He tries to find his jacket in all this mess and sees it, dislodges it from the cave it’s made with his dark jeans and TMNT t-shirt. He leaves the room to meet Freya for lunch, thinking about how much he loves the mess and how he could just burrow into the hole he’s made and die amongst the pages of his favourite books and the fabric of his clothes and actually be happy.
Freya is a fellow writer at the magazine he works at. She writes about current events with a very snappy flair that makes you actually understand what’s going on with the world. She’s one of the only co-workers he has that he actually likes or talks to. He’s always been shy and awkward and stumbling on first meeting which gives off the impression that he’ll always be shy and awkward and stumbling but he really isn’t. Hell, if it wasn’t for Freya jumping up from her desk that first day and telling him how happy she is that she won’t be the newbie anymore, he would probably just be sitting at his desk, playing with a yo-yo like a sad wanker. It’s a good thing she did because he doesn’t even know how to manoeuvre himself around a yo-yo.
“Hello, you tosser.” Freya stands from her seat and smiles at him. She comes around and gives him a hug like she hasn’t seen him in months when, in reality, they’ve just seen each other two days ago.
The magazine is laid-back enough to have their writers write from home, if they’d like, but, on most days he’s supposed to be at work, Merlin turns up for the lack of anything better to do. Freya usually comes in every other day with a wicked hangover, detailing without any details, why she didn’t come to work the previous day. Freya’s a lot like Morgana, hard exterior, soft inside like fondue and, for that reason alone, he’s put off their meeting each other for as long as he can.
“You ordered for me!” Merlin says excitedly because he’s famished at the moment and the smells of the café are forever taunting him. There’s a pile of mini-burgers for him and it takes all his self-control and memories of his mother’s mannerisms to just not take it and wipe his face with them.
“Mmm,” Freya nods. “Now, tell me. How’s your weekend? Did you find any cute guys yet?”
“Uhm, no. I’m not you.”
“Obviously. If you were, you’d be getting cock every other day, now, wouldn’t you?” Freya’s eyebrows go up. “I just want you to be happy.”
“Yeah, you and everyone else in my life. I am happy, aren’t I? I’ve got you and Morgana and Leon and my writing. I don’t need a fuck to be happy, now, do I?”
“No, but it would be fun, though.”
“Ssh now, woman, I’m eating!”
Let My Love Open the Door - Sondre Lerche
So it starts like this.
“You look like a turtle.”
It’s this sentence, this so-called observation, that opens the door to a relationship he’s never really been ready for and forces him to be friends with the feelings he’s always ignored.
Honestly, it’s not his fault he looks like a turtle. There are more bones in him than fat and it’s not his fault he’s prone to adverse reactions to any drop in temperature. He’s wearing so many layers at the moment, with a collar at the top of his neck, almost covering his mouth if he slumps in his seat like he is now and it doesn’t hurt the fact that he’s wearing a beanie. Morgana insists on buying him clothes until her arms are wide with them when winter comes around, even though the stack of clothes in his closet is supposed to yell loudly enough clothes already! It’s not even winter, though; it’s just one of those rainy days, not raining but cold enough for it be raining anyway.
He’s outside of the function hall, where people are kissing each other on each cheek and Morgana and Leon are congratulating Gwen and Lance on their engagement. Leon would have clapped Lance on the back and shouted “finally!” Morgana would’ve taken Gwen aside with advice on living with a man and going into a long-term relationship with some profanity thrown in “just for the spice of it”. Then they would probably be circulating the room, holding hands and meeting acquaintances they’ll only see at the wedding, if nothing more. But they’ll be polite and say “yes, yes, we’ll call” when all they really want to do is be at home right now with reruns of Firefly and a bowl of potato salad would be passed around them because that’s what Merlin wants to do.
But he likes Gwen and Lance. Gwen’s the sweetest person he knows, with a warm smile and a reassurance strong enough to make you believe that everything will be alright and that, when she starts whipping out the hot cocoa, you would’ve forgotten about why you were miserable in the first place. Lance is perfect, though. He does yoga, is well-read enough to know what Merlin’s talking about on his rants, he’s a doctor and his hair is marvellous (so is his best friend, Gwaine’s. Merlin has the sneaking suspicion that Lance chooses his friends on the base of whether or not they could rock in a Pantene Pro-V ad). Lance would be absolutely perfect, of course, if he liked cock, or, specifically, Merlin’s.
His mum would’ve liked Merlin to have a boyfriend like Lance.
But, in the end, it would seem that Gwen and Lance are perfect for each other. They are one of those couples that make eyes for each other, ones of adoration, not just lust, ones that are as warm as Gwen’s hot chocolate. And if Gwen and Lance are the cocoa, Morgana and Leon seem to be the cup it’s served in: a funny picture on the front but stains and whatnot at the side from years of use but always containing something worthwhile to drink. And that pretty much concludes all his knowledge about stable relationships.
He looks up now at the point of origin of the observation and, by doing so, justifies it even more, with his head poking out of his collar, getting out of his shell of clothes. The speaker is a bloke his age, with an appearance equivalent to a painting under the microscope. Seemingly perfect at first glance the landscape of his fair skin, the clouds of his blue eyes, the mountains of his cheekbones but, under closer inspection, there’s the clumsy hand of the artist on the jagged teeth and the flyaway strands of blonde of his hair (it’s nice; he must be one of Lance’s friends). He likes it, though; the flaws make him look real.
“’s not my fault,” Merlin murmurs in a small voice, trying not to be fazed by his new company, who isn’t even wearing a jacket, just a simple shirt, and he’s not freezing his balls off.
“Ah, yes, it’s just in your genetics to look like a cross between a turtle and a duck. A tuck? A durtle?” the guy ponders. “I bet you waddle, as well.”
“I don’t waddle.” But Merlin takes a split second to look down at his feet and is suddenly self-conscious about his foot movements.
“Do you belong in there?” the guy asks him and he nods. “Yeah, me as well. I just needed to get away. I haven’t been so bombarded with hugs in my life.”
Merlin doesn’t know why this stranger is telling him this but, for some reason, he likes hearing him talk.
“What’s your name, then?” the guy sits down next to him on the bench.
“Merlin.”
“Oh, Leon and Morgana’s honorary child?” Merlin raises his eyebrows at this. “Just go with it.”
“They have more sex than normal parents, though.”
And now this gorgeous bloke is laughing at a personal titbit of Morgana and Leon’s relationship. Bugger.
“Right-o, mate,” he smiles. “I’m Arthur, by the way.”
“Oh! They told me about you!” Merlin says, apparently too excited to say something acceptable. “Aren’t you supposed to be abroad?”
“I figured the States have corrupted me enough already and I should come back home where calling someone ‘love’ is not cute but patronizing instead.”
“Excellent choice, that.” They share the same smile for a moment.
“Yo, bitch!” someone yells out drunkenly. It’s Morgana. “Time to bust a move!”
She realizes Merlin’s not alone and stops talking black. “Am I interrupting something? The start of some awkward, mutual ogling then the bumping of noses before leaning in to kiss, perhaps?”
“Not this time, no.” Arthur stands up. “Been drinking too much, Morgana?” he asks as she gives him a slobbering kiss on the cheek.
“Just a tad,” Morgana gives a drunken smile that would’ve been like the action of a donkey neighing if she wasn’t so beautiful.
“Where’s Leon? He’s supposed to be your guardian when you’re drunk,” Merlin wraps one of his jackets around her.
`
“I’m here!” Leon bursts out. “Just got saved by Percy. Lance’s cousins keep hitting on me and Morgana kept groping my arse to make a point so I told her to bugger off ‘cause my arse cheeks were getting sore.” He says all of this while he takes over from Merlin and warms Morgana up.
“Everyone kept hitting on me, as well,” Morgana says as her head lolls backwards to Leon’s chest.
“Yeah, well, we are all rather beautiful, aren’t we?” Arthur gives Merlin a sparkly smile, as if to notify him he’s part of that group, as well.
“We should leave now,” Leon says to Merlin, hoisting Morgana up.
“Yeah, okay,” Merlin nods.
“Get well, Morgana. Bye, Leon.” Then pause. “See you later, Merlin.”
“Yeah, see you,” Merlin says, too preoccupied with Morgana’s drunkenness to notice how, when Arthur said his name, his voice turned different, not more happy or joyous, just different.
Merlin and Leon walk to their car, arms around Morgana as she goes on and on about how she could’ve been Madonna in another life and Merlin looks over Morgana’s head to Leon. “Hey, Leon?”
“Yeah, M?”
“Do I waddle?”
Hidden Treasures - Murray Gold and BBC National Orchestra
Merlin always thinks that hangovers are the worst. There’s some kind of poetry in being intoxicated and not remembering anything but feeling every pain the next morning, like karma lives in a shot of tequila. It’s why he avoids drinking until he really needs to.
While Leon places Morgana quite unceremoniously on their bed (the formalities with relationships no longer holds with them) Merlin is asleep. His feet are tangled in sleeves of his jacket he’s abandoned and his mouth is open until he knows that tomorrow his pillow will smell.
He doesn’t care now, though.
Magic tricks. That’s what Morgana’s always called them: the two inches he floats on before he lands on the surface of the ground; the accidental fire started when he’s fuming, the things he knows that even she won’t tell him; like he’s somehow gotten inside her head. His mum used to call it his ‘gift’, even if his gift was never quite unwrapped at opportune moments. They never came when he wanted them to. The bullies at school would never get magically pulled back by an invisible hand; the boys that never loved him never got the slap he was too scared to give.
It’s been this way since childhood. Since accidental anger and excitement and innocence and confusion. The anger has died down since then, so did the excitement, the innocent left him but, for his part, confusion still streams through him, just like the magic.
He’s long discovered the origin of his magic or what spurs it on. It’s in his dreams; it’s in the one he’s dreaming of right now. It’s this dream that feeds him the magic. It’s the cobbled streets and in the imaginary people selling goods; it’s the tall castle and the sky that’s too blue to be real; it’s in the footsteps he can’t see himself taking and the air he doesn’t know how to breathe in.
It’s also these dreams that he writes about. He tries to remember what he can when he wakes up but it’s like keeping water in your bare hands, in that it dribbles out either way. It’s always been so vague, which is why he tries thinking of it more often, so his stories will have some inch of verisimilitude in the fabric of his words, which leads to more accidental magic. It’s a circle he can’t quite avoid because, no matter how hard he tries, his magic, his tricks, they’ll always be linked to the written word, the one thing he loves most.
He supposes there’s another point saved to be said; there’s a magic in writing, as well. One that’s been petering away for years, like his dreams.
Now, though, Merlin doesn’t concern himself with these worries (they’re meant for afternoons where his brain is empty and there needs to be an issue at hand), instead, he immerses himself in this imaginary world that feeds him his powers that he’ll soon forget by first light.
In the Mood - Glenn Miller
Merlin laughs when he sees Morgana’s hung-over swagger the next morning. She shoots him an angry glare before her head meets the cold surface of the kitchen counter.
“Merlin, shut up,” she hisses. “Your laughter belongs in hell.”
“My laughter is exquisite. It belongs in the Fields of Elysium.” Merlin smiles at her. “Now, eat your pancakes.”
Her head surfaces up like a fish and smells Leon’s cooking. She does her best to smile but, honestly, it comes out distorted. She happily forks through the pancakes as Leon cleans up the kitchen. There’s Glenn Miller in the background (if there’s anything Merlin knows that’s as constant as the sun rising and falling every day, it’s the fact that Leon must always have music when he’s cooking) and it brings hums from Leon and Morgana.
“So, Merlin,” Morgana says. “I saw you checking out Arthur’s cock yesterday.”
Merlin almost splutters out his milk. “I was not!” he gasps out defensively. “I’m sure he has a nice one but, no, I was not admiring his male reproductive organ. He was attractive, though.”
“Cock, face, hair, what’s the difference? You’ll get there, anyway,” Morgana shrugs.
“Oh, speaking of Arthur,” Leon chimes in. “He called last night. He wanted to talk to you.” He looks at Merlin.
“What did you say?” Merlin asks in the midst of Morgana saying, “Boy doesn’t waste any time, does he?”
“I didn’t say anything. I just gave him your number.” Leon gives him a mischievous wink as he chews on his pancake.
“Devious. Evil. Conniving. Whatever the vernacular, you both are it.”
“We’re just helping out, mate. He seemed like a nice guy and you’ve been so depressed lately.”
“Just because I’ve been a little down, does not give you to right to play Doctor Feelgood to my emotions. And, besides, Arthur’s probably straight and he’ll want to take me to some footy match or something. Something completely heterosexual.”
Morgana raises her eyebrows because, clearly, she doesn’t buy it.
Merlin goes back to work that day, mostly because Morgana’s drunkenness is exceptionally annoying when she’s under the seam that there might be a boy for Merlin. It’s always this way with his female companions (pardoning the slight Doctor Who reference); Freya always coos over him to go with her to the club on “gay night” or whatever it is the heterosexual population of British club goers deem as “gay night” (probably pink drinks and Britney Spears on the stereo. And there always seems to be that one guy in the corner of the club looking at everyone as if he’s everyone’s sexual favour).
Morgana would’ve done the same, obviously, but Merlin’s already thoroughly convinced that she probably takes good candid pictures of him on Leon’s DSLR to send to attractive strangers like a maiden’s token, with things like, “Oh, he would love to meet you!” or “honestly, he would,” to say in that lying, almost falsetto voice of hers. He likes to think his mum would do better, were she here. He likes the amount of care they have for him, though, and the endless optimism of theirs. The one that makes cupcakes in heart shapes and prints out two names on an invitation.
Arthur was a nice guy, that was a given, and Merlin was looking at him in a way anything else might be addled, so Morgana’s slash goggles would’ve seen that. Arthur could not be his, though, in any way that would be fitting to a teenage girl in those young adult novels with a sitting girl who looks either miserable or deliriously happy (it’s all the same to him), for guys like him would never quite be the hand guys like Merlin held in the afternoon sunlight. It was a cliché, judgmental thing to say, he knows, but he supposes all those years of just being ‘Merlin, the oddball’ or Merlin, Leon and Morgana’s honorary child has been etched in yet-understood hieroglyphs in the cavern where he’s supposed to be accepting every truth.
His boss, Edwin, the man with the award-winning sneer and scars Merlin’s been scared to ask about, looks at him quizzically because it’s probably been a long time since he’s sat in front of his computer, doing nothing but staring between the letters of his keyboard and listening to Slow Club on his Walkman.
“Get back to work, Merlin,” he says but Merlin can tell he doesn’t really mean it because he’s always had a soft spot for Merlin. So he doesn’t get back to work, he faces his computer and clicks around to find something fleeting to do.
Then he remembers his notebook. For all his life, his notebook has never acquired full, complete sentences, merely short words and abbreviations that just looks like the crooked writing of a kid being held back a grade. (“mum” “Will” “camping trip” “Oreos”, age eleven; “my dreams” “weird though” “guy in 246”; age nineteen; “l+m’s evil plans” “the streets”; present) but, now, it has a slew of words that don’t seem connected at all but he knows.
The streets, he can see streets in his dreams now, or more monumentally, remembers them when he wakes up. Usually, it doesn’t take much for Merlin to start writing on his own, but it does now. The words don’t start moving, and the pause-pause of the keyboard start scaring him as the nouns and verbs and adjectives starts drag their feet lazily on the surface of his brain.
His computer dings. He sees a Facebook invitation. Normally he’d ignore this but he sees the name Arthur and wonders if it’s the same Arthur that called him a cross-breed and insinuated that Merlin was rather beautiful all in the same night. With a few measly clicks and exploring, he sees that it is.
The profile picture is of Arthur, not looking at the camera, but away, revealing the sideways glance of his smile and the long expanse of neck and collarbone hidden under a black shirt. Merlin accepts the invite and the words break into a run.
It’s not Arthur who suggests the drinks, it’s Gwen. She phones him at work the next day with a cheery disposition that only Gwen can fashion without it being assumed that she got some last night (though she probably did).
“Hello, Mrs. DuLac,” Merlin says, competing her enthusiasm.
“Not yet, Merlin, not yet,” Gwen answers but he can feel her blush through the phone. “Listen, how do you feel about a drink? Morgana and Leon are invited, as well. It doesn’t have to be drinks; of course, it can be dinner or lunch or brunch, if you’d like. Though I’m fresh out of preppy sweatshirts for brunch. What do you think?”
“Drinks would be good. Though we should probably get some food in our systems beforehand.” Merlin doesn’t say that he’s a lightweight. “What spurred this on?”
“Well, since Arthur got back, he hasn’t really met people. He’s a bit antisocial. He says it was something to do with a bad break-up. It’d be nice for him to go out with you guys. Besides, I need some people who won’t talk about patterns on the china and what colour the carpet should be.”
“Fair enough.”
So it comes to be a Friday night finding the trio of a much-too-calm Leon, a humming Morgana and a glassy-eyed Merlin in a cab going to a previously-agreed-upon location wherein they would dine with whatever it is the words on the menu could offer them.
It’s a pub, with low lights hanging over them and menus and rings on the table. Something that seems all too familiar but different at the same time. The second they enter the pub, the three of them see the others. Today, however, Arthur is not glowing, he looks almost sullen and his head is as hung low as the lights above them but Gwen and Lance are animatedly talking to each other (probably something about the wedding.
“Oh, bother, do we really need to invite your cousin? He’s a bigger flirt than Gwaine, honestly!”
“Oh, come now, sweetheart, he’s not that bad!” or something or other, though he’s pretty sure they don’t talk like that. They’d have to be in an Enid Blyton to be legit like that) until they see Morgana, Leon and Merlin, stitched together like they’ve always been and they wave.
Arthur looks up at this and manages a weak smile, despite, and it almost looks like a real one. “Hey, durtle,” he says as they seat themselves.
They fall comfortably into the deep well of conversation. They go past the tumbling rocks of jobs (Leon: “It’s quite boring, publishing, dry line of work.” Morgana: “Being a shrink? Obviously I meet enough nutters already.” Merlin: “Writing opinions on a magazine barely anyone reads? Yeah, dream job, that is. *insert sympathetic laugh here*), get their jackets hitched on the branch sticking out of their families (Leon: “It’s just me and my brother, Rupert, now. He lives in Chicago.” Morgana: “I’m sure my half-sister’s still somewhere. Yeah, Morgause, you’ve met her, right? Shady character, that one, pretty sure Folsom Prison Blues was written about her.” Merlin: “My honorary brother, Will’s everywhere now. I just got a postcard from India from him. I dunno where he is now.”), and they keep falling because, with their company, it’s pretty nice, this feeling.
Arthur starts talking, as well, as soon as the French fries roll out. He talks about his family which seems only to consist of his father, Uther, who was diagnosed with cancer a year ago and is now travelling the world trying to right every wrong he’s ever done, but never coming back to right his son, and how he’s distantly related to Morgana in some “second cousin, twice-removed, confusing shit like that” way. He talks about his years in America and how much he’s missed here.
The beers start being passed around and everyone chugs them down, even Gwen, because clearly the girl needs the alcohol, except Merlin, who sits there and listens to the stories and starts to realize. Arthur called, Arthur sent the invite but he never called back, he never sent another message. He supposes he can forgive him for the Facebook thing because most friends he has there are barely conversing with him in an appropriate space of words. But Arthur called.
Merlin doesn’t want to think about this because Gwen is being nice and Lance is waving his hands, re-enacting his years of being a Doctor without a Goddamned Border, and Morgana has her head on Merlin’s shoulder, a comforting gesture, like their couch, and because he just shouldn’t.
Arthur says he needs to take a breather and puts on his jacket and goes outside. Merlin, for some absurd reason, lies and says he’s going to piss when, in truth, he’s following Arthur outside into the cold night. He wraps a scarf around his neck (not too tightly because he has this fear that someone will come from behind him and tug just so and he’ll be dead in two seconds flat) and sees Arthur leaning against the door outside. If this was a movie, he’d probably be smoking or doing whatever the Cool Kids are doing now, but it isn’t and he’s not.
He’s looking out into the cold, looking pensive, like his eyes are too old for his body. He turns and sees Merlin. “Hey.”
“Hi,” Merlin returns awkwardly.
“What are you doing here?”
“I dunno. Usually when people run from good company into the cold to freeze their balls off, something’s wrong. Or maybe you’re just hanging and I’m an imbecile who watches too many movies.”
“You’re a bit odd, aren’t you, Merlin?” Arthur asks.
“Just a tad.” Merlin shrugs because it’s just a fact and he knows it; Arthur should know it, too.
There’s this silence and Merlin wonders if he should just take a hike and re-enter the pub because it’s better than being here in the silence. But then Arthur says, “Sorry I didn’t call you back.”
“Why?”
“Because, like you said, usually when people run from good company, something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.” Arthur breathes out. “Just, sorry, yeah? Not that it matters, though.” Then he sees Merlin’s face. “Oh, don’t be such a girl, Merlin!”
“Hey, I’m not! I don’t care, it doesn’t matter!” Arthur looks at him sceptically. “Honestly.”
“Alright then.”
“So, you wanna go back in? Or do you want to be James Dean out here for a little while longer?”
“Staying,” Arthur nods. “Keep me company, if you like.”
He does.
Postcards from Italy - Beirut
After that night, Arthur called back. Well, he was drunk and slurring incoherent words and this was, by all means and evidences, a drunk dial mishap but he did, in between the detours of saying something about Morgana’s tits and Leon’s freakish tallness, say to Merlin, “This is my call back. Now stop being a girl.”
There’s something to be said for this age, this period of history that John Green would rather stay in than Rome (though Merlin has a thing for the medieval times, it’s something about the resemblance of their castles and the ones in his dreams), that Arthur and Merlin begin to get to know each other by texts, tweets, Facebook messages and, after having found out the other had a Tumblr, reblogs and messages left in their ask box.
They called, too and, more than often, there would be a missed call from Arthur the minute he woke up and Merlin would answer over breakfast, where Morgana and Leon would rudely intrude by making mock loud sex noises and making kissing sounds like pre-teens. But, they haven’t seen each other since that night at the pub. Arthur keeps saying he needs to sort out some things. Merlin wants to ask if he can ask about it but it’s only been a few weeks.
There’s some sort of happiness in Merlin when he thinks about the familiarity that has already been imprinted in the pavement of his daily life. About how it’s a normal occurrence for Arthur to call the house phone because Merlin’s used up all his batteries (calling him), about how nonchalant Morgana and Leon are now when they tell him there’s a letter in the mail for him from Arthur (Merlin challenged Arthur to go two days without Tumblr or Facebook, and to write letters for his nonsensical nonsense. “What, like Harry Potter?” Arthur asked. “Yes, but I would like it if you didn’t buy an owl. The shit would be overpowering,” Merlin said, to which Arthur laughed) and how he feels, how he’s not even crushing on him, just wanting a new friend outside of Morgana and Leon’s apartment.
Merlin rolls out of bed, his dream still fresh in his mind. He doesn’t even bother to look at the watch; he just, straight away, grabbed his notebook of words that look like they’re playing Hangman and jots out what he can remember. After his brain is starved of all the information they can put out, he notices his blinking phone. It’s 4 a.m. and there are two messages from Arthur from the night before.
The sheets feel old. Idk how I’m going to sleep in these old sheets. Sheeps r boring 2 count.
I miss having my own bed.
Merlin’s awake now, and, as it always is when he wakes up in the middle of the night or the beginning of the morning, the bed will seem elevated, the sheets, like Arthur’s, will feel old and the minimal light would suddenly be as bright as a supernova. Besides, it’s mornings like these, where Morgana and Leon are asleep and he likes to believe he’s all alone, that he gets to write the most and, right now, he has a bucket load of things he could write about.
He puts on the Joy Division t-shirt he abandoned the night before and swings his feet to face the floor. He gets up and goes to his desk, his laptop, only to see, when he drops the carton of milk he gets from the fridge, that he’s floating about five inches off the ground. Right, so, he thinks, it’s one of those days.
Usually, the magic runs out a few minutes after he wakes up, so he tries to do what he can with it here and now but there’s nothing much to be done. After he telekinetically fixes the couch and puts the dishes in the washer, Merlin’s left with a burning question on why he has this magic in the first place.
He doesn’t have the world to care for with this gift, no kingdom to build straight up from the foundations to the tip of the towers, no one to save. It would seem than Merlin Emrys is a typo, a clinical error of God’s hospital. This magic was supposed to be given to someone else, a senator or a prince or a person with a life more interesting than his, a he/she who would look at the world differently than Merlin would.
This magic is an orphan left on his doorstep and he doesn’t know how to care for it, which schools to send it to, how he’s going to raise it so that it would be properly grown. Merlin isn’t built to be a father. He likes to think that he’s a surrogate; that, one day, the proper parent to this gift would come along and tell him, “thank you for taking care of it,” and be off saving the world. Maybe one day, it would happen.
He sits on his desk, puts down the carton of milk and starts writing.
His life only started becoming a life when he came here.
And he’s lost, in the castles, in the streets he’s imagined, the world that feeds him his magic, the inches off the ground and the telekinesis. If there’s one thing he loves about the side effect of magic, it’s the fact that it keeps him running, trying to find the words to describe the world he wishes he lived in and the feelings he wished he felt in his life.
He starts running like a convict, until his desk starts growing vines through the corner of his eye and the polished wood under his foot become rocks and bricks and cobbled stones. He starts getting exhausted, starts feeling the sweat under his fingernails; a good kind of exhaustion.
By the time he stops, light has filtered through the windows, landing on the floor like multi-coloured confetti. And he starts thinking that he’s a writer by fate, not by choice and that he has put his imagination, good and bad, on paper and has given it a name, a face, an identity; one that’s not him, by far.
Leon walks out of his door and Merlin leans in his seat. The taller man sits on the floor, puts his arms on the desk and rests his chin on his hands. He looks to Merlin and asks, “How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough for me to build a kingdom,” Merlin says triumphantly.
“Successful?”
“More than.”
Leon nods and smiles fondly because he doesn’t understand but wants to, so badly, and, one day, he hopes he will. He stands and gives Merlin a kiss on the top of his head, on the mess of his black hair. “I’ll go and make breakfast.”
His phone is blinking again, one of the messages is from the mobile company and the other is from Arthur.
Good morning.
“Oh, shit,” Leon curses and Merlin turns back, just in time to see the glass he’s holding hurtling to the floor. With some sort of spidey-sense, he manages to stop it in mid-air and land it safely on the counter.
“The magic’s back?” Leon asks.
Merlin tries to wipe away his shock from his face. “I guess it never left.”
“Hey, Merlin.” Freya comes by his desk. “Call for you.”
That’s odd, no one ever calls him here but, just in case, he starts tapping his keys on a Word Document he just opened, so it can give off the illusion that he’s actually working. “Hello?” Merlin asks politely into the phone.
“Drop the act, Emrys,” the voice on the other line says amusedly.
“What the fuck, Arthur?” Merlin laughs. “What are you doing calling me here?”
“Just wanted to hear the goody act,” he can practically hear his shrug. “And I wanted to have a chat with this Freya character.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve been flirting with her.”
Merlin glances over to Freya’s table and sees that, contrary to what Arthur says next, he has, because she’s wearing this blush on her face. he’s always been intrigued by the said redness of her cheeks, like she’s always so surprised that her pick-ups actually work and she’s walking home with a handsome fellow with a bright smile a wrinkle-free jacket and a guarantee of a good morning after.
“What if I have? Flirting’s not outlawed; in fact, there’s an International Week for it. I dunno when it is but it exists. Besides, I’m pretty good at it,” Arthur says egotistically.
“Don’t try to do it with me.”
“Why the fuck not? I am bi; I might get lucky with my charm.”
Merlin’s eyes bulge out at the fact of Arthur’s sexual orientation and there’s an absurd part of him, the one that dresses up like Peter Pan and bakes oatmeal cookies for the homeless, that whispers, there’s hope.
“No, thank you,” Merlin says, as nonchalantly as he can. “I’d rather not hear how it hurt when I fell from heaven or if I’d like to see your ‘rare book collection’.”
“I’ll save that for later, then,” Arthur gives a small laugh. “Listen, I actually wanted to ask you something.”
“Oh, there’s a point to the pointless.” Merlin leans in his swivel chair and turns, looking out the window, instead.
“Yes and it’s a very pointy point. You might get poked. I’m back.”
“To Black? Back, in a Backstreet Boys way?”
“I’m looking for a flat.”
“Oh,” Merlin says. “So you’re staying.”
“Remember that something wrong? It took a detour to the right. Long story short, yeah, I’m staying.”
“So, what d’ya need me for?” Merlin starts playing around with his pen, twirling it around his fingers like a school girl would with her hair.
“I need the company. Besides, if I go alone, I might make a down payment for a brothel.” Pause. “You could bring Freya, as well, if you want.”
“Nah, I doubt she’ll be able to handle you.”
“You have no idea how special I feel, Emrys. So, you in?” Arthur asks.
“I suppose.”
“I’ll come round and pick you up in the afternoon, then.”
Merlin is so close to saying, “It’s a date,” but it comes out like a childish “Alrighty,” instead. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to work.”
“No, you don’t!” Arthur says. “You just opened a Word Doc when I called and started typing. I bet that Doc looks like keyboard smash right now.” If Merlin could reach into the phone and slap him, he would. “My deduction skills are awesome. Benedict Cumberbatch doesn’t have anything on me.”
“Benny doesn’t know me,” Merlin says.
“Are you, Merlin Emrys, insinuating that I know you now?” Arthur asks in a mock-serious tone.
“Bye, Arthur,” Merlin says insistently.
“See you, mate.”
“What about that other one?” Arthur asks, his hand around a recently-bought hot dog.
“The one with the windows?” Merlin asks back.
“The one with the huge cat,” Arthur clarifies.
“The one with the huge cat was the one with the windows,” Merlin starts licking his fingers from the hot dog he already finished but Arthur seems to be taking his time with it, like it’s the half hour he has to wait before going to the swimming pool. “And no.”
“Why not?”
“Four windows on each corner, you’ll either get baked or frozen to death. They’ll never find the body.” Merlin shrugs.
“Such a rave shitter,” Arthur shakes his head, like he’s regretting the choice of making friends with Merlin in the first place.
It’s been weeks since they’ve seen each other but it feels like they’ve been hanging out every other day with each other. And, plus, it seems like Arthur hasn’t really got anything sorted.
“Why are you looking for flats here, anyhow? There are a lot of great places on the other side.” Merlin then sees the change on Arthur’s face.
“It’s close,” is all he says.
Close to what? He wants to ask but he’s almost certain he knows the answer. The something wrong-turned-right is a person, a significant other, who lives nearby and had previously, promised Arthur a seemingly unbroken tie that entitles him to sleepovers and crumpled sheets and two straws in a milkshake.
“Come on, we’re here,” Arthur proclaims and climbs up the stairs to the flat. It’s small, but spacious. The floor’s a polished wood and there’s a small kitchen with built-in cupboards on top of the space he supposes will be for the stove, though he’s pretty sure Arthur doesn’t cook.
“This is nice,” Merlin says. Arthur is silent, mostly because his mouth is full and there’s mustard down his chin.
“Oh good Lord.” Merlin scours for a tissue and proceeds to wipe the sauce off his face. “Petulant child.” Arthur can only stand there and wear a proud smile.
“Oh, sorry,” a voice says. Both of them turn and see the real estate agent, a real stereotype by the looks of it, with the poofy hair and stewardess smile. “My name is Sherry. You must be Mr. Penn,” she shakes Arthur’s hand, then looks to Merlin, “and this must be your partner.”
“Oh, I’m not-”
“It’s quite alright, love. I have a brother who’s gay,” Sherry says, like it will justify everything.
“Yes, love,” Arthur suddenly wraps an arm around Merlin’s waist. “It’s quite alright.”
“Now,” Sherry starts and Arthur has his focused stare on, with his hand crawling inside Merlin’s pocket. “As you can see, this is very spacious, big enough for two. There’s a guest bedroom, two bathrooms and the master bedroom is exquisite.”
Sherry starts showing them around, opens the doors and lets them smell the smell of new house. They stop at the master bedroom, which really is exquisite, with the polished wood and the big space for a bed, and the view’s alright, as well.
“What do you think, sweetheart?” Arthur asks him.
“Oh, I don’t know, Artie, dear,” Merlin says mockingly.
“I fear we have to mull this over, Sherry. Give us a mo?” Arthur says politely. As soon as she’s gone, he lies down on the hardwood floors. “What d’ya think?”
“About what? The flat or the blatant lie?” Merlin laughs as he sits cross-legged next to Arthur’s body.
“Like you weren’t lying, too.”
“Excuse me, I’m actually gay, I just have enough sense not to marry you.”
“Really?” Arthur cocks his head up. “I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise.”
“Yeah, sorry I’m not wearing guyliner and have KY jelly in my spare pocket,” Merlin snaps.
“Merlin.”
He lies on his back, too, until his feet brush Arthur’s hair. “It’s a nice flat.”
“It’s perfect!” Arthur jumps up to a sitting up position. “It’s close, the price is right, it’s so bloody perfect I would love to make love to it. Or have sex in every other room, which other comes first.”
“It’s your choice, I guess,” Merlin smiles. “But you have to promise me. Once you get a bed, a nice, fluffy one at that, you are inviting me here to jump on it.”
“Deal, sweetheart.”
Digital Love (Daft Punk cover) - Alphabeat
It’s almost as if Arthur has nothing better to do than pestering him and come intruding in every corner and crevice of his life. And, more remarkably, it’s almost as if Merlin doesn’t really mind.
He’s waiting for him at the fountain outside his office building with a book open-faced on his lap (Then We Came to The End; Joshua Ferris, 2007), even another in his knapsack (The Spanish Tragedy; Thomas Kyd, 1582?) but he regards neither of them with his highest. Instead, he people-watches.
It’s an exercise his professor told him to do back in uni, whenever his writing came to a halt, whenever the words fought back against him and he was left curled up in a corner, mentally re-writing everything he’s ever written. He never stopped doing it. Sometimes, when the sentence he’s reading mirrors itself in his head and he can no longer read, he just puts it down next to his cup of coffee and watches.
Merlin tries, really does, to make it seem like it’s nothing much, just a flicker of interest for a passing stranger and he hopes it’s enough because he hasn’t heard anything otherwise. He makes stories for them.
The man who is struggling to put a coat on for a teenaged girl is the father who thinks he’s losing his child when all she’s tried to give him are trails and clues to lead him through the forest of her labyrinth so he can find her, trudge through wet leaves and avert flying branches, and tell her it will be okay one last time.
The old couple on the bench hasn’t been married for years. In fact, they just got married two months ago after each of their respective spouses died and they longed for another presence on the bed, two cups on the table the morning after and someone to whom they read the news to.
The young man who’s striding towards Merlin, with the untidy blonde hair and the brilliant smile, his name is not actually Arthur; it’s Eduardo and he’s come to get down on one knee in front of Merlin and profess his love in Spanish and carry him bridal-style away from this tragic life where the man named Arthur and other men not named Arthur will never love him like he will.
But they’re all stories, in the end.
“Hullo!” Arthur says cheerfully.
“Where are you kidnapping me to this time?” Merlin closes his Joshua Ferris book and tucks it into his backpack again.
“Ever the optimist, I see,” Arthur puts his hands on his hips. “And, besides, it’s not exactly kidnapping if you come willingly.”
“Why would I come willingly with a twat like you?”
“You know, you keep saying that,” Arthur says as Merlin stands up. “But you still come with me, anyway.”
Merlin doesn’t say anything to this, mostly because the rawness of the statement takes him aback, but partly because Arthur’s started talking again.
“I’m taking you out for drinks with the guys.”
“You mean, Gwaine, Percy and Elyan?” Arthur nods. “Excellent. Percy has a book I want and Gwaine’s been saying something about getting something for a very early present.”
“Oh, you present whore,” Arthur laughs.
“Nothing wrong with that, eh?”
On the cab ride there, they share earphones to Merlin’s Walkman and Arthur decides he rather likes Alphabeat and Merlin says he can borrow his album, if he’d like and Arthur says that would be much appreciated in a very dark, monotone voice because he thinks that’s funny.
When they step inside the pub, he’s immediately acknowledged with a familiar, “Huzzah!” from Gwaine.
“He’s not even drunk yet!” Percy says, astonished.
“He’s just happy to see me,” Merlin shrugs like it’s common fact everyone loves him.
He sits down across from the three of them, and, true to Percy’s word, Gwaine hasn’t had a sip from the beer in front of him. Elyan waves at him cheerfully and Percy gives Arthur an elbow bump just to show their manliness.
“Hello, Merlin, old friend,” Gwaine says. “I got you something.”
“Please tell me a stable male friend,” Arthur laughs.
“Still single, then, M?” Gwaine asks. “I’m surprised. You’re a beast in bed.”
“I thought we stopped talking about our sex romps already,” Merlin says absent-mindedly.
Sure, he and Gwaine had had a few fun times, times that were mostly induced by alcohol, the ones that had them tearing away clothing and smelling of unreasonably good sex the next morning. But they hadn’t had fun like that in a while.
“Whoa, when did you guys have sex romps?” Arthur asked.
“Oh, don’t start. He’s gonna burst out details about my personal sexual habits,” Merlin takes a sip of the drink Gwaine’s ignoring.
“More like sexual prowess,” Gwaine says flatteringly. It’s quite a compliment, coming from the man who has to have some every other day or his buttons will start blinking furiously and his system will malfunction.
“Anyways, you got me something?” Merlin asked expectantly.
Gwaine rummages through his backpack and returns with a few figurines. Pokemon figurines.
“Pokemon!” Merlin makes a run for them.
“Oy vey,” Arthur palms his face. “And you call me childish.”
“You most definitely are. I’m just taking back my childhood.”
Merlin brushes his finger over the Squirtle one and remembers his childhood with Will where they found a Pokemon figurine on the street one day and then religiously watched the show whenever they could. It’s times like these that he curses Will Dempsie for ever leaving him.
So he’s not childish, he’s just tremendously nostalgic
PART TWO
A real love story is like cake.
Not in the sense that is it easy because it isn’t but the analogy is still there because the moment you cut through the mush of it all (or dip your fingers in the icing, depending on what kind of person you are and whether or not the manners your mother did or did not teach you have any hold on your life) you immediately want more. You pick up a paper plate and take your share and go back for seconds or thirds until the layers are gone and all that’s left is the shape of the pastry that once was.
After this, you spend a few joyful hours with your stomach sated and the smell of sweetness still on your sleeves and cheeks until you realize it will never be enough and it will never be the same. The baker might change kitchens, the icing might not be as pink as you once thought it was and the euphoria isn’t there as it once was. You try to find the same cake, the same feeling that came with the cake but you know full well you’ll never find it and you are doomed forever more to walk the earth with a hungry belly and a fond memory.
People will say there are better cakes, different cakes. They don’t know. It’s like this every time. The cake always finishes and you are always the one that needs it more.
Merlin knows this analogy is only going to be greeted by raised eyebrows as they serve him his breakfast in their much-too-clean kitchen or a few tsk tsk tsks and a few looks of pity because they think he’s crippled when he’s in love. But he’s pretty sure all of this is quite true.
And, no, Merlin Emrys, despite spending the last fifteen minutes talking about cake and its relation to love to his flatmates, is not fat.
Merlin Emrys, is, in fact, too skinny for his own good. He really doesn’t know how, though, because his mother fed him quite a lot as a child, being the only son of a single mother would do that to someone, and, now as a grown adult, his flatmates have the responsibility of feeding him.
Morgana will always make him a sandwich or cookies and put it on his table (which is pretty much off-limits, because it is clearly marked as his, with him carving his name in the wood and the mess that can only be his. Off limits to anyone who has sense but, clearly, Morgana has none) and he’ll see when he starts to write and he’ll take a few bites until she breathes down his neck and urges him to finish it. Leon will cook hearty lunches and dinners, when he’s home, and Merlin always finds himself at the table, even if he has one last sentence to write, one last page to finish, not because of the smells of Leon’s wonderful cooking but because of the sounds of all three of them, together.
Leon has been his friend since his university days and Morgana’s been Leon’s plus-one since the general population coined the term ‘love at first sight’. It was this fact that only made it logical that after months of straying away from ties and strings of friends and family, Fate made Merlin and Leon meet in the market with a few awkward hellos and then induced Morgana to chirp in, saying he’s much too thin and they should take him home and feed him like he’s a stray dog with no collar around his neck. Two years later, he’s still here, with his own table and his own seat around the wobbly countertop of the kitchen.
Most writers he knows (three, including himself) don’t live with flatmates, they prefer to live alone with strange sounds in the night and rats and old sandwiches and pudgy couches like complete invalids but something about the company triggers something in him that encourages him to write more, to send them to the editor of the magazine he works at, and even to write the things he actually feels passionate about. It’s something about the sandwiches and the cookies and seeing Morgana and Leon wrapped around on the couch so much that he can’t see the end of him and the beginning of her and the normalcy of it when they invite him over, as well.
He likes sandwiches and being part of theirs.
As Merlin stretches his legs on the couch, having fallen asleep the previous night on Morgana’s lap when the TV was playing something nonsensical, he makes a mental information list.
Name: Merlin Emrys
Age: 24 (42 on hangover days)
Occupation: Opinions writer
He takes off his shirt in the bathroom, sees the disaster of his face and starts wiping it, as if the water and soap can erase his genetics.
Family
Father: Whereabouts unknown
Mother: (space intentionally left blank)
Siblings: William Dempsie (honorary sibling because he might as well be his brother, anyway)
Significant other: -
He sits at the counter of the kitchen and is surprised to see Morgana awake because, usually, she’s the last of them to roll out of bed. Sometimes Leon can just step over her to get to the other side and she won’t even groan.
Home: Surrey, England
Residence: In a flat
Leon stretches out of his room, manoeuvring himself to put on a t-shirt and kissing Morgana on the cheek (they never kiss, not really, until afternoon, when it will matter) and ruffling Merlin’s hair like a kid’s. They don’t talk during breakfast; not really, just small talk over food but it is that comfortable, almost warm, type of silence that doesn’t feel awkward at all.
In Case of Emergency Contact
Leon Knight: (insert number here)
Morgana Faye: (insert number here)
Will Dempsie: (insert number here)
“Merlin, mate,” Leon says. “You alright?”
“Fine. Just fine.”
His room is an utter mess. For such a small space and such a young man, it shouldn’t be a problem and he honestly thinks it isn’t. The layout is simple, with a closet that he likes to think opens up to Narnia at one side, a bed slightly larger than a single at the other that’s usually piled up with clothes (except when Leon’s out of town and Morgana doesn’t want to sleep alone then he usually rolls them all up in a snowball to chuck in the closet) but when it’s clear, it’s quite evident that he has a child’s sheets. There’s a window in front of him and the door behind him and two book shelves under the window but most of the books that should be orderly in stacks on the shelves that Leon made for him are everywhere. His copy of White Teeth (Smith, 2000) is stacked on A Short History of Nearly Everything (Bryson, 2003) and Paper Towns (Green, 2008) on the foot of his bed, those kind of light-reading sorts of books, while on his bed, there’s that Watchmen comic and the latest issue of the Discovery Magazine that he remembers he fell asleep on, on a night when he didn’t even have the capacity to take off his jeans.
Merlin doesn’t know where his messiness comes from. His mother was such a clean woman when he was growing up, a lifetime where the couches were lumpy but dusted off with any grey bunnies and the floors always sparkled so much so that she would joke that he could “eat dinner off it, not that he ever wanted to” (he did, one day, attempt at eating dinner off the floor but his mother had made that tsk tsk tsk sound she did whenever he did something wrong). Merlin had to clean up his room every two days because his mother would say that just because they didn’t have the money doesn’t mean they don’t have to have the neatness. Maybe that’s why his room is in such a state: he just wants to be messy since he was the denied the almost privileged right for the first half of his life.
Thinking of cleanliness makes him miss his mum.
He tries to find his jacket in all this mess and sees it, dislodges it from the cave it’s made with his dark jeans and TMNT t-shirt. He leaves the room to meet Freya for lunch, thinking about how much he loves the mess and how he could just burrow into the hole he’s made and die amongst the pages of his favourite books and the fabric of his clothes and actually be happy.
Freya is a fellow writer at the magazine he works at. She writes about current events with a very snappy flair that makes you actually understand what’s going on with the world. She’s one of the only co-workers he has that he actually likes or talks to. He’s always been shy and awkward and stumbling on first meeting which gives off the impression that he’ll always be shy and awkward and stumbling but he really isn’t. Hell, if it wasn’t for Freya jumping up from her desk that first day and telling him how happy she is that she won’t be the newbie anymore, he would probably just be sitting at his desk, playing with a yo-yo like a sad wanker. It’s a good thing she did because he doesn’t even know how to manoeuvre himself around a yo-yo.
“Hello, you tosser.” Freya stands from her seat and smiles at him. She comes around and gives him a hug like she hasn’t seen him in months when, in reality, they’ve just seen each other two days ago.
The magazine is laid-back enough to have their writers write from home, if they’d like, but, on most days he’s supposed to be at work, Merlin turns up for the lack of anything better to do. Freya usually comes in every other day with a wicked hangover, detailing without any details, why she didn’t come to work the previous day. Freya’s a lot like Morgana, hard exterior, soft inside like fondue and, for that reason alone, he’s put off their meeting each other for as long as he can.
“You ordered for me!” Merlin says excitedly because he’s famished at the moment and the smells of the café are forever taunting him. There’s a pile of mini-burgers for him and it takes all his self-control and memories of his mother’s mannerisms to just not take it and wipe his face with them.
“Mmm,” Freya nods. “Now, tell me. How’s your weekend? Did you find any cute guys yet?”
“Uhm, no. I’m not you.”
“Obviously. If you were, you’d be getting cock every other day, now, wouldn’t you?” Freya’s eyebrows go up. “I just want you to be happy.”
“Yeah, you and everyone else in my life. I am happy, aren’t I? I’ve got you and Morgana and Leon and my writing. I don’t need a fuck to be happy, now, do I?”
“No, but it would be fun, though.”
“Ssh now, woman, I’m eating!”
Let My Love Open the Door - Sondre Lerche
So it starts like this.
“You look like a turtle.”
It’s this sentence, this so-called observation, that opens the door to a relationship he’s never really been ready for and forces him to be friends with the feelings he’s always ignored.
Honestly, it’s not his fault he looks like a turtle. There are more bones in him than fat and it’s not his fault he’s prone to adverse reactions to any drop in temperature. He’s wearing so many layers at the moment, with a collar at the top of his neck, almost covering his mouth if he slumps in his seat like he is now and it doesn’t hurt the fact that he’s wearing a beanie. Morgana insists on buying him clothes until her arms are wide with them when winter comes around, even though the stack of clothes in his closet is supposed to yell loudly enough clothes already! It’s not even winter, though; it’s just one of those rainy days, not raining but cold enough for it be raining anyway.
He’s outside of the function hall, where people are kissing each other on each cheek and Morgana and Leon are congratulating Gwen and Lance on their engagement. Leon would have clapped Lance on the back and shouted “finally!” Morgana would’ve taken Gwen aside with advice on living with a man and going into a long-term relationship with some profanity thrown in “just for the spice of it”. Then they would probably be circulating the room, holding hands and meeting acquaintances they’ll only see at the wedding, if nothing more. But they’ll be polite and say “yes, yes, we’ll call” when all they really want to do is be at home right now with reruns of Firefly and a bowl of potato salad would be passed around them because that’s what Merlin wants to do.
But he likes Gwen and Lance. Gwen’s the sweetest person he knows, with a warm smile and a reassurance strong enough to make you believe that everything will be alright and that, when she starts whipping out the hot cocoa, you would’ve forgotten about why you were miserable in the first place. Lance is perfect, though. He does yoga, is well-read enough to know what Merlin’s talking about on his rants, he’s a doctor and his hair is marvellous (so is his best friend, Gwaine’s. Merlin has the sneaking suspicion that Lance chooses his friends on the base of whether or not they could rock in a Pantene Pro-V ad). Lance would be absolutely perfect, of course, if he liked cock, or, specifically, Merlin’s.
His mum would’ve liked Merlin to have a boyfriend like Lance.
But, in the end, it would seem that Gwen and Lance are perfect for each other. They are one of those couples that make eyes for each other, ones of adoration, not just lust, ones that are as warm as Gwen’s hot chocolate. And if Gwen and Lance are the cocoa, Morgana and Leon seem to be the cup it’s served in: a funny picture on the front but stains and whatnot at the side from years of use but always containing something worthwhile to drink. And that pretty much concludes all his knowledge about stable relationships.
He looks up now at the point of origin of the observation and, by doing so, justifies it even more, with his head poking out of his collar, getting out of his shell of clothes. The speaker is a bloke his age, with an appearance equivalent to a painting under the microscope. Seemingly perfect at first glance the landscape of his fair skin, the clouds of his blue eyes, the mountains of his cheekbones but, under closer inspection, there’s the clumsy hand of the artist on the jagged teeth and the flyaway strands of blonde of his hair (it’s nice; he must be one of Lance’s friends). He likes it, though; the flaws make him look real.
“’s not my fault,” Merlin murmurs in a small voice, trying not to be fazed by his new company, who isn’t even wearing a jacket, just a simple shirt, and he’s not freezing his balls off.
“Ah, yes, it’s just in your genetics to look like a cross between a turtle and a duck. A tuck? A durtle?” the guy ponders. “I bet you waddle, as well.”
“I don’t waddle.” But Merlin takes a split second to look down at his feet and is suddenly self-conscious about his foot movements.
“Do you belong in there?” the guy asks him and he nods. “Yeah, me as well. I just needed to get away. I haven’t been so bombarded with hugs in my life.”
Merlin doesn’t know why this stranger is telling him this but, for some reason, he likes hearing him talk.
“What’s your name, then?” the guy sits down next to him on the bench.
“Merlin.”
“Oh, Leon and Morgana’s honorary child?” Merlin raises his eyebrows at this. “Just go with it.”
“They have more sex than normal parents, though.”
And now this gorgeous bloke is laughing at a personal titbit of Morgana and Leon’s relationship. Bugger.
“Right-o, mate,” he smiles. “I’m Arthur, by the way.”
“Oh! They told me about you!” Merlin says, apparently too excited to say something acceptable. “Aren’t you supposed to be abroad?”
“I figured the States have corrupted me enough already and I should come back home where calling someone ‘love’ is not cute but patronizing instead.”
“Excellent choice, that.” They share the same smile for a moment.
“Yo, bitch!” someone yells out drunkenly. It’s Morgana. “Time to bust a move!”
She realizes Merlin’s not alone and stops talking black. “Am I interrupting something? The start of some awkward, mutual ogling then the bumping of noses before leaning in to kiss, perhaps?”
“Not this time, no.” Arthur stands up. “Been drinking too much, Morgana?” he asks as she gives him a slobbering kiss on the cheek.
“Just a tad,” Morgana gives a drunken smile that would’ve been like the action of a donkey neighing if she wasn’t so beautiful.
“Where’s Leon? He’s supposed to be your guardian when you’re drunk,” Merlin wraps one of his jackets around her.
`
“I’m here!” Leon bursts out. “Just got saved by Percy. Lance’s cousins keep hitting on me and Morgana kept groping my arse to make a point so I told her to bugger off ‘cause my arse cheeks were getting sore.” He says all of this while he takes over from Merlin and warms Morgana up.
“Everyone kept hitting on me, as well,” Morgana says as her head lolls backwards to Leon’s chest.
“Yeah, well, we are all rather beautiful, aren’t we?” Arthur gives Merlin a sparkly smile, as if to notify him he’s part of that group, as well.
“We should leave now,” Leon says to Merlin, hoisting Morgana up.
“Yeah, okay,” Merlin nods.
“Get well, Morgana. Bye, Leon.” Then pause. “See you later, Merlin.”
“Yeah, see you,” Merlin says, too preoccupied with Morgana’s drunkenness to notice how, when Arthur said his name, his voice turned different, not more happy or joyous, just different.
Merlin and Leon walk to their car, arms around Morgana as she goes on and on about how she could’ve been Madonna in another life and Merlin looks over Morgana’s head to Leon. “Hey, Leon?”
“Yeah, M?”
“Do I waddle?”
Hidden Treasures - Murray Gold and BBC National Orchestra
Merlin always thinks that hangovers are the worst. There’s some kind of poetry in being intoxicated and not remembering anything but feeling every pain the next morning, like karma lives in a shot of tequila. It’s why he avoids drinking until he really needs to.
While Leon places Morgana quite unceremoniously on their bed (the formalities with relationships no longer holds with them) Merlin is asleep. His feet are tangled in sleeves of his jacket he’s abandoned and his mouth is open until he knows that tomorrow his pillow will smell.
He doesn’t care now, though.
Magic tricks. That’s what Morgana’s always called them: the two inches he floats on before he lands on the surface of the ground; the accidental fire started when he’s fuming, the things he knows that even she won’t tell him; like he’s somehow gotten inside her head. His mum used to call it his ‘gift’, even if his gift was never quite unwrapped at opportune moments. They never came when he wanted them to. The bullies at school would never get magically pulled back by an invisible hand; the boys that never loved him never got the slap he was too scared to give.
It’s been this way since childhood. Since accidental anger and excitement and innocence and confusion. The anger has died down since then, so did the excitement, the innocent left him but, for his part, confusion still streams through him, just like the magic.
He’s long discovered the origin of his magic or what spurs it on. It’s in his dreams; it’s in the one he’s dreaming of right now. It’s this dream that feeds him the magic. It’s the cobbled streets and in the imaginary people selling goods; it’s the tall castle and the sky that’s too blue to be real; it’s in the footsteps he can’t see himself taking and the air he doesn’t know how to breathe in.
It’s also these dreams that he writes about. He tries to remember what he can when he wakes up but it’s like keeping water in your bare hands, in that it dribbles out either way. It’s always been so vague, which is why he tries thinking of it more often, so his stories will have some inch of verisimilitude in the fabric of his words, which leads to more accidental magic. It’s a circle he can’t quite avoid because, no matter how hard he tries, his magic, his tricks, they’ll always be linked to the written word, the one thing he loves most.
He supposes there’s another point saved to be said; there’s a magic in writing, as well. One that’s been petering away for years, like his dreams.
Now, though, Merlin doesn’t concern himself with these worries (they’re meant for afternoons where his brain is empty and there needs to be an issue at hand), instead, he immerses himself in this imaginary world that feeds him his powers that he’ll soon forget by first light.
In the Mood - Glenn Miller
Merlin laughs when he sees Morgana’s hung-over swagger the next morning. She shoots him an angry glare before her head meets the cold surface of the kitchen counter.
“Merlin, shut up,” she hisses. “Your laughter belongs in hell.”
“My laughter is exquisite. It belongs in the Fields of Elysium.” Merlin smiles at her. “Now, eat your pancakes.”
Her head surfaces up like a fish and smells Leon’s cooking. She does her best to smile but, honestly, it comes out distorted. She happily forks through the pancakes as Leon cleans up the kitchen. There’s Glenn Miller in the background (if there’s anything Merlin knows that’s as constant as the sun rising and falling every day, it’s the fact that Leon must always have music when he’s cooking) and it brings hums from Leon and Morgana.
“So, Merlin,” Morgana says. “I saw you checking out Arthur’s cock yesterday.”
Merlin almost splutters out his milk. “I was not!” he gasps out defensively. “I’m sure he has a nice one but, no, I was not admiring his male reproductive organ. He was attractive, though.”
“Cock, face, hair, what’s the difference? You’ll get there, anyway,” Morgana shrugs.
“Oh, speaking of Arthur,” Leon chimes in. “He called last night. He wanted to talk to you.” He looks at Merlin.
“What did you say?” Merlin asks in the midst of Morgana saying, “Boy doesn’t waste any time, does he?”
“I didn’t say anything. I just gave him your number.” Leon gives him a mischievous wink as he chews on his pancake.
“Devious. Evil. Conniving. Whatever the vernacular, you both are it.”
“We’re just helping out, mate. He seemed like a nice guy and you’ve been so depressed lately.”
“Just because I’ve been a little down, does not give you to right to play Doctor Feelgood to my emotions. And, besides, Arthur’s probably straight and he’ll want to take me to some footy match or something. Something completely heterosexual.”
Morgana raises her eyebrows because, clearly, she doesn’t buy it.
Merlin goes back to work that day, mostly because Morgana’s drunkenness is exceptionally annoying when she’s under the seam that there might be a boy for Merlin. It’s always this way with his female companions (pardoning the slight Doctor Who reference); Freya always coos over him to go with her to the club on “gay night” or whatever it is the heterosexual population of British club goers deem as “gay night” (probably pink drinks and Britney Spears on the stereo. And there always seems to be that one guy in the corner of the club looking at everyone as if he’s everyone’s sexual favour).
Morgana would’ve done the same, obviously, but Merlin’s already thoroughly convinced that she probably takes good candid pictures of him on Leon’s DSLR to send to attractive strangers like a maiden’s token, with things like, “Oh, he would love to meet you!” or “honestly, he would,” to say in that lying, almost falsetto voice of hers. He likes to think his mum would do better, were she here. He likes the amount of care they have for him, though, and the endless optimism of theirs. The one that makes cupcakes in heart shapes and prints out two names on an invitation.
Arthur was a nice guy, that was a given, and Merlin was looking at him in a way anything else might be addled, so Morgana’s slash goggles would’ve seen that. Arthur could not be his, though, in any way that would be fitting to a teenage girl in those young adult novels with a sitting girl who looks either miserable or deliriously happy (it’s all the same to him), for guys like him would never quite be the hand guys like Merlin held in the afternoon sunlight. It was a cliché, judgmental thing to say, he knows, but he supposes all those years of just being ‘Merlin, the oddball’ or Merlin, Leon and Morgana’s honorary child has been etched in yet-understood hieroglyphs in the cavern where he’s supposed to be accepting every truth.
His boss, Edwin, the man with the award-winning sneer and scars Merlin’s been scared to ask about, looks at him quizzically because it’s probably been a long time since he’s sat in front of his computer, doing nothing but staring between the letters of his keyboard and listening to Slow Club on his Walkman.
“Get back to work, Merlin,” he says but Merlin can tell he doesn’t really mean it because he’s always had a soft spot for Merlin. So he doesn’t get back to work, he faces his computer and clicks around to find something fleeting to do.
Then he remembers his notebook. For all his life, his notebook has never acquired full, complete sentences, merely short words and abbreviations that just looks like the crooked writing of a kid being held back a grade. (“mum” “Will” “camping trip” “Oreos”, age eleven; “my dreams” “weird though” “guy in 246”; age nineteen; “l+m’s evil plans” “the streets”; present) but, now, it has a slew of words that don’t seem connected at all but he knows.
The streets, he can see streets in his dreams now, or more monumentally, remembers them when he wakes up. Usually, it doesn’t take much for Merlin to start writing on his own, but it does now. The words don’t start moving, and the pause-pause of the keyboard start scaring him as the nouns and verbs and adjectives starts drag their feet lazily on the surface of his brain.
His computer dings. He sees a Facebook invitation. Normally he’d ignore this but he sees the name Arthur and wonders if it’s the same Arthur that called him a cross-breed and insinuated that Merlin was rather beautiful all in the same night. With a few measly clicks and exploring, he sees that it is.
The profile picture is of Arthur, not looking at the camera, but away, revealing the sideways glance of his smile and the long expanse of neck and collarbone hidden under a black shirt. Merlin accepts the invite and the words break into a run.
It’s not Arthur who suggests the drinks, it’s Gwen. She phones him at work the next day with a cheery disposition that only Gwen can fashion without it being assumed that she got some last night (though she probably did).
“Hello, Mrs. DuLac,” Merlin says, competing her enthusiasm.
“Not yet, Merlin, not yet,” Gwen answers but he can feel her blush through the phone. “Listen, how do you feel about a drink? Morgana and Leon are invited, as well. It doesn’t have to be drinks; of course, it can be dinner or lunch or brunch, if you’d like. Though I’m fresh out of preppy sweatshirts for brunch. What do you think?”
“Drinks would be good. Though we should probably get some food in our systems beforehand.” Merlin doesn’t say that he’s a lightweight. “What spurred this on?”
“Well, since Arthur got back, he hasn’t really met people. He’s a bit antisocial. He says it was something to do with a bad break-up. It’d be nice for him to go out with you guys. Besides, I need some people who won’t talk about patterns on the china and what colour the carpet should be.”
“Fair enough.”
So it comes to be a Friday night finding the trio of a much-too-calm Leon, a humming Morgana and a glassy-eyed Merlin in a cab going to a previously-agreed-upon location wherein they would dine with whatever it is the words on the menu could offer them.
It’s a pub, with low lights hanging over them and menus and rings on the table. Something that seems all too familiar but different at the same time. The second they enter the pub, the three of them see the others. Today, however, Arthur is not glowing, he looks almost sullen and his head is as hung low as the lights above them but Gwen and Lance are animatedly talking to each other (probably something about the wedding.
“Oh, bother, do we really need to invite your cousin? He’s a bigger flirt than Gwaine, honestly!”
“Oh, come now, sweetheart, he’s not that bad!” or something or other, though he’s pretty sure they don’t talk like that. They’d have to be in an Enid Blyton to be legit like that) until they see Morgana, Leon and Merlin, stitched together like they’ve always been and they wave.
Arthur looks up at this and manages a weak smile, despite, and it almost looks like a real one. “Hey, durtle,” he says as they seat themselves.
They fall comfortably into the deep well of conversation. They go past the tumbling rocks of jobs (Leon: “It’s quite boring, publishing, dry line of work.” Morgana: “Being a shrink? Obviously I meet enough nutters already.” Merlin: “Writing opinions on a magazine barely anyone reads? Yeah, dream job, that is. *insert sympathetic laugh here*), get their jackets hitched on the branch sticking out of their families (Leon: “It’s just me and my brother, Rupert, now. He lives in Chicago.” Morgana: “I’m sure my half-sister’s still somewhere. Yeah, Morgause, you’ve met her, right? Shady character, that one, pretty sure Folsom Prison Blues was written about her.” Merlin: “My honorary brother, Will’s everywhere now. I just got a postcard from India from him. I dunno where he is now.”), and they keep falling because, with their company, it’s pretty nice, this feeling.
Arthur starts talking, as well, as soon as the French fries roll out. He talks about his family which seems only to consist of his father, Uther, who was diagnosed with cancer a year ago and is now travelling the world trying to right every wrong he’s ever done, but never coming back to right his son, and how he’s distantly related to Morgana in some “second cousin, twice-removed, confusing shit like that” way. He talks about his years in America and how much he’s missed here.
The beers start being passed around and everyone chugs them down, even Gwen, because clearly the girl needs the alcohol, except Merlin, who sits there and listens to the stories and starts to realize. Arthur called, Arthur sent the invite but he never called back, he never sent another message. He supposes he can forgive him for the Facebook thing because most friends he has there are barely conversing with him in an appropriate space of words. But Arthur called.
Merlin doesn’t want to think about this because Gwen is being nice and Lance is waving his hands, re-enacting his years of being a Doctor without a Goddamned Border, and Morgana has her head on Merlin’s shoulder, a comforting gesture, like their couch, and because he just shouldn’t.
Arthur says he needs to take a breather and puts on his jacket and goes outside. Merlin, for some absurd reason, lies and says he’s going to piss when, in truth, he’s following Arthur outside into the cold night. He wraps a scarf around his neck (not too tightly because he has this fear that someone will come from behind him and tug just so and he’ll be dead in two seconds flat) and sees Arthur leaning against the door outside. If this was a movie, he’d probably be smoking or doing whatever the Cool Kids are doing now, but it isn’t and he’s not.
He’s looking out into the cold, looking pensive, like his eyes are too old for his body. He turns and sees Merlin. “Hey.”
“Hi,” Merlin returns awkwardly.
“What are you doing here?”
“I dunno. Usually when people run from good company into the cold to freeze their balls off, something’s wrong. Or maybe you’re just hanging and I’m an imbecile who watches too many movies.”
“You’re a bit odd, aren’t you, Merlin?” Arthur asks.
“Just a tad.” Merlin shrugs because it’s just a fact and he knows it; Arthur should know it, too.
There’s this silence and Merlin wonders if he should just take a hike and re-enter the pub because it’s better than being here in the silence. But then Arthur says, “Sorry I didn’t call you back.”
“Why?”
“Because, like you said, usually when people run from good company, something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.” Arthur breathes out. “Just, sorry, yeah? Not that it matters, though.” Then he sees Merlin’s face. “Oh, don’t be such a girl, Merlin!”
“Hey, I’m not! I don’t care, it doesn’t matter!” Arthur looks at him sceptically. “Honestly.”
“Alright then.”
“So, you wanna go back in? Or do you want to be James Dean out here for a little while longer?”
“Staying,” Arthur nods. “Keep me company, if you like.”
He does.
Postcards from Italy - Beirut
After that night, Arthur called back. Well, he was drunk and slurring incoherent words and this was, by all means and evidences, a drunk dial mishap but he did, in between the detours of saying something about Morgana’s tits and Leon’s freakish tallness, say to Merlin, “This is my call back. Now stop being a girl.”
There’s something to be said for this age, this period of history that John Green would rather stay in than Rome (though Merlin has a thing for the medieval times, it’s something about the resemblance of their castles and the ones in his dreams), that Arthur and Merlin begin to get to know each other by texts, tweets, Facebook messages and, after having found out the other had a Tumblr, reblogs and messages left in their ask box.
They called, too and, more than often, there would be a missed call from Arthur the minute he woke up and Merlin would answer over breakfast, where Morgana and Leon would rudely intrude by making mock loud sex noises and making kissing sounds like pre-teens. But, they haven’t seen each other since that night at the pub. Arthur keeps saying he needs to sort out some things. Merlin wants to ask if he can ask about it but it’s only been a few weeks.
There’s some sort of happiness in Merlin when he thinks about the familiarity that has already been imprinted in the pavement of his daily life. About how it’s a normal occurrence for Arthur to call the house phone because Merlin’s used up all his batteries (calling him), about how nonchalant Morgana and Leon are now when they tell him there’s a letter in the mail for him from Arthur (Merlin challenged Arthur to go two days without Tumblr or Facebook, and to write letters for his nonsensical nonsense. “What, like Harry Potter?” Arthur asked. “Yes, but I would like it if you didn’t buy an owl. The shit would be overpowering,” Merlin said, to which Arthur laughed) and how he feels, how he’s not even crushing on him, just wanting a new friend outside of Morgana and Leon’s apartment.
Merlin rolls out of bed, his dream still fresh in his mind. He doesn’t even bother to look at the watch; he just, straight away, grabbed his notebook of words that look like they’re playing Hangman and jots out what he can remember. After his brain is starved of all the information they can put out, he notices his blinking phone. It’s 4 a.m. and there are two messages from Arthur from the night before.
The sheets feel old. Idk how I’m going to sleep in these old sheets. Sheeps r boring 2 count.
I miss having my own bed.
Merlin’s awake now, and, as it always is when he wakes up in the middle of the night or the beginning of the morning, the bed will seem elevated, the sheets, like Arthur’s, will feel old and the minimal light would suddenly be as bright as a supernova. Besides, it’s mornings like these, where Morgana and Leon are asleep and he likes to believe he’s all alone, that he gets to write the most and, right now, he has a bucket load of things he could write about.
He puts on the Joy Division t-shirt he abandoned the night before and swings his feet to face the floor. He gets up and goes to his desk, his laptop, only to see, when he drops the carton of milk he gets from the fridge, that he’s floating about five inches off the ground. Right, so, he thinks, it’s one of those days.
Usually, the magic runs out a few minutes after he wakes up, so he tries to do what he can with it here and now but there’s nothing much to be done. After he telekinetically fixes the couch and puts the dishes in the washer, Merlin’s left with a burning question on why he has this magic in the first place.
He doesn’t have the world to care for with this gift, no kingdom to build straight up from the foundations to the tip of the towers, no one to save. It would seem than Merlin Emrys is a typo, a clinical error of God’s hospital. This magic was supposed to be given to someone else, a senator or a prince or a person with a life more interesting than his, a he/she who would look at the world differently than Merlin would.
This magic is an orphan left on his doorstep and he doesn’t know how to care for it, which schools to send it to, how he’s going to raise it so that it would be properly grown. Merlin isn’t built to be a father. He likes to think that he’s a surrogate; that, one day, the proper parent to this gift would come along and tell him, “thank you for taking care of it,” and be off saving the world. Maybe one day, it would happen.
He sits on his desk, puts down the carton of milk and starts writing.
His life only started becoming a life when he came here.
And he’s lost, in the castles, in the streets he’s imagined, the world that feeds him his magic, the inches off the ground and the telekinesis. If there’s one thing he loves about the side effect of magic, it’s the fact that it keeps him running, trying to find the words to describe the world he wishes he lived in and the feelings he wished he felt in his life.
He starts running like a convict, until his desk starts growing vines through the corner of his eye and the polished wood under his foot become rocks and bricks and cobbled stones. He starts getting exhausted, starts feeling the sweat under his fingernails; a good kind of exhaustion.
By the time he stops, light has filtered through the windows, landing on the floor like multi-coloured confetti. And he starts thinking that he’s a writer by fate, not by choice and that he has put his imagination, good and bad, on paper and has given it a name, a face, an identity; one that’s not him, by far.
Leon walks out of his door and Merlin leans in his seat. The taller man sits on the floor, puts his arms on the desk and rests his chin on his hands. He looks to Merlin and asks, “How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough for me to build a kingdom,” Merlin says triumphantly.
“Successful?”
“More than.”
Leon nods and smiles fondly because he doesn’t understand but wants to, so badly, and, one day, he hopes he will. He stands and gives Merlin a kiss on the top of his head, on the mess of his black hair. “I’ll go and make breakfast.”
His phone is blinking again, one of the messages is from the mobile company and the other is from Arthur.
Good morning.
“Oh, shit,” Leon curses and Merlin turns back, just in time to see the glass he’s holding hurtling to the floor. With some sort of spidey-sense, he manages to stop it in mid-air and land it safely on the counter.
“The magic’s back?” Leon asks.
Merlin tries to wipe away his shock from his face. “I guess it never left.”
“Hey, Merlin.” Freya comes by his desk. “Call for you.”
That’s odd, no one ever calls him here but, just in case, he starts tapping his keys on a Word Document he just opened, so it can give off the illusion that he’s actually working. “Hello?” Merlin asks politely into the phone.
“Drop the act, Emrys,” the voice on the other line says amusedly.
“What the fuck, Arthur?” Merlin laughs. “What are you doing calling me here?”
“Just wanted to hear the goody act,” he can practically hear his shrug. “And I wanted to have a chat with this Freya character.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve been flirting with her.”
Merlin glances over to Freya’s table and sees that, contrary to what Arthur says next, he has, because she’s wearing this blush on her face. he’s always been intrigued by the said redness of her cheeks, like she’s always so surprised that her pick-ups actually work and she’s walking home with a handsome fellow with a bright smile a wrinkle-free jacket and a guarantee of a good morning after.
“What if I have? Flirting’s not outlawed; in fact, there’s an International Week for it. I dunno when it is but it exists. Besides, I’m pretty good at it,” Arthur says egotistically.
“Don’t try to do it with me.”
“Why the fuck not? I am bi; I might get lucky with my charm.”
Merlin’s eyes bulge out at the fact of Arthur’s sexual orientation and there’s an absurd part of him, the one that dresses up like Peter Pan and bakes oatmeal cookies for the homeless, that whispers, there’s hope.
“No, thank you,” Merlin says, as nonchalantly as he can. “I’d rather not hear how it hurt when I fell from heaven or if I’d like to see your ‘rare book collection’.”
“I’ll save that for later, then,” Arthur gives a small laugh. “Listen, I actually wanted to ask you something.”
“Oh, there’s a point to the pointless.” Merlin leans in his swivel chair and turns, looking out the window, instead.
“Yes and it’s a very pointy point. You might get poked. I’m back.”
“To Black? Back, in a Backstreet Boys way?”
“I’m looking for a flat.”
“Oh,” Merlin says. “So you’re staying.”
“Remember that something wrong? It took a detour to the right. Long story short, yeah, I’m staying.”
“So, what d’ya need me for?” Merlin starts playing around with his pen, twirling it around his fingers like a school girl would with her hair.
“I need the company. Besides, if I go alone, I might make a down payment for a brothel.” Pause. “You could bring Freya, as well, if you want.”
“Nah, I doubt she’ll be able to handle you.”
“You have no idea how special I feel, Emrys. So, you in?” Arthur asks.
“I suppose.”
“I’ll come round and pick you up in the afternoon, then.”
Merlin is so close to saying, “It’s a date,” but it comes out like a childish “Alrighty,” instead. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to work.”
“No, you don’t!” Arthur says. “You just opened a Word Doc when I called and started typing. I bet that Doc looks like keyboard smash right now.” If Merlin could reach into the phone and slap him, he would. “My deduction skills are awesome. Benedict Cumberbatch doesn’t have anything on me.”
“Benny doesn’t know me,” Merlin says.
“Are you, Merlin Emrys, insinuating that I know you now?” Arthur asks in a mock-serious tone.
“Bye, Arthur,” Merlin says insistently.
“See you, mate.”
“What about that other one?” Arthur asks, his hand around a recently-bought hot dog.
“The one with the windows?” Merlin asks back.
“The one with the huge cat,” Arthur clarifies.
“The one with the huge cat was the one with the windows,” Merlin starts licking his fingers from the hot dog he already finished but Arthur seems to be taking his time with it, like it’s the half hour he has to wait before going to the swimming pool. “And no.”
“Why not?”
“Four windows on each corner, you’ll either get baked or frozen to death. They’ll never find the body.” Merlin shrugs.
“Such a rave shitter,” Arthur shakes his head, like he’s regretting the choice of making friends with Merlin in the first place.
It’s been weeks since they’ve seen each other but it feels like they’ve been hanging out every other day with each other. And, plus, it seems like Arthur hasn’t really got anything sorted.
“Why are you looking for flats here, anyhow? There are a lot of great places on the other side.” Merlin then sees the change on Arthur’s face.
“It’s close,” is all he says.
Close to what? He wants to ask but he’s almost certain he knows the answer. The something wrong-turned-right is a person, a significant other, who lives nearby and had previously, promised Arthur a seemingly unbroken tie that entitles him to sleepovers and crumpled sheets and two straws in a milkshake.
“Come on, we’re here,” Arthur proclaims and climbs up the stairs to the flat. It’s small, but spacious. The floor’s a polished wood and there’s a small kitchen with built-in cupboards on top of the space he supposes will be for the stove, though he’s pretty sure Arthur doesn’t cook.
“This is nice,” Merlin says. Arthur is silent, mostly because his mouth is full and there’s mustard down his chin.
“Oh good Lord.” Merlin scours for a tissue and proceeds to wipe the sauce off his face. “Petulant child.” Arthur can only stand there and wear a proud smile.
“Oh, sorry,” a voice says. Both of them turn and see the real estate agent, a real stereotype by the looks of it, with the poofy hair and stewardess smile. “My name is Sherry. You must be Mr. Penn,” she shakes Arthur’s hand, then looks to Merlin, “and this must be your partner.”
“Oh, I’m not-”
“It’s quite alright, love. I have a brother who’s gay,” Sherry says, like it will justify everything.
“Yes, love,” Arthur suddenly wraps an arm around Merlin’s waist. “It’s quite alright.”
“Now,” Sherry starts and Arthur has his focused stare on, with his hand crawling inside Merlin’s pocket. “As you can see, this is very spacious, big enough for two. There’s a guest bedroom, two bathrooms and the master bedroom is exquisite.”
Sherry starts showing them around, opens the doors and lets them smell the smell of new house. They stop at the master bedroom, which really is exquisite, with the polished wood and the big space for a bed, and the view’s alright, as well.
“What do you think, sweetheart?” Arthur asks him.
“Oh, I don’t know, Artie, dear,” Merlin says mockingly.
“I fear we have to mull this over, Sherry. Give us a mo?” Arthur says politely. As soon as she’s gone, he lies down on the hardwood floors. “What d’ya think?”
“About what? The flat or the blatant lie?” Merlin laughs as he sits cross-legged next to Arthur’s body.
“Like you weren’t lying, too.”
“Excuse me, I’m actually gay, I just have enough sense not to marry you.”
“Really?” Arthur cocks his head up. “I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise.”
“Yeah, sorry I’m not wearing guyliner and have KY jelly in my spare pocket,” Merlin snaps.
“Merlin.”
He lies on his back, too, until his feet brush Arthur’s hair. “It’s a nice flat.”
“It’s perfect!” Arthur jumps up to a sitting up position. “It’s close, the price is right, it’s so bloody perfect I would love to make love to it. Or have sex in every other room, which other comes first.”
“It’s your choice, I guess,” Merlin smiles. “But you have to promise me. Once you get a bed, a nice, fluffy one at that, you are inviting me here to jump on it.”
“Deal, sweetheart.”
Digital Love (Daft Punk cover) - Alphabeat
It’s almost as if Arthur has nothing better to do than pestering him and come intruding in every corner and crevice of his life. And, more remarkably, it’s almost as if Merlin doesn’t really mind.
He’s waiting for him at the fountain outside his office building with a book open-faced on his lap (Then We Came to The End; Joshua Ferris, 2007), even another in his knapsack (The Spanish Tragedy; Thomas Kyd, 1582?) but he regards neither of them with his highest. Instead, he people-watches.
It’s an exercise his professor told him to do back in uni, whenever his writing came to a halt, whenever the words fought back against him and he was left curled up in a corner, mentally re-writing everything he’s ever written. He never stopped doing it. Sometimes, when the sentence he’s reading mirrors itself in his head and he can no longer read, he just puts it down next to his cup of coffee and watches.
Merlin tries, really does, to make it seem like it’s nothing much, just a flicker of interest for a passing stranger and he hopes it’s enough because he hasn’t heard anything otherwise. He makes stories for them.
The man who is struggling to put a coat on for a teenaged girl is the father who thinks he’s losing his child when all she’s tried to give him are trails and clues to lead him through the forest of her labyrinth so he can find her, trudge through wet leaves and avert flying branches, and tell her it will be okay one last time.
The old couple on the bench hasn’t been married for years. In fact, they just got married two months ago after each of their respective spouses died and they longed for another presence on the bed, two cups on the table the morning after and someone to whom they read the news to.
The young man who’s striding towards Merlin, with the untidy blonde hair and the brilliant smile, his name is not actually Arthur; it’s Eduardo and he’s come to get down on one knee in front of Merlin and profess his love in Spanish and carry him bridal-style away from this tragic life where the man named Arthur and other men not named Arthur will never love him like he will.
But they’re all stories, in the end.
“Hullo!” Arthur says cheerfully.
“Where are you kidnapping me to this time?” Merlin closes his Joshua Ferris book and tucks it into his backpack again.
“Ever the optimist, I see,” Arthur puts his hands on his hips. “And, besides, it’s not exactly kidnapping if you come willingly.”
“Why would I come willingly with a twat like you?”
“You know, you keep saying that,” Arthur says as Merlin stands up. “But you still come with me, anyway.”
Merlin doesn’t say anything to this, mostly because the rawness of the statement takes him aback, but partly because Arthur’s started talking again.
“I’m taking you out for drinks with the guys.”
“You mean, Gwaine, Percy and Elyan?” Arthur nods. “Excellent. Percy has a book I want and Gwaine’s been saying something about getting something for a very early present.”
“Oh, you present whore,” Arthur laughs.
“Nothing wrong with that, eh?”
On the cab ride there, they share earphones to Merlin’s Walkman and Arthur decides he rather likes Alphabeat and Merlin says he can borrow his album, if he’d like and Arthur says that would be much appreciated in a very dark, monotone voice because he thinks that’s funny.
When they step inside the pub, he’s immediately acknowledged with a familiar, “Huzzah!” from Gwaine.
“He’s not even drunk yet!” Percy says, astonished.
“He’s just happy to see me,” Merlin shrugs like it’s common fact everyone loves him.
He sits down across from the three of them, and, true to Percy’s word, Gwaine hasn’t had a sip from the beer in front of him. Elyan waves at him cheerfully and Percy gives Arthur an elbow bump just to show their manliness.
“Hello, Merlin, old friend,” Gwaine says. “I got you something.”
“Please tell me a stable male friend,” Arthur laughs.
“Still single, then, M?” Gwaine asks. “I’m surprised. You’re a beast in bed.”
“I thought we stopped talking about our sex romps already,” Merlin says absent-mindedly.
Sure, he and Gwaine had had a few fun times, times that were mostly induced by alcohol, the ones that had them tearing away clothing and smelling of unreasonably good sex the next morning. But they hadn’t had fun like that in a while.
“Whoa, when did you guys have sex romps?” Arthur asked.
“Oh, don’t start. He’s gonna burst out details about my personal sexual habits,” Merlin takes a sip of the drink Gwaine’s ignoring.
“More like sexual prowess,” Gwaine says flatteringly. It’s quite a compliment, coming from the man who has to have some every other day or his buttons will start blinking furiously and his system will malfunction.
“Anyways, you got me something?” Merlin asked expectantly.
Gwaine rummages through his backpack and returns with a few figurines. Pokemon figurines.
“Pokemon!” Merlin makes a run for them.
“Oy vey,” Arthur palms his face. “And you call me childish.”
“You most definitely are. I’m just taking back my childhood.”
Merlin brushes his finger over the Squirtle one and remembers his childhood with Will where they found a Pokemon figurine on the street one day and then religiously watched the show whenever they could. It’s times like these that he curses Will Dempsie for ever leaving him.
So he’s not childish, he’s just tremendously nostalgic
PART TWO