(love, or) A Feeling Like It (two)

[night_lyx]

   
Merlin doesn’t make a habit of sleeping in the evenings.  Partly because he’s not especially tired at this time of day but mostly because he goes out around this time. At this time, Morgana will be working and Leon would have barricaded himself in his office with a few tabs open to keep himself company. Merlin can’t stay behind because he just can’t handle the sound of an empty apartment.

Then the things that go ‘bump’ would be a direct result of his own clumsiness so he won’t go on about how it is actually Morgana and Leon going at it in the other room and, no, don’t be silly, there’s no shadowed figure outside his door waiting for him with an axe. And the cereal would be too much for him to finish.

Merlin is too co-dependent, he realizes.

But, apparently, sleeping is a terrific idea to cure this dependency issue of his. He can just roll around in his bed and forget the loneliness for a while.

By the time he wakes up, there’s no light through his windows and he’s a bit disoriented. It’s like being hung-over this feeling; his head hurts and he feels like he wants to vomit but, mostly, he feels he should get out of bed and get some pancakes.

The pancakes, of course, are metaphorical. So is the hangover. His metaphorical hangover is one of his dreams again and his metaphorical pancake is sitting down at his laptop. It is truly a sad day when he starts comparing his magically-fuelled dreams to actual substance of food.

He doesn’t even bother to wear his discarded jeans over his boxers. Merlin figures if Morgana and Leon ever come back from their respective establishments of money-that made them sound like prostitutes, actually-they wouldn’t mind his boxers. Merlin sits down at his table and telekinetically grabs a bowl of cereal and sees, in amazement, because, even after all these years, this magic touch of his is still quite astonishing, the milk pour itself into the bowl.

Sometimes Merlin wishes his dreams would just come to him, that he wouldn’t need to take off his pants and roll in bed in his sheets and then screw up the painstaking effort of getting out of said bed and walking over to his table and feeling the magic in his hands.

But, of course, that doesn’t happen because it seems like Fate’s hand, or the one who’s running things around, wants this magical being to sleep instead of being fully awake when his powers come into him like a wave of things he doesn’t do what to do with. But he makes the good out of it, well, as much as he can; he can’t quite go out in tights and save cats from trees and saving damsels or good men dressed as damsels, in distress.

Tights make him itchy in the crotch area anyway.

So Merlin sits at his table, with his marks on the wood and the blinking computer, and starts. He starts to wonder, as the computer starts and asks for his password, the purpose of writing down his dreams. Is it some sign from an Almighty who wishes him to document his magic down or an encouragement from the writing gods, whoever they may be (though he’s pretty sure Shakespeare and Tennyson are part of the Council) to become extraordinary in the only way he knows how.

When he starts writing, he usually never really stops, unless it’s to breathe and eat a little. It’s like Merlin’s an automated machine who’s designed to forget everything and, instead, think of a skyline stabbed with tall, crooked castles and shining chain mail and people who never were.

So the knock on the door is unexpected, it’s surprising that he pays any attention in the first place, but it’s like the trigger that shoots out a reminder into his head.

“Oh fuck,” Merlin begins to curse and flails his legs this way and that to get to the door. “Oh God.”

“No,” Arthur says when he opens the door. “It’s just Arthur.”

“I forgot, fuck, I’m sorry,” Merlin puts his hands in his hair.

“Merlin, mate, look at my face,” Arthur says. “How does it look? Besides dashingly handsome?”

Merlin inspects his face, like he asks, and, yes, Arthur does look quite ‘dashingly handsome’, though he’ll never tell him that, but there’s also a smile on his face. “You’re not mad.”

“And you’re not wearing any jeans,” Arthur looks down at Merlin’s boxers. “Move, Emrys, I’m coming in.”

“Wait, aren’t we going? I’ll put on some pants, I swear,” Merlin says.

Arthur shoots him some sort of death glare, basically saying if he’s not going to move, Arthur’s going to hit him like some sort of barricade so Merlin moves to the side and lets Arthur take off his jacket.

This is the first time he’s been to Merlin’s flat. He takes a moment to wonder how he got the address that realizes one of their friends could’ve easily given it to him, but it was probably Morgana or Leon, who are the conspirators of wanting Merlin to get some.

“Nah, I figure whatever it is you chose over me and drinks, it’s worth staying for.” Arthur shrugs. “So, tell me, what’s worth staying for?”

“Nothing, I’m writing, is all,” Merlin says.

It’s nothing important; it’s never important, never worth staying for. People usually leave him alone when he’s writing because they just don’t get it, despite their undying, albeit unfathomable, love for him. Because they can’t do anything about it.

And he doesn’t mind, he knows there aren’t a lot of people who are willing to be his editor or hand-holder during experiences like these, and even if his hand was being held, he always felt like he was burdening them. Like he was putting on their shoulders a book they didn’t know the language to.

“Interesting,” Arthur notes, looking around the flat.

“It’s really not. Come on, I’ll put on some pants and we’ll go out for drinks, like we said,” Merlin says, almost apologetically.

“Hey, no, it’s fine. I’m staying.” Arthur sits on the couch.

“Arthur-”

“Are you hungry? I can order some food from here.”

“Arthur-”

“What do you want? Chinese, Indian, South East Asian, Klingon? Nah, I should probably go out myself and get it. I don’t trust delivery boys; they’re always so shifty like they want to steal your pants or something. You just stay here and write first.”

“Pennnn” He makes sure to elongate it, with extra consonants to make his point.

“Shut up, Merlin, I’m staying.”

You Are My Favourite - Sophie Madeleine

When Arthur comes back from his food run, Merlin is informed by the answering machine that Morgana and Leon have spotted some friends in town and have gone out for drinks with them and “please don’t wait up for us” so he’s alone in his flat with his words and Arthur.

“Writing break,” Arthur proclaims, crashing on the couch. “Food time.”

“When did you become lawfully right to dictate my life, Penn?”

“Since I told you that you looked like a turtle. Once I’m in your life, I’m never leaving. I’m like a parasite. The Penn Parasite. Someone should write a thesis about me.”

“Good Lord, no. I don’t think the scientific world is ready for your crazy theories.”

“Come on, mate,” Arthur says pleadingly. “Fooooooddddd.”

“Fine, I’m coming,” Merlin comes over the couch and plops down next to Arthur. He passes him some food with a smile, like he’s doing him a favour. “So, tell me things.”

“About what?” Arthur asks absent-mindedly, playing with the red pepper on his plate.

“About you.”

“What’s there to tell?”

“I doubt someone like you has no life, like me. I’m sure you can spew out something about your romantic conquests with either sex or maybe your lifelong dream to become a saviour of the world,” Merlin swirls the noodles around in his chopsticks.

“I’d rather not go into the romantic conquest thing but the saviour of the world thing isn’t out of the question.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve always thought the world needed some righting, some corrections over their flaws because, sometimes, it’s just too shitty. But, yeah, no, I’m not the guy. It’s just an opinion.”

“It’s a nice opinion,” Merlin notes.

“My mum died when I was seven,” Arthur suddenly says. It’s a complete detour from nice opinions and Merlin doesn’t know what to do with the sudden change of atmosphere. He needs to be prepared for these situations, these feelings and the awkward patting of the back. Arthur notices and says, “Sorry. It’s just, you wanted to know things.”

“Yeah, I do,” Merlin nods and welcomes the story Arthur’s so willing to tell.

“I don’t remember her much. I wish I did because my father keeps going on about how amazing she was. I remember her amazingness, though. Like how she’d make me scrambled eggs and got chocolate eggs every Sunday and show me how the birds flew in the parks. I think it’s something psychological, to focus on the lovely things, because I distinctly remember her yelling at me one day and spewing insults at my father. I don’t want to taint her. Do you know that feeling?”

Merlin doesn’t know why he’s telling him this, this piece of his soul that he doubts he regularly shares over coffee and bad pastry. And for some godforsaken reason, Merlin gives a piece over in return by saying, “Yes.”

Arthur doesn’t pry around for an explanation, a continuation to that word, and Merlin is grateful because he can’t get into his own mother right now. No, this is a moment, here, and it’s all about Arthur for now. So he lets him talk, about how his mother was and watching as his head lolls a little and he no longer pays attention to his noodles on his lap and Merlin realizes the silly, juvenile crush is back and it’s crushing his insides to feeling, well, feelings.

It rushes over him like a wave and it’s as if he’s suddenly woken up. Like this realization has told him that, somehow, he was always meant to feel this way.

“What about you?” Arthur asks.

“Me?”

“Tell me about your writing.”

“It’s my life,” Merlin says before he can stop himself. “I know it sounds cliché and juvenile; kids use it to describe for a longing love and whatever social network that is grabbing them but it’s true, for me. I can’t describe it any way else.”

“I admire that. I mean, so many passions die down in the years, but I’m happy to see yours is still sticking to you.”

“It’s stuck there like UHU glue, honestly,” Merlin says awkwardly and Arthur laughs.

“What are you writing now?”

“Nothing special. It’s a product of my dreams.”

Arthur practically jumps up and shouts, “INCEPTION!” at that, to which Merlin cannot help but laugh and smack him on the head for comparing Chris Nolan’s masterpiece to his silly dreams.

“And how’s that going?” Arthur asks.

“I don’t even know.”

“You need some help? I have background in English Literature, a few good essays and stories.”

“Really?” Merlin asks, his eyebrows raised.

Arthur abandons his Chinese takeout to walk over to Merlin’s desk and says with a smirk, “Always the tone of surprise.”

So it begins as Merlin and Arthur’s Writing Endeavour of ’11, in which there is a lot of Chinese takeout and Arthur is rubbish and incompetent as a hand-holder but can, however, hold his grammar.

It begins when Arthur steps over the laptop, his desk, where Merlin has, on numerous occasions, blown his top to Morgana for even coming close to it on bad days and begins reading, from the top, his story that shouldn’t matter as much. Merlin is left on the couch, fiddling with his chopsticks.

“Emrys,” Arthur says after a solid ten minutes of reading. “Bloody hell, mate, this is good.”

“Always the tone of surprise,” Merlin mutters then looks up, realizing Arthur just gave him a compliment. “Really, though?”

“Fuck yes really!” Arthur yells. He goes over to Merlin and practically jumps on him. “Listen, I am willing to dedicate my life to perfect your craft and, mate, that could start tonight. We could rule the world with your words and create our own Narnia with your witty retorts.”

“No one’s ever wanted to make a Narnia with me,” Merlin laughs.

“That sounds dirty,” Arthur smirks.

“Yes, well.”

Half an hour later, they have switched positions and Merlin is, instead, at his desk and Arthur is on his back on the couch, balancing cutlery on his stomach. “That scene with the Council,” Arthur says. “It should be tenser, don’t you think? The guy is coming in, out of nowhere, into a Council meeting and all the people are looking at him like what the fuck are you doing here, kid? And all he’s trying to do is look for the bathroom.”

“He wasn’t looking for the bathroom,” Merlin retorts.

“Oh, right, what did they call them in those days? The gents’?”

Merlin ignores him and doesn’t tell me the actual destination was the North Tower because he knows Arthur will make some sort of joke out of that, too. He doesn’t even know how but Arthur will because he is not short of any material that would envy an episode of QI or Never Mind the Buzzcocks. In fact, they should invite him to the show.

“Just because he stumbled into the Council doesn’t mean it should be tense. It’s not like he’s carrying a dead body in his arms or something,” Merlin says.

“Maybe not, but he is a simpleton, inside a Council meeting, with VIPs and he’s only a P. And you are writing from his POV; make it a little stressed, yeah?”

“Dictator dickhead,” Merlin throws him a pillow that smacks him square on the face.

“I do not think that is a legitimate insult, Mr. Emrys. Surely you can think of something more condescending to throw at me,” Arthur looks up and hugs the pillow to his chest.

“I can think of many more, Mr. Penn, but for now, I am too aggravated to think of a more suitable insult for you.”

“You’re tired,” Arthur says suddenly.

“That tends to happen,” Merlin groans.

“Ok, step back from the computer and come over here and regain your marbles.” Arthur pets the space next to him.

“My marbles are gone, Mr. Penn, gone with the wind. I fear I may never see my marbles ever again.”

“Oh, dear,” Arthur hauls Merlin up from his chair and closes his laptop for him. He plops Merlin on the furniture and Merlin can feel some kind of round thing near his rear end (oh, is it his marbles? Has he finally found them?) but he can’t even reach there and find out what it is.

“Oy, mate, move a little, you’re crushing me,” Arthur groans and Merlin sees that he is, awkwardly, sitting on his lap. “I think you may have perforated a lung.”

Merlin moves and puts his head on a pillow, though his legs are still on Arthur’s lap. He doesn’t seem to mind, though.

“I’m staying for the night, just so you know,” Arthur starts to yawn.

“That sounds like fun. We could braid each other’s hair and watch John Hughes all night long,” Merlin mumbles, his head starting to the left.

“Maybe tomorrow, mate.”

Merlin wakes up in the dead of night, cold and warm at the same time. Through the dim light of the table lamp, he sees Arthur, with his head to the side, his mouth open (thank God he doesn’t snore) with his arms over Merlin’s legs that are still on his lap. He latches himself away from the embrace and goes to get two blankets from his bedroom; one for him, the other for Arthur.

He throws one on Arthur then resumes back to his position, a blanket wrapped safely around him like a cocoon.

Rationally speaking, it would be better to sleep in his own bedroom with his own sheets, and there is no warm body of the man he might have feelings for but it’s 3 in the morning and Merlin Emrys can’t be rational.

Sing Sing Sing - Benny Goodman

The next time he wakes up, he smells chocolate…and some form of dairy. He wonders if he’s suddenly teleported to a farm.

He rolls over and sees that Arthur is not on the couch anymore, but there is, however, Benny Goodman music coming from the kitchen and that, if anything, symbolises food.

Merlin gets up and realizes that after all that time last night; he hasn’t really bothered to put on pants. He walks over to the bathroom, ignoring Leon in the kitchen, and brushes his teeth and washes his face like he does every monotonous day.

When he walks to the counter of the kitchen, however, he realizes that the person responsible for the chocolate and dairy and Benny Goodman is not Leon; it is, instead, Arthur Penn who has, also, abandoned the right of his own clothing. Not in an obscene way, God no, but the shirt he’s wearing is not the one he was wearing last night, no, it’s Merlin’s old Strokes t-shirt.

“Morning,” he says cheerfully.

“That’s my shirt,” is the first thing Merlin can say.

“Brilliant observation, Dr. Watson,” Arthur smiles. “I spilled juice on my shirt. I’m borrowing your shirt for a bit.”

“And you’re making breakfast,” Merlin says, looking at the frying pan and the plates and glasses Arthur’s laid out.

“I thought it was a social convention that when grown man spends a night on another grown man’s couch, it is customary to make breakfast for the other man. Or maybe it’s just me.”

“Well, okay,” Merlin says, as if it’s such a huge burden. “But, fair warning, don’t yell good morning to Morgana or she’ll scream bloody murder and don’t even try to put toast on Leon’s plate with its crusts still on.”

“Noted,” Arthur nods.

As if by some sort of cue, both Morgana and Leon escape from the bedroom at that very moment.

“Morning, lady and gentleman,” Arthur greets them.

Morgana looks at him like he’s grown an extra appendage but ignores him for a moment to go to the bathroom. When she and Leon come back, she sits down next to Merlin and whispers, “Did you fuck him last night?”

“No,” Merlin replies, much to her dismay and to his, too.

“Today’s breakfast includes a healthy serving of grapefruit, toast with their crusts cut off and a multitude of cereal,” Arthur proclaims like he’s on a game show. “Please tip your waitress.”

“I bloody love you,” Leon says to Arthur, digging into his breakfast, his hips instinctively swaying to the music. “I think you should sleepover more often.”

“For Merlin, however,” Arthur hands him a plate. “Scrambled eggs and chocolate eggs.”

Merlin can’t help but smile.

Merlin hates being in a hopeless crush. It brings back far too many adolescent memories in on fell swoop. But he supposes he has improved. When he was thirteen, for instance, he had a crush on Erik whatever-his-name-was who was probably the only nice guy in school- save for Will, of course -who thought Merlin was cool. Erik also played with his own boogers and still believed in cooties; which was a contributing factor in his growing homosexuality; what with avoiding girls and all that.

But, now, at least, he’s having feelings for a guy the general population would classify as near-perfect.

Not that Merlin overlooks the fact that Arthur is a cocky bastard or that he really is fucking annoying sometimes or that he’s childish enough to tease Merlin about his own childishness (“they’re not dolls, Arthur, they’re figurines.” “Yeah, okay, Merlin.”) because he never can. Arthur will constantly be getting on his nerves by spouting lame joke after lame joke and jumping around him like a crazed maniac.

But, somehow, in a sudden turn of events that bewitches, bothers and bewilders him Merlin, Arthur will do something that reminds him why he’s sticking around. Like suddenly breaking into dance in the middle of the street and taking Merlin’s hand to dance or giving him vintage versions of books he loves (last week, it was Alice in Wonderland wherein Arthur wrote his thoughts in the margins - ‘arthur’s in wonderland!’ ‘curious, what’s curious’ ‘this is my favourite scene’).

Such an instance was two weeks ago when they were walking the streets and Merlin was sipping his drink through a straw.

“You know,” he said. “I always thought people who drank from straws were nerds when I was a kid. Like the kids or teenagers who just drank from the cup or tin were the cool people.”

“That’s absurd,” Arthur scoffed. “You’re using a straw, though.”

“Yes, well, I’m an unashamed nerd and me using a straw will not change any kids’ opinion.”

The next time they went out, Arthur was wearing a leather jacket over a Beatles t-shirt with sunglasses and was drinking his Diet Coke with a straw. He purposely walked past a few kids and stood by his fact that he was changing the minds of these kids.

“Cool people use straws, too,” Arthur whispered into Merlin’s ear.

Walk in the Park - Oh No! Oh My!

It is the familiarity of things, that happy, jumpy feeling when he’s recognized and pleasantly asked how he is, how the writing is going and the person asking will put one side of his face on his hand, lean and listen. It’s the smell of the wood and paper and, on cold days, free hot chocolate. Said beverage was given by the girls who work here part-time from the local college with their part-time smiles that, in the end, are equally as warm as the drink they’re serving.

It’s the memories and the fact that if he goes to back, first shelf from the right wall, second row, third book, there’s his writing on the fourth page in his small, adolescent writing: Hello there. It’s almost as if his eleven-year-old self has broken every type of barrier to make his mark and show it to his present self. It’s a nice thought. It’s also why he takes the hour to drive here every few weeks.

“Merlin!” a happy voice erupts when he walks into the Books of Ealdor.

The voice is coming from behind the counter amidst a labyrinth of shelves and piles of books, from the tall, fair burst of energy promptly named Ryan. Merlin loved Ryan, all his life, whenever he came here, Merlin was just as excited to see him as he was to see him.

He was a college drop-out, leaving for the power of love, staying away for the disdain of being cooped up in lecture halls. He was also blessed with almost unnatural good looks, coming from a Japanese-English heritage, so he got game from either side. A bisexual, Ryan was the first person Merlin came to when he kissed Erik and felt feelings.

“Hey, Ryan,” Merlin props his elbows on the counter and was given a kiss on the forehead by the older man. “How’s it going?”

“Same old, same old. New books, old books, Uncle Gaius stops by once in a while,” Ryan says. “I still get to see him more than you, though, old friend.”

“Sorry,” Merlin says meekly, it’s a weak apology for someone that helped him all his life.

“Sorry shmory. Come back here, I can ask Georgia to make some tea for you. Tea’s good for catching up with old friends,” Ryan pet him and ushered him behind the counter, where most of the space under it was piled up with books and notebooks over the years.

Merlin presses his feet against one side of the counter, leans in his seat as Ryan starts to chronicle what he’s missed since he last came here a few weeks ago.

He speaks of Gaius, his uncle and Merlin’s family doctor/mentor because he does moonlight as a writer and had given Merlin a combo of great works for his birthdays from ages seven to fifteen. He speaks of the new old books that came in, because Ealdor doesn’t quite specialize in best-sellers but rare versions of books and obscure titles. He speaks of his new boyfriend, a strapping young man by the name of Brian and how Merlin should meet him sometime.

He asks questions that require small answers, which Merlin doesn’t mind because, somehow, they both know it’s still Ryan’s turn. Questions like “Are you still working at that goddamned magazine still?” and “So Willy’s still jet-setting?” that are promptly replied before Ryan goes to say “For fuck’s sake!” and “Shame, I miss the kid” respectively.

“Now, how about you?” Ryan finally asks.

“Nothing much. You know me, Ry, boring life, boring Merlin,” he sips his tea.

“I don’t believe that. Life’s always interesting, the interesting always find you, one way or another, my friend.”

“Well, there is this guy…”

“Ain’t that always the way!” Ryan cries out happily. “There’s always this guy or this girl or, for some sad wankers, this iguana from the pet shop. Be more innovative, M, who is this guy? I am sure if he is worthy enough to be this guy, he deserves a much more in-depth story. Is he worthy though?”

“Very much so. His name’s Arthur. You’d like him,” is all Merlin says, much to Ryan’s dismay.

“You like him?”

“Yeah, of course, otherwise he wouldn’t be this guy.”

“And he…insert the blank spaces here, mate.”

“He doesn’t know because I’m not so sure of my feelings myself.”

Ryan sighs, looks at him sympathetically as Gaius would, and stands up. “Come,” he says. “Look at the books. Looking at books always makes you concentrate. And maybe you could buy something. Help me get some cash to take Brian to a nice place for a change.”

“Ever the romantic.”

Merlin walks with Ryan through the store and Georgia manages the counter. “You know it,” Ryan says. “Sometimes, in a relationship, romance is the only thing that works, besides sex, of course, you can woo someone, you can give them flowers and take them out to dinner and it always works. Romance doesn’t involve love, it involves commitment and perseverance to being shot down so many times. But, if you’re lucky enough, romance may lead to love. If you give enough flowers and chocolates, if you make enough breakfasts in bed, if you try enough, you might just love someone.”

“Most people would say that romance involves love,” Merlin skims his fingers across the dusty edition of Tom Brown’s Schooldays (Thomas Hughes, 1857).

“Most people don’t know shit,” Ryan shakes his head vehemently. “You and Arthur, though, potential for a shotgun romance or something deeper, something more loving?”

“I don’t even fucking know. I like him, I like spending time with him, but I also feel like I don’t know him. There are things he’s not telling me and there are things I can’t tell him because of it. I like him, more than past experiences have taught me to be healthy, and I feel this sort of tie to him, do you understand?”

“No.”

“Neither do I,” Merlin turns to Ryan, looks for an answer in his eyes but doesn’t find it. Sometimes he thinks that Ryan might be older than he looks, there’s something in him that speaks of ages he hasn’t lived in. “I don’t think looking at books is helping me.”

“Maybe you will understand, all in due time. Relationships are gambles, see, but you need to place your cards right. Don’t worry so much about it. If this guy is worthy to be this guy, then he’ll show it, yeah?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Merlin shrugs.

“Now, come on, pick a book or two and give me some profit. Then I’ll treat you to lunch,” Ryan pats his back.

Ryan leaves Merlin to his peace of old books and maybe because he can concentrate around books. He likes Arthur, he thinks, because he’s nice and handsome and he understand what Merlin’s saying whenever he goes on his nonsensical rants about literature or his own stories and because Arthur always has time for him.

It’s like Arthur doesn’t have a job, doesn’t have a method to slave away the time he has that isn’t spent by walking with Merlin in parks or twirling his teaspoon in a coffee shop talking about any number of British television series with, once again, Merlin. Merlin wonders why Arthur’s spending so much time with him. Maybe he feels it too, this attachment, the kind of connection a child feels to a stuffed toy or blanket that smells like cocoa. Because he doesn’t want to feel this feeling alone.

He picks out two books: The Crying of Lot 49 (Thomas Pynchon, 1966) and an old copy of The Canterbury Tales that smells like age and time and pays with his own money to Georgia because if there’s anything Ealdor needs, it’s more money. Being an ex-employee himself, he understands that the love of old books isn’t a very profitable business. But, sometimes, it’s just worth it.

Ryan takes him by the shoulders and ushers him out of the bookstore, only to be hit by another colliding body, somehow, through the clumsy, flailing limbs of Merlin, the bag containing his sharp-ended books flies and hits Merlin straight in the face.

“Merlin!”

For a moment, Merlin thinks the voice is Ryan’s but, no, of course it isn’t, life doesn’t like him that much because once he adjusts his eyes, he sees that it’s Arthur.

“You alright?” Arthur asks, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m okay. Though being killed by literature isn’t exactly the worst way to go, now, is it?” Merlin manages a smile.

He looks at Arthur, who’s wearing a button-up shirt that has lost its formality with some of said buttons undone and a tuxedo jacket on his shoulder. This is the first time he’s seen him look formal, normally it’s all t-shirts and crummy jeans all over, not that he minds. Arthur looks good like this and it makes Merlin’s head begin a British rendition of how everybody loved a sharp-dressed man.

He didn’t understand why life didn’t like him, sending someone to him after Merlin had just had a therapy session about said person and his feelings, or lack of it, in a bookstore. Could he ever be rid of Arthur? Did he even want to be rid of him?

Unlikely.

“You look fancy. What’re you doing? Date? Secret spy going-ons?” he asks.

“Business meeting,” Arthur answers.

“Oh, so you do work!”

“I am shocked and appalled by the accusation that I do not work, Merlin. Where else would I get the money to buy you crap?” Arthur gasps and puts a hand to his chest, truly conveying his shock and appal.

“Drug ring? I don’t know. And please you don’t buy me any sort of crap.”

“The books? The t-shirts? The coffee? The endless amounts of coffee. You have a problem, mate, all that coffee. You could die faster, you know, and it’s staining your reputation of being British.”

“Hello there!” Ryan’s voice cuts through the conversation, as does his hand, in front of Merlin and shaking Arthur’s.

“Hello,” Arthur takes it politely.

“I’m Ryan, old friend of Merlin’s,” he gives him his ten-watt smile.

“How old?”

“I’ve known him since he was a kid, when his knowledge of books wasn’t admirable but just really pretentious,” Ryan shrugged.

“Tell me you have pictures,” Arthur says excitedly. “I bet his ears were way more unfortunate back then. Did he have braces?”

“Oy! My teeth are perfect naturally, okay?” Merlin interjects. This is horrid, this is worse than your boyfriend meeting your mother because this is a guy he wants to be with and Ryan, really, has more juice on him than his mother ever will.

“He was very…cute,” Ryan smiles knowingly to Merlin. Well, at least Ryan understands. “Anyways, where are you off to?”

“Probably lunch. Meeting’s over and I’m fucking hungry,” Arthur replies.

“Good, you can accompany Merlin,” Ryan says.

“What about you?” Merlin asks.

“Nah, the store needs me. Rush hour.”

Merlin looks back to Ealdor and sees a handful of people who aren’t rushing anywhere in this house but he knows. Ryan’s just being nice. Because if Merlin can’t figure out his feelings around books then maybe the person he has these feelings more might just help with the predicament.

They say goodbye and Arthur puts an arm around Merlin’s shoulders, sending a feeling quite like indigestion but not as gross into his insides. Butterflies, general population called them, and Arthur gave it to him with such a simple gesture, by holding him close and leaning into him.

“What’re you in the mood for?” Arthur asks.

“Italian?” Merlin suggests. “With coffee, lots and lots of coffee, just to annoy you.”

“You’re lucky I like you enough to put up with you,” Arthur says dryly, not knowing what kind of school-girl feelings that sentence makes him feel.

“I feel so special, Arthur, I have such warm and fuzzy feelings in my insides I might as well be a Furby.”

“Furbies are warm and fuzzy on the outside, as well, Merlin, unlike you.”

“No, of course not. I’m just hot and sexy on the outside.”

“Idiot.”

“Prat.”

Arthur smiles fondly at him and looks at around, detangles himself from Merlin and says, “There’s an Italian restaurant just across the street.”

“But we don’t know it! Their carbonara sauce might taste like shit and their lasagne might taste like rubber. I don’t like non-dependable Italian restaurants.”

“Shut up, you’re beginning to sound like Sheldon.”

“You’ve started watching The Big Bang Theory?” Merlin asks.

“Of course, you gave it to me, didn’t you?” Arthur says like it’s no big deal. “Mind you, I don’t understand half that shit but it is humorous. Much like you.”

“That still doesn’t change the fact we don’t know that Italian restaurant. It could be a rapist, Arthur!”

“Italian restaurants can’t rape people, Merlin.”

“Debatable.”

“Come on, please?” Arthur bats his eyelashes at him.

“Fine.”

Arthur gives him an idiotic smile and proceeds to cross the road in front of him. He looks back at Merlin, waves like he’s seven years old and he’s saying goodbye to his mother at the school’s grounds. After that, everything goes golden.

The car swirls around like a grey ribbon in stop motion, so fast and so precise at the same time and before he knows it, Merlin’s legs start running towards Arthur and he finds some sort of strength to shield him. He remembers feeling a surge of some kind of electricity pass from his toes, stab his chest and release from his eyes.

The grey ribbon stops moving slowly. It doesn’t hit him, the car, but Merlin still goes weak at the knees. He’s fading but he remembers a strong hold around him before the grey and golden disappear, replaced, instead, with the imminent black.

Arthur wanted to ignore it. It was all a good plan.

Except Merlin’s impossible to ignore, especially when he isn’t even trying.

It’s not like Merlin started becoming incredibly handsome overnight, wherein the dark hair was more clean-cut or his eyes became even more striking in their blue, or that he started dressing up, like the girls in his college days who would wear skirts shorter than their nails when Valentine’s season rolled around or the guys who would wear low-slung jeans and tight t-shirts around him. No, because the good Lord knew that Merlin Emrys would never dress up for someone just because that someone expected him to. He fully expects Merlin to show up in slacks at Gwen and Lance’s wedding.

He doesn’t display himself like an exhibit in a pretty, shiny glass case or give Arthur presents or go out of his way to get into Arthur’s way because that’s not Merlin, at all.

Merlin is impossible to ignore merely because he is Merlin.

He has far too many books in his room he might as well build a fort with it whenever an apocalyptic war comes around, his t-shirts are a statement and his jeans never fit him properly and he is positively dripping with Merlin-ness.

Merlin has big ears and sharp cheekbones and collarbones that he sometimes imagines licking then imagining how he would sound if he did. He’d probably make those moaning sounds he makes whenever he has a good plate of food handed to him. He’s good company and he makes him laugh.

Arthur also doesn’t want to ignore it.

Because if he could get the handle of this speed dial thing on his crappy phone, Merlin would be number one, because he still has Merlin’s Strokes t-shirt, because, when he goes through his message history, it is glorious.

*Merlin Emrys
Is everything okay?

*Arthur Penn
EVERYTHING’S FINE
*Merlin Emrys
OMG WHAT’S WITH THE CAPS I WAS JUST ASKING PLS DON’T EAT ME

*Arthur Penn
I WASN’T PLANNING ON IT EMRYS (maybe some other time) I’M GOOD

*Merlin Emrys
Then why are you capsing when you weren’t casping before?

*Arthur Penn
I’m just expressing my okay-ness

*Merlin Emrys
But so scary okay, NO ONE SHOULD FORCEFULLY USE CAPS TO EXPRESS THAT THEY’RE OKAY is everything legit okay though?

Arthur then spent ten minutes calling him and convincing him he was, in fact, fine and he didn’t need to come over with chicken soup (even if Arthur desperately wanted him to).

Merlin’s the closest thing he has to a best friend, a real best friend, one he can share things with like Lance and Gwaine do all the time, one he can split the cookie with when he’s feeling too full. All his friends all have pairs; Lance and Gwaine, Gwen and Morgana but Merlin, he doesn’t have another half. And it seems like he’s willing to be his.

Arthur can be content, obviously, with just being Merlin’s friend, too. He can be happy enough to just have his hugs, not his kisses and share beds because it’s cold, not because they just explored each other’s bodies. But he doesn’t deny that there are moments where he is overcome with such a feeling that he just wants to steal Merlin away and kiss the ever loving crap out of him.

When he’s being cute with his pop culture references or when his eyes shine when he talks about his writing or when he’s just with him, just with Arthur.

And, now, he’s unconscious on a hospital bed and he looks so tiny and so defeated, just like he did on the road when he saved Arthur’s life. Because he did. He shielded him and took the hit for him and that in itself makes his heart ache. Merlin looks tiny and defeated because of him and that physically hurts him.

It doesn’t hurt that when he called Morgana and Leon, they were scared shitless, as real parents would be for their only son, and they came to the hospital in such a hurry Leon’s pants weren’t on properly and Morgana’s hair was tousled and turned and her face spoke every volume and shade of anger.

“What the fuck happened?” Morgana asked him.

“Italian restaurant, then car, then Merlin saved my life,” Arthur answered.

“I swear to God, if there is any permanent damage done to him, I will find that car and use your legs to hit it,” Morgana poked him in the chest and Arthur thought yeah and I’ll let you do it because his heart hurts enough already.

Leon was trying to be the calm one of them and he felt grateful for that. He calmed Morgana down and then hugged Arthur. Merlin had told him Leon was big on hugging and, now, with Merlin unconscious and his feelings going short-circuit, he welcomed the gesture.

As the day wears down, as more drugs get pumped into Merlin and Arthur gets more nervous than he already is -despite the fact that the doctor said that Merlin was fine- Arthur starts to replay the accident in his head. He should’ve listened to Merlin because, apparently, even if Italian restaurants don’t rape people, they seriously maim or injure.

It happened fast and slow at the same time. The car was obviously being driven by some drunken maniac who didn’t see the people crossing the road when the damn traffic was red. Merlin stepped in front of Arthur and pushed him down to the ground, saying, quite strongly, shut up I’m protecting you, as the car swerved. It hit Merlin a bit and he fell down.

Arthur found all his strength in his arms as he held Merlin. He looked so tiny there, like he was falling asleep to a children’s lullaby. He looked so tragically lovely Arthur almost wanted to cry but then he noticed the blood on his hand. It was odd; the car hadn’t even hit him there but there it was, a stream of blood from the palm of his hand trickling down to his arm.

Somewhere along the line, someone called the ambulance and someone else tapped the window of the drunk’s car and proceeded to punch him. God, he loved being home. And nowhere did anyone try to take Merlin away from him. Even the paramedics nodded at him and let him lay Merlin down in the van and said nothing more as Arthur stroked his hair and held his hand.

And then, suddenly, a question started probing itself inside Arthur’s head: why didn’t I tell him how I feel before?

Arthur, Morgana and Leon stay the night. Normally, visitors aren’t allowed to stay overnight but since Lance the extraordinaire is head of the cardio department, he can effortlessly pull some strings.

All Merlin needs, after all, is one night in the hospital and some rest when he gets home. When he gets home, Arthur will buy him the pasta with carbonara sauce he likes and he’ll try to get him some more useless figurines and maybe the blue blanket from Ikea because blankets are always a good idea, especially if they’re from Ikea.

Merlin can’t be bought, he knows -he’s much too noble for that- but it doesn’t hurt to try. Or maybe he could just stay away from him for a while, just to be safe. His aching heart that keeps on aching whenever Merlin isn’t a constant in his life is nothing compared to Merlin’s safety.

Arthur turns his head and sees Morgana and Leon in each other’s embrace on the small couch that smells suspiciously of Cheetos with Leon’s jacket over them. They let him take the chair closest to Merlin’s bed, so that he can fold his arms and use them as a pillow. He doesn’t know why though, maybe they know, in some couply sixth-sense, that Arthur likes Merlin.

Couples just know these things somehow, especially long-running ones. Maybe they see the expressions they once had in others and see the movement strangers make and compare it to their own. Maybe the ever-vague ‘they’ were right; maybe love and all its complications were universal, that it could be seen in a flirtatious glance in a bar or a finger reaching out in the school bus and it was still the same.

“Mmph,” comes a voice from the bed.

Arthur looks up and sees Merlin, eyes beginning to blink open. His head lifts in order to see everything, from the foot of his hospital bed to that almost-dead plant at the corner of the room.

“Hullo there,” Arthur says, standing up.

“I’m in a hospital,” Merlin says.

“Yeah, you are,” Arthur gives a small laugh.

“What happened?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Hey Arthur?”

“Yeah?”

“I saved you, right?” Merlin asks, eyes as big as tea-cups, filled to the brim with the expectancy of a child hoping for their parent to come home.

Arthur feels a punch in his gut, a feeling swimming through his insides, eventually taking over his self by reaching out his hand to stroke Merlin’s dark hair. Merlin curls up like a cat and gives out an appreciated moan.

Without a second to have better thoughts, Arthur answers, “Yeah, mate, you did,” and leans down to kiss him.

It’s a bit like kissing your pillow when you were a kid and inexperienced; Merlin’s lips were soft -and oh God, they were wonderful- and it could get him through the night but he can’t reciprocate.

“Good,” Merlin says and falls soundly back asleep.

It’s like an old cartoon in HD, on that television the sales-boy told you would bring out the colours of the show. It’s still in black and white and there are better images he can find but it’s clear as day, it’s clear as cut-glass, this reeling image that belongs in the cinematic archive of his brain. This sneak peek of Arthur kissing him.

Merlin can’t know for sure if this isn’t a product of being hooked up to an IV and fed drugs but he also doesn’t know that it’s not. Merlin doesn’t know if this feeling he feels for Arthur are his alone, if they’re not equally felt by the opposite party. He doesn’t know too many things and no one’s there to answer them.

Arthur’s not here so Merlin can’t hold a Q&A with him wherein the only question Merlin had the capacity to ask was “Did you kiss me?” but couldn’t, for the life of him, ask a follow-up, even though he desperately wanted to. He doesn’t want to get hurt again. He sounds petty and fragile, he knows, but he can’t help it. Merlin can’t stop feeling this way because it’s how he’s felt all his life.

So Merlin can’t ask him right now, because he’s packing his stuff at the hospital with Gwen and Morgana, so he’s just left with the remnant of it. He can’t seem to remember most of it.

The kiss, whether it was a kiss or not, is like one of those Russian dolls, wherein the exterior looks big but you pull it apart and it gets smaller and smaller until there’s nothing left. The other parts are there, yes, but they’re not filled with anything anymore. Merlin never knew a kiss that could be so complicated but, then again, Merlin never knew a person like Arthur.

Merlin packs in the jacket in his knapsack and tries to think of something different. The headache reminds of why he’s here in the first place. Saving Arthur from that car. How did that happen? He doesn’t have a full grasp on the details, it’s petering away.

How did that car swerve like that?

He didn’t touch it.

It was almost like...

Magic

Magic! It was magic!

“Holy fuck,” Merlin curses.

“Yes, dear?” Morgana looks at him.

“Can I talk to you?” Merlin asks.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Morgana nods and gives the one-minute finger to Gwen, who smiles warmly in return.

Sometimes Merlin wonders why he and Gwen don’t hang out more. She’s perfectly pleasant and she’s brilliant company and just because she’s nice and polite, does not mean that she can’t be as straight-forward as the best of them. Besides, she’s been Morgana’s best friend for years so that’s evidence enough she’s tolerable of the crazy.

Maybe one day he’ll tell her and Lance -because any Almighty power knew that they come in a combo set, just like Leon and Morgana do- about his magic. They’ll be nice about it, he’s sure. It would be like telling your friends you were gay. In fact if Merlin hadn’t known for years that fannies weren’t his thing, that could easily be the scenario.

He leads Morgana into the hallway, next to the vending machine that pops out soda cans that he hopes might enter a recycling bin.

“What’s up?” Morgana asks immediately and without hesitation.

There’s one more thing he could get used to if he told Gwen; she’s a lot more gentle than Morgana is, that’s for sure.

“Magic,” Merlin whispers.

“Oh, should we use the codename, then?”

“Would be wise.”

“Ok, what’s this about pogo sticks?”

“We should really have a different codename,” Merlin sighs.

“Don’t blame me. It was all Leon’s idea.”

“I know, I know. You merely instigate his mania by loving him.”

“Come on, what’s wrong? This pogo stick business is making your eyebrows crease. I’m beginning to worry, M.”

“I think I used a pogo stick to save Arthur’s life.”

“Throwing away the utter ridiculousness of said sentence,” Morgana’s eyes grow big, “shit, really?”

“I think so, yeah,” Merlin nods nervously. “I’m fucking scared, Morgana.”

“I can tell,” Morgana says then notices the real fear on his face. Merlin doesn’t know if his face is doing a good job of portraying what he’s feeling at the moment but he feels enough fear to fill his entire person. Morgana then wraps her arms around him as he feels his body and world shake.

“This is huge, Morgana. This isn’t paper cups and plates, this is a goddamned car. And it wasn’t because I was dreaming, it wasn’t because... I’m scared. I’m scared shitless and I don’t know what to do. Fuck, what do I do?”

“Breathe.”

“What if it’s not a life I save next time? What if-?”

“Hey, hey, listen to me,” Morgana takes his face in her hands. “I can’t tell you not to be scared right now because I’m a bit scared, as well, but I can tell you that you have us. You have me and Leon and Will and we’re here for you. What I can also tell you is that you are a good person. As long as the magic’s with you, it’s safe. Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Merlin nods, his breathing slowly returning to normal.

Morgana gives him another hug for good measure and wishes, quite selfishly, that someone would thank him right then and there for saving a life. Unfortunately, the person from whom that thank you would actually be a sentiment, isn’t here.

Arthur isn’t here to thank him or to confirm his feelings for him.

Selfish arsehole.

PART THREE