Merlin -- Taking the Stairs
Title: Taking the Stairs
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin, Gwaine/Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,740
Warnings: language; angstpocalypse?; modern AU; Tierfal Arthur should really lay off the coffee
Prompt: "SOUL-WRENCHING, APOCALYPTIC ANGST" (…I tried. And failed)
Summary: Arthur and Merlin are twenty-somethings working in the same building (and sharing the lift). It comes to pass that Arthur is a twat.
Author's Note: For thecityofdis, who needed some fic. ♥ I have no idea why this is what came about. Or why it sounds like it does. I drift around in a half-caffeinated haze these days, so I don't know much of anything. XD (That said, most of the details that are not specified were deliberately left up to the reader's imagination.)
TAKING THE STAIRS
There sometimes comes a point in a young man’s life when he realizes that he is an utter, complete, irredeemable, feckless, witless twat.
Today, Arthur has come to that point.
He would like to protest that it isn’t really his fault, but it is, which is why he’s an utter (etc., etc.) twat in the first place. It is entirely his fault, as it is entirely a matter of him being unable to overcome his pride; to summon the energy and muster the courage to quit procrastinating and make himself vulnerable. In his valiant, self-important strivings to stand tall and walk the walk and take shit from absolutely no one, he has closed himself off to opportunities that might have been wonderful.
Son of a bitch.
In general, that is. Arthur would never speak about his mother that way. (Well, not unless he’d met her, and it was true, but he never got the chance, and apparently she was a saint, so the colloquialism stands.)
He wishes, more than usual, that she was here now, because his father’s forte is turning people away, and what Arthur needed and did not have was the fortitude to let somebody in.
There is also the factor that crying on Uther Pendragon’s shoulder would be magnificently ludicrous.
But Arthur wants to cry. Because people just don’t wait until you’re smart enough for them.
He and Merlin met in the first-floor restroom of the skyscraper where they were both about to interview for different positions at different companies. Merlin was attempting to use every last dry centimeter of his paper towel, and Arthur was… less preening than killing time, but at least a bit of both. Merlin, who was wearing a turtleneck jumper and jeans and an impish expression of bemused interest, told Arthur that the black tie with a black suit made him look like he was trying too hard, and that the hair on the back of his head was sticking up a bit. Arthur told him where he was liable to get a trying-too-hard black tie in a minute, Merlin snickered and sauntered out the door, and then Arthur discovered that he had been right about the hair and carefully smoothed it down.
So it might have been Merlin that got him the job-or it might have been his last name, which is so persuasive to anyone who is anyone that Arthur has always had trouble quantifying his own accomplishments. After the swirling adrenaline of the interview and its follow-ups and the rest of the ultimately fruitful bureaucratic muddle, Arthur dared to believe that the irritating chance encounter and its fortuitous consequences might be the end of it.
Their shared building, however, is tall, and it has only two lifts, presumably because the architect was some kind of sadistic cardio fanatic hell-bent on forcing employees to drag themselves up sixteen (Arthur) or twenty (Merlin) flights of stairs. Arthur began, his first day on the job, to refuse on principle. Merlin began, on Arthur’s second day, to appear in the lobby at the same precise moment as Arthur, with bundles of fabric or sheaves of paper or dangerously unwieldy portrait frames clutched tight in his narrow arms.
Arthur had weakly hoped that perhaps the gangly thing with the gleaming blue eyes and the mischievous grin might have forgotten him, but people don’t usually forget Arthur Pendragon, likely because he is far too strikingly handsome for his own good. He had clung to this hope throughout the silence as they rose to the second floor, and then the third, and then Bright Gangly Thing said cheerfully, “I like this tie much better.”
It had only gone downhill from there, which was slightly remarkable given that “it” tended to take place in rising lifts. Arthur can only assume that this is because the world has an awful, vicious, very unfunny sense of humor, and Atlas or God or someone needs to slap it sharply upside the head. Arthur would volunteer for the task if he had any idea where to begin chastising. Later, if he has time, he’ll make a list.
As Arthur quickly learned, when one takes the lift with the same Bright Gangly Thing every single weekday morning of one’s life, it seems that one must eventually roll one’s eyes and give a proper introduction, complete with offered handshake (and then awkwardly withdrawn handshake and even-more-awkward apology as Bright Gangly Thing starts shifting vast rolls of some strange gauzy fabric, which all start tipping in an alarming way). And when Bright Gangly Merlin does not even bat a formidably thick eyelash at one’s remark, faded with familiarity, of “Yes, that Pendragon,” one starts to feel… strangely valued. One starts to feel as though, to a single human being, “Arthur” might be the more important bit.
The thing that was-is-has been so addictive about Merlin is that he positively despairs of Arthur’s (well-earned) arrogance, (well-cultivated) airs, and (well-deserved) admirers. He actually said once, in so many words, that Arthur could be Jesus, and Merlin would not particularly care who his father was. Further, that unwarranted opinion has not changed a whit as time has ambled on: Merlin does not ingratiate, does not apologize, and certainly does not use the connection to his advantage. It took Arthur literally months to realize that people like Merlin are the reason that the English language includes the word friend. Arthur had never had to understand the vastness of that word before.
Now he understands its limits, too.
Arthur is accustomed to being feted and fawned over, but he has a broader sixth sense for feelings than just that. It took Merlin two weeks and six-and-a-half days to fall in love with him, very much at odds with all varieties of better judgment and personal resolutions. Arthur, in a fit of some kind of generosity, even managed not to rub it in his face at any point, so things just… kept on. That was the vastness of the word friend. And that made something in the very, very center of Arthur’s chest light up and go warm, because he wasn’t used to kindness for its own sake, and it felt… good.
Strangely, that warmth didn’t go away. Rather, it got warmer as he went along.
That was the point at which-Arthur still hates to admit it-he started to get scared. Not giving Merlin crap about what a tremendous, touchy-feely girl he was was one thing; wanting to sacrifice strength or power or assurance or dignity-wanting to give things up on someone’s behalf-that was new. And Arthur was terrified.
Thus when Arthur’s deductive reasoning eventually determined that he was, in fact, in love with Merlin-rather than infested with strange, heat-producing parasites that frequented his lungs and the pit of his stomach; a preferable fate, as far as Arthur was concerned-he simply… did nothing.
Aside from the obvious fact that do nothing was the path of least resistance, it also seemed to be the safest course of action available. If Arthur was to tell Merlin that Arthur was in love with him, he would be giving the Gangly Thing an inconceivable quantity of power over him in the capacity to use and abuse his emotions as Merlin saw fit. While Arthur knew, intellectually, that Merlin would never deliberately hurt him (except perhaps if Arthur struck first and vindictively and was generally acting like a total bastard, in which case vengeance would be swift and humiliating and extremely clever), Merlin was not only a Gangly thing-he was a Clumsy Thing, too. And for all of their excellent intentions, the two of them might meet and mix only then to fall to pieces.
So Arthur did nothing.
Three weeks and two days after Arthur fell in love with Merlin (counting from the day in his planner where his revelation was chronicled by the words “FUCK FUCK FUCK” in Sharpie), a Monday morning arrived, and Arthur found himself taking the lift alone.
Then Tuesday. Alone.
Then Arthur called, because what if Merlin was in the hospital or buried in a snowdrift or crushed under a bookcase or dying of Ebola or with someone else; and because Arthur hadn’t accomplished anything with all of the speculations rattling around his skull and causing him to say things like “That word has too many syllables” (dis-com-bob-u-la-ted) to his secretary.
Merlin answered.
Arthur said, “It pains me to admit that the lift is bizarrely quiet without your ramblings.”
Merlin said, “Oh! Sorry. Gwaine and I have been taking the stairs.”
Arthur said, “Oh. Right. Well. Good for you and Gwaine.”
This is because Arthur is too well-bred to have said, “Please tell motherfucking Gwaine that the two of you just collaboratively trampled on my heart, which is not nearly so conducive to that kind of treatment as the goddamn stairs.”
He should have said it anyway.
Three weeks and six days after Arthur fell in love with Merlin (a Friday), they all go out for drinks. Afterwards, Arthur somewhat wearily congratulates himself for his behavior, because he did not drink until he vomited or until he forgot how vibrant Merlin’s eyes are when they light on Gwaine, whichever would have come first. In fact, Arthur was better than merely civil-he was cordial, collected, suave, and intelligent, and he tipped well and smiled and refrained from strangling anyone with his not-black tie.
It wasn’t enough.
And perhaps nothing will be. Arthur knows Merlin now, because comprehension in retrospect is one of his many specialties, and he knows that Merlin could be happy with any of a number of people, because happiness is Merlin’s modus operandi. Arthur is one of those people. Gwaine is another. The differences between them are numerous-Gwaine’s eyes are even brighter than Merlin’s; his laughter is so easy it’s infectious; his grin is like a lighthouse beam; and he really, really ought to be on a shampoo commercial-but the most important distinction is that Gwaine was brave enough to ask.
Plainly: Gwaine is not a twat.
Today, as Arthur stands alone in the lift and glares at all the buttons, which is better than glaring at his reflection in the doors, he hopes bitterly that Gwaine had to learn this lesson once.
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin, Gwaine/Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,740
Warnings: language; angstpocalypse?; modern AU; Tierfal Arthur should really lay off the coffee
Prompt: "SOUL-WRENCHING, APOCALYPTIC ANGST" (…I tried. And failed)
Summary: Arthur and Merlin are twenty-somethings working in the same building (and sharing the lift). It comes to pass that Arthur is a twat.
Author's Note: For thecityofdis, who needed some fic. ♥ I have no idea why this is what came about. Or why it sounds like it does. I drift around in a half-caffeinated haze these days, so I don't know much of anything. XD (That said, most of the details that are not specified were deliberately left up to the reader's imagination.)
TAKING THE STAIRS
There sometimes comes a point in a young man’s life when he realizes that he is an utter, complete, irredeemable, feckless, witless twat.
Today, Arthur has come to that point.
He would like to protest that it isn’t really his fault, but it is, which is why he’s an utter (etc., etc.) twat in the first place. It is entirely his fault, as it is entirely a matter of him being unable to overcome his pride; to summon the energy and muster the courage to quit procrastinating and make himself vulnerable. In his valiant, self-important strivings to stand tall and walk the walk and take shit from absolutely no one, he has closed himself off to opportunities that might have been wonderful.
Son of a bitch.
In general, that is. Arthur would never speak about his mother that way. (Well, not unless he’d met her, and it was true, but he never got the chance, and apparently she was a saint, so the colloquialism stands.)
He wishes, more than usual, that she was here now, because his father’s forte is turning people away, and what Arthur needed and did not have was the fortitude to let somebody in.
There is also the factor that crying on Uther Pendragon’s shoulder would be magnificently ludicrous.
But Arthur wants to cry. Because people just don’t wait until you’re smart enough for them.
He and Merlin met in the first-floor restroom of the skyscraper where they were both about to interview for different positions at different companies. Merlin was attempting to use every last dry centimeter of his paper towel, and Arthur was… less preening than killing time, but at least a bit of both. Merlin, who was wearing a turtleneck jumper and jeans and an impish expression of bemused interest, told Arthur that the black tie with a black suit made him look like he was trying too hard, and that the hair on the back of his head was sticking up a bit. Arthur told him where he was liable to get a trying-too-hard black tie in a minute, Merlin snickered and sauntered out the door, and then Arthur discovered that he had been right about the hair and carefully smoothed it down.
So it might have been Merlin that got him the job-or it might have been his last name, which is so persuasive to anyone who is anyone that Arthur has always had trouble quantifying his own accomplishments. After the swirling adrenaline of the interview and its follow-ups and the rest of the ultimately fruitful bureaucratic muddle, Arthur dared to believe that the irritating chance encounter and its fortuitous consequences might be the end of it.
Their shared building, however, is tall, and it has only two lifts, presumably because the architect was some kind of sadistic cardio fanatic hell-bent on forcing employees to drag themselves up sixteen (Arthur) or twenty (Merlin) flights of stairs. Arthur began, his first day on the job, to refuse on principle. Merlin began, on Arthur’s second day, to appear in the lobby at the same precise moment as Arthur, with bundles of fabric or sheaves of paper or dangerously unwieldy portrait frames clutched tight in his narrow arms.
Arthur had weakly hoped that perhaps the gangly thing with the gleaming blue eyes and the mischievous grin might have forgotten him, but people don’t usually forget Arthur Pendragon, likely because he is far too strikingly handsome for his own good. He had clung to this hope throughout the silence as they rose to the second floor, and then the third, and then Bright Gangly Thing said cheerfully, “I like this tie much better.”
It had only gone downhill from there, which was slightly remarkable given that “it” tended to take place in rising lifts. Arthur can only assume that this is because the world has an awful, vicious, very unfunny sense of humor, and Atlas or God or someone needs to slap it sharply upside the head. Arthur would volunteer for the task if he had any idea where to begin chastising. Later, if he has time, he’ll make a list.
As Arthur quickly learned, when one takes the lift with the same Bright Gangly Thing every single weekday morning of one’s life, it seems that one must eventually roll one’s eyes and give a proper introduction, complete with offered handshake (and then awkwardly withdrawn handshake and even-more-awkward apology as Bright Gangly Thing starts shifting vast rolls of some strange gauzy fabric, which all start tipping in an alarming way). And when Bright Gangly Merlin does not even bat a formidably thick eyelash at one’s remark, faded with familiarity, of “Yes, that Pendragon,” one starts to feel… strangely valued. One starts to feel as though, to a single human being, “Arthur” might be the more important bit.
The thing that was-is-has been so addictive about Merlin is that he positively despairs of Arthur’s (well-earned) arrogance, (well-cultivated) airs, and (well-deserved) admirers. He actually said once, in so many words, that Arthur could be Jesus, and Merlin would not particularly care who his father was. Further, that unwarranted opinion has not changed a whit as time has ambled on: Merlin does not ingratiate, does not apologize, and certainly does not use the connection to his advantage. It took Arthur literally months to realize that people like Merlin are the reason that the English language includes the word friend. Arthur had never had to understand the vastness of that word before.
Now he understands its limits, too.
Arthur is accustomed to being feted and fawned over, but he has a broader sixth sense for feelings than just that. It took Merlin two weeks and six-and-a-half days to fall in love with him, very much at odds with all varieties of better judgment and personal resolutions. Arthur, in a fit of some kind of generosity, even managed not to rub it in his face at any point, so things just… kept on. That was the vastness of the word friend. And that made something in the very, very center of Arthur’s chest light up and go warm, because he wasn’t used to kindness for its own sake, and it felt… good.
Strangely, that warmth didn’t go away. Rather, it got warmer as he went along.
That was the point at which-Arthur still hates to admit it-he started to get scared. Not giving Merlin crap about what a tremendous, touchy-feely girl he was was one thing; wanting to sacrifice strength or power or assurance or dignity-wanting to give things up on someone’s behalf-that was new. And Arthur was terrified.
Thus when Arthur’s deductive reasoning eventually determined that he was, in fact, in love with Merlin-rather than infested with strange, heat-producing parasites that frequented his lungs and the pit of his stomach; a preferable fate, as far as Arthur was concerned-he simply… did nothing.
Aside from the obvious fact that do nothing was the path of least resistance, it also seemed to be the safest course of action available. If Arthur was to tell Merlin that Arthur was in love with him, he would be giving the Gangly Thing an inconceivable quantity of power over him in the capacity to use and abuse his emotions as Merlin saw fit. While Arthur knew, intellectually, that Merlin would never deliberately hurt him (except perhaps if Arthur struck first and vindictively and was generally acting like a total bastard, in which case vengeance would be swift and humiliating and extremely clever), Merlin was not only a Gangly thing-he was a Clumsy Thing, too. And for all of their excellent intentions, the two of them might meet and mix only then to fall to pieces.
So Arthur did nothing.
Three weeks and two days after Arthur fell in love with Merlin (counting from the day in his planner where his revelation was chronicled by the words “FUCK FUCK FUCK” in Sharpie), a Monday morning arrived, and Arthur found himself taking the lift alone.
Then Tuesday. Alone.
Then Arthur called, because what if Merlin was in the hospital or buried in a snowdrift or crushed under a bookcase or dying of Ebola or with someone else; and because Arthur hadn’t accomplished anything with all of the speculations rattling around his skull and causing him to say things like “That word has too many syllables” (dis-com-bob-u-la-ted) to his secretary.
Merlin answered.
Arthur said, “It pains me to admit that the lift is bizarrely quiet without your ramblings.”
Merlin said, “Oh! Sorry. Gwaine and I have been taking the stairs.”
Arthur said, “Oh. Right. Well. Good for you and Gwaine.”
This is because Arthur is too well-bred to have said, “Please tell motherfucking Gwaine that the two of you just collaboratively trampled on my heart, which is not nearly so conducive to that kind of treatment as the goddamn stairs.”
He should have said it anyway.
Three weeks and six days after Arthur fell in love with Merlin (a Friday), they all go out for drinks. Afterwards, Arthur somewhat wearily congratulates himself for his behavior, because he did not drink until he vomited or until he forgot how vibrant Merlin’s eyes are when they light on Gwaine, whichever would have come first. In fact, Arthur was better than merely civil-he was cordial, collected, suave, and intelligent, and he tipped well and smiled and refrained from strangling anyone with his not-black tie.
It wasn’t enough.
And perhaps nothing will be. Arthur knows Merlin now, because comprehension in retrospect is one of his many specialties, and he knows that Merlin could be happy with any of a number of people, because happiness is Merlin’s modus operandi. Arthur is one of those people. Gwaine is another. The differences between them are numerous-Gwaine’s eyes are even brighter than Merlin’s; his laughter is so easy it’s infectious; his grin is like a lighthouse beam; and he really, really ought to be on a shampoo commercial-but the most important distinction is that Gwaine was brave enough to ask.
Plainly: Gwaine is not a twat.
Today, as Arthur stands alone in the lift and glares at all the buttons, which is better than glaring at his reflection in the doors, he hopes bitterly that Gwaine had to learn this lesson once.