Fic: The Enemy, Time, In Us All
So, dear flist, I went to a College reunion this weekend - an informal affair, really, just a night out at our old local - and then mainlined College AU fic. This lttle bit of angsty fluff is the result. You can read it on A03 if you prefer here
Rated mature because it describes a past encounter.
Warning for implied past minor character death.
Merlin supposes he should have known, really, that Arthur would be there. A small, buried part of him has probably even been hoping for it. He’s tightly wound, watching the door as everyone passes through it, feeling faint stabs of mixed relief and disappointment each time it turns out to be someone else, but the evening draws on, approaching the time when they have to leave the pub and go on to College in their gowns and bow ties and all. It was a vain hope, not even a hope, really. He's almost relaxed when he returns from the gents toilet.
So of course, that's when he sees him, all golden-haired and sunny-natured, his head tilted back in an unselfconscious laugh.
The years have been kind to Arthur, kinder than the guy he’s talking to, who on closer inspection looks like it might be old Ollie, and who’s put on thirty pounds and lost nearly all his hair. Merlin feels the apprehension melt away from his gut but it's replaced by something dark and jittery when Arthur's line of sight finally locks onto his, when Arthur's laugh stops abruptly, replaced by a smile that's half shy, half appraising.
Somehow, a bit later on they end up pressed together at the bar, just because there’s not enough room at the table, just the two of them, just like the old days. Elbows propped up on a sticky beer towel, feet fumbling for the steel railing, turned in towards one another, warm and glazed from the glow of the beer, it feels as natural as that to ask Arthur if he has any regrets. He laughs, and says no, but then pauses and says, except, perhaps, for missed opportunities. There’s a question in his eyes, which are bluer than they have any right to be. It remains unanswered, for now.
It’s not until Arthur says, quietly, “how about you, Merlin?” that Merlin looks down at his drink, suddenly afraid of what his own answer might be. It’s not until Arthur touches the back of his hand where it curls around his pint glass, touches him so swiftly and delicately that he thinks he might have imagined it, if it wasn’t for the way that his skin tingles, that he knows what his answer is. It’s not until then that Merlin looks up and whispers “the same.”
That’s the moment when it all changes. That’s when their eyes lock and Merlin’s feels himself burn, hot and ashamed. That’s when the deafening sound of his pulse in his ears blocks out the raised voices and laughter in the bar.
Arthur touches Merlin’s hand again. “I heard about Freya. I’m so sorry, Merlin. Sorry about what you went through, what she must have…" His voice is deep and urgent, as if making up for lost time. "I’m so sorry I didn’t hear until it was too late. It was my fault I didn’t hear. I was your friend, and I know that we’d drifted apart after what happened, but I should have been there for you.”
Of course Arthur knows about Freya, of course he does, this is the 21st century; even though Merlin’s not on Facebook or Twitter, the college grapevine is an efficient one. Merlin’s hand tightens defensively on his glass and he stares out of the window, eyes unfocussed for a moment.
“It was five years ago,” he says. “It was a year of hell, watching her vitality fade and her spark wither. I felt so helpless. It was totally shit. I promised her that I would never forget her, and I won’t.”
He returns his gaze to Arthur and shrugs, proffering a wan smile, and takes a sip of his pint to avoid that sympathetic look. “Look, I won’t try to claim it doesn’t hurt any more, and I do miss her, I really do. I can’t remember her voice, and that saddens me.”
Arthur just keeps watching him, shaking his head until Merlin shrugs again.
“I’m so sorry, mate,” Arthur says, his eyes clear and understanding. “That’s completely shit.”
“Yeah.” Merlin can feel tension ebbing out of his shoulders as he sups at his pint, and he takes a moment to order another one for each of them. "Yeah, it was."
They stand in companionable silence, waiting for the barman to fill their glasses, and then ripping into a couple of packets of dry-roasted peanuts.
“So, how about now, Merlin,” says Arthur, after a minute or two, jaws moving in heavy crunches around the nuts. “Have you moved on? I mean, Is there anyone else? Oh, fuck it. You don’t have to answer, that was rude and insensitive of me.” Arthur’s jaw stills and he presses his lips together as if berating himself.
Merlin chuckles, and bashes Arthur’s shoulder with his fist. “It’s all right,” he says, feeling a warm affection flood through him at Arthur’s awkwardness. “Stop beating yourself up about nothing, you twat, I don’t mind talking about it, not with you. I mean, we were close for a long time, you were my best mate! That’s still got to mean something, right?”
Arthur says nothing but relaxes his stance a little and a fond smile plays around his lips.
“For your information, nosy parker, I’ve been with a couple of people,” Merlin carries on, “but I’m single right now. It’s taken a while, but I’m in a good place. I’m fine with that. Maybe one day. And now, in the spirit of open communication and all that, perhaps you’d like to tell me what the fuck’s going on with you and Gwen?”
Arthur barks out a laugh. “I suppose I deserved that.” He sighs and runs his hands through his hair, an exasperated gesture of such utmost familiarity that it transports Merlin back, what ten, twelve years? To when he used to drop by the College library and try to prise Arthur away from his books for long enough to sup a little coffee by tickling him. “Fine, fine. Well. We weren’t happy together, Merlin, it’s a simple as that. I wrapped myself up in my work, she found solace in the arms of our old friend Lancelot.”
The bare words hide a world of heartbreak that Arthur would never articulate, but that Merlin can see in the way that Arthur’s fingers tap the bar, the way his lips arrow and his temples pulse.
“Fuck,” says Merlin. “I’m so sorry, mate.”
Involuntarily his left arm snakes out, and he squeezes Arthur’s upper arm, a permissible male platonic contact that makes him yearn suddenly for more. His fingers linger for a second longer than is strictly necessary before he lets his arm drop, and he nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels the sudden warmth of Arthur’s left hand covering his right where it rests on the bar.
It’s quiet for a moment, the air thick with unspoken words. Arthur’s hand on his, the curve of Arthur’s fingers, the hot and cold feeling of Arthur’s eyes questioning eyes on his. The way his mouth twitches as he swallows. A familiar ache in the hollow of Merlin’s chest, a familiar vertigo plunging into the root of him.
“Do you remember that night, years ago?” Arthur’s voice sounds low and gravelly.
Merlin nods, the unbidden memory bringing a smile to his lips. He knows which night Arthur means, without asking. The night before his viva, in that hedonistic time between exams finishing and graduation. A belly full of college claret and port, and inhibitions thrown to the wind. Cool air and damp grass on bare skin, the taste of Arthur's perfect lips on his.
“Me too,” says Arthur softly. “I think about it a lot. It’s my biggest regret.”
“Fucking me is your biggest regret?” He can’t help the bitter tone in his voice, and the words seem loud, suddenly, although it’s barely a whisper, and both of them look up, hastily, as if to check that the others can’t hear.
“No.” Arthur shakes his head to emphasize his words, even as he grasps Merlin’s hand more tightly. “No. I could never regret that. Letting you go, the next morning, though. Watching you leave your room and not telling you what I felt. Slipping away while you were gone, because I was afraid you wouldn’t come back. That’s it right there. My biggest regret. Even after all these years.”
He swigs the last vestiges of his beer and Merlin doesn’t know what to say.
“I had an exam,” he blurts out. “I had my viva, I had to go! I couldn’t just stay with you… I wanted to stay!”
“Yeah, and I was young, and vulnerable, and had never slept with a man before, let alone my best friend, and I was confused because, fuck, it felt so right, and I should have said something, but I couldn’t open my mouth. So I let you go. I’ve regretted it ever since. You should know that, Merlin.”
His eyes look so sad. Suddenly Merlin finds the little knot of bitterness he has been storing all these years has melted away under the force of Arthur’s bright, apologetic gaze.
“I’m sorry. I ruined everything," Arthur adds. "Sorry we lost touch, sorry I didn’t make more of an effort, but then you were happy with Freya, and I thought I could be happy with Gwen, and that was that.”
Typical bloody Arthur, blaming himself for things that were at least half Merlin's doing.
“You stupid fuck,” says Merlin, trying to keep his voice down. “God. I don’t know who’s worse; you with your bloody English bottled-up stuffiness, or me with my stubborn wounded pride. You were the best shag I ever had, bar none, and that was after we’d sunk an absolute skinful! And you were my best friend. I missed you. It hurt like fuck.” It’s his turn to run exasperated fingers through his hair, and he starts to laugh. “I’m the one who should be apologising. God. I went off to my viva, and came back with spinach spinakopitas, and when you weren’t there, just assumed you’d chalked me up as another notch on your bedpost, another item on your legendary “to do before I graduate” list.”
Arthur snorts into his beer. “You’re right,” he says. “We’re a right pair, aren’t we? I should have called your mum, written to you, I dunno. I was stupid and young. It was all a long time ago, I suppose.”
“Yeah.” Merlin pops a peanut into his mouth, an explosion of salt and crunch. “Pair of idiots. Bad as each other.” When he looks back at Arthur, he knows that the question’s in his eyes this time.
And his heart begins to race when he sees that the answer in Arthur’s is yes.