[Fic] Where the Shadows Cease - for rotrude
Title: Where the Shadows Cease [Reference]
Author: Anonymous
Recipient: rotrude
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Arthur/Merlin
Warnings: Minor off-screen character death, historical homophobia
Rating: R
Word Count: 5,579
Summary: In the summer of 1939, Merlin tries to find something to write about in Spain and instead finds Arthur.
Author's Note: I tried very hard in this fic to hit your high points of likes and miss your dislikes, but I’m afraid the chosen setting and my attempt to try and fit in all of your word prompts (although lake ended up translating more to ocean) with a feeling of your first two full prompts as well may have gotten a little off course. I really hope that you end up enjoying this though.
Thanks so much to 'I' for the beta and 'S' for batting around ideas/helping me with Gwen’s last name.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction - none of this ever happened. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
Excerpts of letters from Merlin Emrys to Guinevere Legrance during the summer of 1939.
And that was the end of that. Needless to say, I am leaving Barcelona with a heavy heart and a lighter billfold. I hope that the south of Spain will provide more subject matter for my travel writing.
There’s something in the air, Gwen. I can’t quite tell what it is, but there’s something and the people feel it. I feel it. Maybe it’s these Spanish summers.
I’m going to explore today. See where my feet lead me.
~8 June 1939
~~~
Merlin isn’t quite sure he’s even in Cadiz anymore. He’s been walking for hours (also tripping over loose rocks and upturned tree roots for as long). The sun is stinging the back of his neck and the heat is getting to be a bit too much without the cool sea air to temper it.
“Go explore, Merlin,” Merlin grumbles under his breath, loosening his tie and considering rolling up his wide leg trousers, no matter how idiotic he’ll look. “That was a fantastic idea. I probably walked to Africa when I wasn’t paying attention.”
He draws the back of his arm and hand over his brow, cleaving off the sweat sticking to his hair and skin. It’s a cloying sort of heat with the mix of trees he’d never see in London blocking out the ocean air. He must have found the one entire spot in Cadiz that isn’t right next to the water.
It would figure. If he doesn’t die, he’s going to have to list out all of these things in his letter back home to Gwen so she can laugh at his misfortune with Morgana.
After an hour or so he spots sand in the distance, the long grasses move against the wind and towards some dunes and up beyond that the endless ocean.
Merlin could probably write an entire book based on the differences between the waters of England and the waters of Spain. Even the beaches themselves are so different. Merlin revels in the fact that he can toe his shoes off, hold them with his two fingers with his coat, and sink his feet into the hot sand.
At some points it is too hot, scorching, so he has to tip toe up the dunes and be careful not to stumble over at any point and get hot sand all over his clothes and face (he knows from experience this is painful), but mostly the tingle he gets from digging his toes into the sand is beyond any other.
Merlin reaches the top of the dune and looks out at the water, pushing up against the shore and turning into sea foam as it slowly drifts back in. It is a beautiful view, nothing but water, shore, and sunshine. Merlin sees a brush of some trees that he needs to draw to identify later (they don’t quite look like palms, but they’re not something he’s seen in England before) so he goes towards them and sinks down onto the shaded sand.
Merlin puts his coat and shoes to the side and pulls out his travel journal. He stares out at the waves for a long time, watching them lap up against the shore and sketches out a few of their moments in the margins. He needs to write something, but so far all he’s gotten is some descriptive nonsense about the different tastes of paella and a thousand or so words about the gorgeous sunsets.
Merlin taps his pen against the binding of his journal and catches sight of something in the water. He squints against the sunlight peppering in through the shade of the tree and sees a bare-chested blond man throw himself up from the water, his head leaning back and the water from his body splashing everywhere.
(Later, Merlin will remember that specific scene and draw the negative space around where the water drops landed. He’ll remember perfectly, even though he wasn’t close enough to really see.)
A moment later another man, darker with shoulders not quite so broad, joins the blond and they both start walking towards the beach, rubbing their hands over their hair. Merlin quickly notices they’re both naked and draws his face down to his journal, feeling uncomfortably hot even shaded from the heaviest part of the sun.
Eventually the voices get a bit closer as Merlin writes out a couple more words in his journal that look like scratches against the paper more than anything else.
They seem to be speaking Italian which is what causes Merlin to stupidly raise his head and glance at them out of curiosity. The darker man gives Merlin a friendly smile, but the blond stares right through Merlin and turns back to his friend, continuing their conversation.
Merlin’s Italian is shaky at best, but he gathers they were racing in the water. Their clothes must have been nearby, because from short glances out of the corner of his eye he can see that they’re pulling on their clothes, haphazardly with a bit of casual grace.
There’s no way Merlin can write now and he’s never going to be sure they’re not making fun of the sunburn he can feel on the tip of his ears in Italian, so he rises to his feet, grabbing his coat and shoes at the same time - which is of course when he slices his arm against a jagged edge of bark from the tree that later turns out to be another kind of palm.
~~~
I was thinking about the first time I met Arthur today when I was packing. I found that ruined shirt. I meant to throw it out, but looking at it was strange. I never knew that blood turned so dark given the time.
I can’t bring myself to throw it out now.
~30 August 1939
~~~
“My father was a war medic,” Guillermo says in perfect Portuguese, sewing up the gash on Merlin’s shoulder.
They moved from the beach to an expensive flat for this part of Cadiz, after the tourniquet Guillermo made out of his shirt soaked up with Merlin’s blood. The flat is newer, more woodwork instead of tile and stone. The windowed view of the city is gorgeous.
Merlin tries to focus on that instead of the pain from Guillermo’s boiling hot needle going through his skin. He runs facts through his mind. The fact that he left his only good coat on the beach, that he bled on his shoes, that Guillermo is Brazilian by way of Portugal and Arthur is in fact British, and so the only language they share is Italian.
“The Great War?” Merlin asks, in not so perfect Portuguese (his Spanish is much cleaner). He tries to focus on Guillermo, on the view, on anything other than Arthur who is leaning against the wall, sleeves rolled up and the wet still clinging to his hair - his expression half amused and half something else that Merlin doesn’t want to identify.
“Sí!” Guillermo says, laughing, but his Spanish has a bit of an m on the end he can’t seem to help. He says something in Italian that Merlin can’t quite catch and slaps Merlin’s wound lightly, with a Portuguese, “There you are, friend!”
Merlin tries not to fall off his chair and just mumbles his thanks and rolls his bloody sleeve back down over his shoulder and arm.
Guillermo rises up and starts speaking animatedly to Arthur in Italian, with broad hand gestures and a booming, thick laugh. Arthur smirks slightly and nods and then with that the Brazilian is out the door.
“I should probably go,” Merlin says, standing awkwardly.
Arthur nods his focus on a hand rolled cigarette. “Come around tomorrow. We’re touring Cadiz. You won’t get any good travel writing done by injuring yourself on the beach.” He lights the cigarette and his cool eyes are amused, “Besides, you might bleed out if we left you by yourself.”
Merlin suspects that Arthur is happy to have someone to speak English with (Merlin knows he is, no matter how much Arthur’s absent staring gives him chills down the back of his spine). “You never said what you and Guillermo were doing here.” Merlin rubs the wound on his arm, absently.
Arthur shrugs. “Grand Tour.”
Merlin understands the expensive flat now. He laughs, awkwardly, “Thought that went out with the train.”
“It did.” Arthur takes a drag of his cigarette, breathing in and letting the smoke out through his nose. He stares at Merlin, almost blankly. “I’m a traditionalist.”
Merlin nods, uncomfortable with the thick silence in the room, and starts to edge towards the door. He gets his hand around the handle when he hears Arthur’s voice call out, “Tomorrow, Merlin. The little café by the Cathedral.”
“Right,” Merlin says, and opens the door, shutting it behind him. He tries to put the entire thing out of his mind and get back to his hotel room.
~~~
As to Morgana’s question, tell her there is nothing to worry about. No country wants another war. The fact that the last one happened only makes us safer, people are more cautious now.
And no, I have not injured myself yet. My record in Spain remains perfect. At least for open wounds.
~19 May 1939
~~~
The next two weeks go by in a whirl of ancient buildings, Guillermo’s incessant switching from Italian to Portuguese on a moment’s notice, the thick weight of potatoes and eggs from morning tortillas, and Arthur’s quiet commentary on certain architectural features of older buildings and streets so thin they can barely fit through one at a time.
“We’re going to Seville next,” Arthur says, sitting next to Merlin (about half a meter away and two steps in front of him) on the steps of Plaza de Mina and shaded by one of the statues Merlin has forgotten the name of. “You should come.”
Merlin isn’t sure he’s gotten anything solid to write about from Cadiz. The last two nights have ended late, with the sweet taste of Spanish wine and too much laughing, by the time he stumbles to his tiny hotel room to write - nothing comes out except shading in the negative space of the tiny drawing of Guillermo dancing with castanets. Sevilla isn’t too much of a distance and Merlin might find what he needs to start really writing about Spain from it.
“Why are you going?” Merlin shifts where he’s sitting, the stone steps a bit uncomfortable under his rear. “Guillermo wants to marry a flamenco dancer?”
“Or become one,” Arthur says under his breath, glances at Merlin for a second and then leans forward, one arm resting on an upturned knee. “You can’t just write about Cadiz.”
“I’ve written about Barcelona too,” Merlin laughs and clears his throat afterward.
Arthur doesn’t say anything; he just stares out into the square, watching the people mingle together.
Merlin wonders how someone so rich, so beautiful, so perfect can always seem so very far away. Not even above, but distant, like he’s a ghost watching everyone live.
“Sevilla sounds nice,” Merlin says, and thumbs the binding of his journal, pulling it out to jot down a couple of comments Arthur made about the history of the plaza.
Arthur glances at him momentarily, smiles, and pulls out a box of tobacco and rolling paper to make himself another cigarette.
~~~
I am heading to Seville, so don’t send any correspondence until I get you a new address.
You will be pleased to know I am no longer traveling alone, nor have I been taken in by a traveling pack of gypsies. Details forthcoming once I discover how to properly describe them.
~ 21 June 1939
~~~
“Your father’s a diplomat?” Merlin asks, finally, as he and Arthur walk across a stream of birds fluttering off when they get too close. Arthur hasn’t been talking much (he doesn’t), but Merlin takes the lull in the conversation to get something out of him.
“Did Guillermo mention it?” Arthur asks, sliding his shoe against the cobblestone path in the courtyard of the Plaza de España.
“Sort of.” Merlin gives a lopsided self-deprecating smile. “My Portuguese isn’t that good; he could have said something else.”
Arthur slips his thumbs under his braces, hanging down from his shirt front. He never quite wears a completely outfit, but it is too hot for the coat Merlin always carries over his shoulder anyway. Arthur stops, stands still for a moment, and takes a deep breath, one that fills his chest so that his collarbone rises to where the collar of his shirt is loosened. He glances at Merlin and says, “He’s having diplomatic meetings with Francisco Franco, or he was.” Arthur shrugs, seemingly disinterested.
Arthur skips the next step and stares up at the tall buildings of the plaza. “Caudillo de España, por la gracia de Dios. Leader of Spain, by the grace of God.”
Arthur seems to find something funny, because his lips quirk and he snorts softly, before turning around and his face goes blank again. “Gui’s going to be at the telegram office for a while.”
“We could feed the doves?” Merlin suggests, eyeing the hopeful looking birds ambling around the area and diving into the fountain to refresh from the hot sun.
“They’re not doves,” Arthur says, staring at Merlin like he’s an idiot, “they’re white pigeons.”
Merlin rolls his eyes. “Or we could go follow the smell of churros until we find a vendor?”
“What is culture if not food,” Arthur says, a hint of a real smile on his face, before he turns away from Merlin and walks ahead of him.
Sometimes Merlin gets the feeling that Arthur creates the distance he has with people (with Merlin) all on his own.
He follows Arthur, sidestepping a few ambling doves who flutter away in opposite directions.
~~~
And Arthur is-
I find myself at a loss to properly describe Arthur. There’s something about him. I know the French call it “je nais se quoi” but I think the Spanish would just say “guapo.”
He won’t really talk to me and I feel like it is deception to ask his friend. I’m around him, with him, and it is like he’s not even there.
Or maybe I’m not.
~ 25 June 1939
~~~
It’s impossible to get out of the hot summer rain that suddenly hits them all with a deluge. Guillermo runs for cover in the little café crushed next to the side of one of the stone churches, but Arthur and Merlin run farther until they find a tiny alley way (these streets weren’t made for cars let alone people) and squeeze under a tiny bit of shelter that is an overhanging roof.
Their chests are heaving from the run and the skit-skit-skit of the rain is pelting the roof above them and splashing to the stone ground near their feet, not making things much drier. Drops of water are running down from the hair around Arthur’s face and tracks of water are sliding down his neck to his soaked shirt. He shakes his head like a wet dog under the shelter, sending scatters of water everywhere. Merlin laughs and swats blindly at Arthur’s arms in retaliation.
Arthur laughs, just once, but there’s a light in his eyes that Merlin hasn’t seen before and it catches him up for a second, or it would, if his eyes weren’t immediately drawn to Arthur’s lips. It’s when the smile flattens that Merlin glances back up and stares at Arthur.
Merlin isn’t sure what to call it. What the feeling that seems to pass through his body and flow directly into Arthur’s until he’s not quite sure where he starts, where he stops, where they begin. It might be recognition. It might be understanding.
Arthur leans forward and kisses him.
His chapped lips from too many hand-rolled cigarettes press against Merlin’s briefly, small and quick enough that it could be a mistake. A slip-up. But that look in Arthur’s eyes, that completely in the moment, on the same level, with Merlin look of his, says it was nothing but what it was.
And either way all Merlin can feel is the ghost touch of Arthur’s lips against his, even from that split second of contact. Like he’s imprinted himself forever.
Merlin doesn’t look away from Arthur, but he doesn’t kiss him. It’s too dangerous here, even in this darkened alley with the rain splattering down. He reaches one hand up and spreads his fingers over the line of Arthur’s face, that perfect angle of his jaw and rests there. Long enough to be anything but an accident.
Arthur’s slide shut and he lets out a long, relieved breath.
~~~
I still can’t describe Arthur, but now I don’t want to.
Not in a letter anyway.
It’s like you and Morgana.
~ 27 June 1939
~~~
It takes twenty minutes to make their way back up to the flat. It takes ten seconds to latch the door and fall into bed. Merlin hasn’t done this in so long, but he remembers all the steps. He knows how to unbutton a man’s shirt, to run his fingers over Arthur’s shoulders taking in the way Arthur breathes sharply at the touch. They lose their clothes, get lost in the tangle of sweaty limbs and wet sheets. They’re together in the room, in the bed, in each other’s arms. With everything else, like the twittering doves, out in the hot rain.
~~~
There’s an expression I heard here. Ojos que no ven, corazón que no siente. Eyes that do not see, heart that does not feel.
I wish I could write like that. I’ve been sketching out negative space again. The slopes of shoulders and the angle of a smile. The way the sheets fold around limbs.
I love Seville. I wish I could find the words to write about more than a bedroom.
~ 3 July 1939
~~~
It is hard sometimes. Hard to be with someone and really be with them, never knowing completely who they are and having to settle for that sense of connection you have. To be different together is all Merlin can grasp sometimes.
It’s wonderful - perfect - when he can have both.
“My father’s making me join His Majesty’s Armed Forces,” Arthur says, tangled in sheets with a relaxed, half annoyed, half amused expression on his face.
It’s strange to see it this open, to hear Arthur actually talking. Merlin leans up on his elbow and frowns. “The Royal Navy?”
“That would be the one,” Arthur snorts. “I left him at Madrid and decided to take a vacation before duty called.”
“What would you rather do?” Merlin asks hiding his smile against his shoulder as Arthur traces the light scar left from Guillermo’s stitches.
Arthur takes a deep breath, holding it, and then lets it out. “I never thought about it before.”
It is a new thing to be able to tell when Arthur is lying.
“When’s Guillermo going to be back?” Merlin asks, winding his fingers around Arthur’s bicep and drawing him closer.
“He knows to be gone for the rest of the night by now. I think he’s got a relative in Sevilla.” Arthur’s voice lowers, as he draws closer to Merlin, leans over him, “Or I’ll buy him his own bloody flat.”
Merlin laughs quietly, afraid to break the moment, still afraid to be caught, to ruin this little world they’ve created. “You really are on a Grand Tour, aren’t you?”
Arthur smiles and kisses Merlin’s hairline softly. “The grandest.”
~~~
I find that Spain, Seville in particular, puts me at a loss for words. I want to tell you how happy I am, but happy seems like such a pittance of a word. Ecstatic doesn’t have quite the right tone. Enamored makes me sound like a schoolboy. And delighted. Well, that doesn’t quite sum it up either.
Maybe there’s a Spanish word for it. Or an Italian one. Or maybe there’s no word at all and it is just this feeling bubbling up inside my chest.
~ 18 July 1939
~~~
Arthur’s naked. He seems to live naked, even with the open window (too high up for anyone to see, but still close enough to the bed that Merlin makes him shut it). He says it is too hot, but Merlin sees him rolling up a cigarette, fingers carefully working to make it tight and pink tongue darting out to wet the edge.
He lights a match, holds the flame up to the edge of the cigarette and blows the smoke out the window. “Come to the ledge.”
“I’d rather not die, thanks,” Merlin says, but comes to sit across from Arthur anyway. He brings his journal, pulls it out and starts to trace the shape Arthur’s fingers take when he holds the cigarette.
“Have you written any more since we got here?” Arthur asks, and moves his leg out to shove at Merlin’s knee.
“A little,” Merlin admits, shrugging.
“We’ll go to the Cathedral tomorrow,” Arthur says, with a sense of finality. He takes a drag of his cigarette and stares out the window. “Bad god, good architecture.”
“When,” Merlin starts, trying to ignore the skip his heart makes when Arthur turns to glance at him, “when do you have to go back to England?”
Arthur shrugs. “Eventually.”
“I think I might go to Argentina,” Merlin blurts out, his fingers tapping against the papers of his journal. It’s looked down upon, surely, but it’s legal to be who he is in Argentina, for fifty years now.
Arthur knows what he means, he must. Merlin’s learned that Arthur’s a bit infuriating when he opens up, that he’s opinionated and that he hogs the covers, but Merlin’s also learned that Arthur is smart, well educated, and very aware.
Arthur smiles and looks down. “You could make your book a Spanish theme.”
“Maybe,” Merlin agrees, “or a sequel.”
Arthur lifts himself up, puts the burning cigarette down on the windowsill and draws Merlin up away from the window. He leans in until Merlin’s pushed against the wall and they breathe into each other’s mouth. Arthur’s mouth tastes like cloves and a hearty twist of tobacco. Merlin licks his lips and waits until Arthur leans in and kisses him properly, hands twisting at Merlin’s shirt and leg slipping between his own. Gently. Like they have all the time in the world.
~~~
Amor. I think it sounds better than Love. I’m not entirely sure why. Do the Spaniards find that our words better suit their feelings, because they’re not as familiar with them? Are we reaching for that incredible sense of description that no one can quite find in their own language?
Or am I just being an incredible sap.
Tell Morgana’s she’s right. I am never going to get any work done like this. I’ll start writing about the Parque de María Luisa. Did you know they had the World’s Fair there in 1929? Doesn’t seem like all that long ago. Though I guess it was, I was barely thirteen.
~ 14 August 1939
~~~
Merlin and Arthur are discussing what type of fruit is on their plate at breakfast when Guillermo comes back with the post. He hands Merlin his letters from Gwen, none for Arthur except the bill, and brushes his fingers against his own with a tight smile.
“My brother,” he says in broken Spanish that sounds more like Portuguese, holding the letter up with a slight shake, “he’s taken forever to write me.”
Arthur smiles and his finger brushes against Merlin’s under the table, only briefly. Merlin suddenly feels like they kissed in public and heat rises from his cheeks to his ears.
Guillermo reads the letter, while Merlin sips his coffee to hide his smile.
He barely has a chance to take three sips, the third lifted to his lips when Guillermo drops the letter on the table and lets out a terrible groan, his body curling in on itself as he falls to the ground, making pained noises.
Merlin picks up the letter, out of instinct and reads through it quickly. Guillermo’s brother was sentenced for gross indecency (sodomy, buggery) and sent to prison, but was killed by a group of men on the way - they weren’t likely to catch them.
(Of course)
The lead in Merlin’s gut sits heavy as he remembers a friend who was more than a friend meeting the same fate in the street, never getting to take his two years of hard labour for something they shared.
“His brother died,” Merlin says and hands Arthur the letter, numbly.
Arthur doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t look at anything, but the people staring at Guillermo’s wrecked, sobbing body on the floor.
“It wasn’t his brother,” Arthur says, low and pitched under his breath. They both stare at the broken Brazilian on the street, howling.
~~~
The bright, raucous man broken down crying. He wept openly in the street. And the only thing Arthur and I could do was pull him inside the flat, for fear of anyone seeing his display.
I hate this, Gwen. I hate that I can write about lush scenery and delicious food that means nothing, but if I ever wrote what I was actually thinking, what I actually see - they’d burn my books.
~ 15 August 1939
~~~
Arthur smokes and looks out the window. The moonlight streams in through the window and highlights the naked planes of his back, sliding down to the strong firm buttocks and lean thighs and calves, and the way his foot curves as he rests against the window frame.
Merlin pulls the sheets up to his knees and tries not to feel sick. Guillermo is in the other room, asleep and half dead for the last few days.
“Is he going to go back to Brazil?” Merlin asks, finally when the silence gets too heavy.
“Why do you think he left?” Arthur responds and then sighs, throwing down the butt of his hand rolled cigarette, the ashes burning orange in the night and then fading into nothing but motes of smoke and air.
“Rumours,” Merlin guesses and makes room on the bed as Arthur climbs in, too hot to crawl under the sheets.
Arthur pulls Merlin back against his chest, so that they’re not facing the window. He rests his face in Merlin’s shoulder, brushes his lips lightly against the freckles there.
“Rumours are enough.”
It’s a warning, to stop this, to realize it’s going to end. Merlin can’t take it, not with the hot press of Arthur’s skin behind him. He leans back into him and kisses Arthur softly, tastes the cloves and tobacco.
~~~
It is hard to find good things to write when I feel like this. I’m hanging onto whatever I can. I don’t want to put down the good I still have on paper. I want to keep it to myself. Once the ink is on paper, part of it always feels lost.
~ 18 August 1939
~~~
Arthur looks out of place in a suit after all this time seeing him with undone braces, loosened collars, and rolled up sleeves. His duck jacket is fitted and cinched at the waist. He looks like a proper gentleman.
“You look ridiculous,” Merlin blurts out, laughing as Arthur mock-glares and comes closer to him, aiming his fist in the air like he might swing. Merlin doesn’t flinch so Arthur brings his fist lightly against his jaw and then kisses him, once softly.
“I’ll be back in a day or so,” Arthur promises and opens his palm to rest against Merlin’s neck, his thumb tapping at his pulse point. “Write,” he commands and kisses Merlin again, deeper this time, like it might be their last.
Merlin sinks into the kiss, deepens it until he can suck the taste of the hand rolled cigarettes off Arthur’s tongue and feel his body, his bones pressing against Merlin’s. He kisses him and says everything he can’t say.
“Good luck,” Merlin says instead of what he wants.
(Sometimes very late at night, Merlin will whisper ‘Quiero estar contigo para siempre’ to Arthur’s temple.
And Arthur will get this crease in his brow and this frown on his face, because he doesn’t know what it means.)
“I don’t need it,” Arthur smirks, sure of himself as he traces his finger over Merlin’s cheek bone and then drops his hand.
~~~
Arthur went to Madrid to visit his father. There’s been no sign of Guillermo, but he left a note in Italian that Arthur wouldn’t translate. He merely folded it and put it into his pocket before changing the subject.
I find the time alone makes it easier to write, without Arthur to distract me, I walked the city again. I saw it with new eyes, like young lovers traveling for a holiday might see it. The buildings are beautiful, the history is wonderful, and there’s something about the hot sun and cool sea air that makes everything a bit fresher.
The city is stunning and I am getting a lot of writing done.
I miss Arthur.
It’s only been a day.
~ 24 August 1939
~~~
Arthur never says he’s leaving at the end of the month. When he gets back from Madrid all he does is sweep Merlin into his arms and kisses him. They don’t even make it to the bed before they’re frantically falling on the floor, writhing with no composure, pain mixing into pleasure and a slow ache that Merlin feels for the rest of the night.
But Arthur leaves the train ticket to England in plain sight on the breakfast table that first day.
They make love again, frantically after that. With Merlin’s hands where he can grasp them, whispering over and over again in Spanish, “I want to be with you forever.” Because Arthur doesn’t know what it means, but the grip on Merlin’s arms, the desperate pace, seems to show he does.
~~~
I’ve decided to go to Argentina and finish my book there. Maybe the differences will help me get what I really loved about Spain. Maybe I can write it all down.
I don’t think I’ll find anything different.
~ 26 August 1939
~~~
“My mother died in the War,” Arthur says, absently like they’re sitting on a bench outside watching the sun dive into the ocean, and not packing up all his things. “She was a nurse for the army.”
“My father died there too,” Merlin wonders why they’re only getting to this now. They’ve had long nights of talking about family and friends. He’s told Arthur all about Morgana and Gwen, how Morgana wears high collars and sticks her hair in a hat when they go out so she can spin Gwen around the dancehall and hold her chair out for her. What happened to Will outside of London on a cold, dark night, nowhere near the courthouse where he was supposed to be taken. The little things Merlin’s never shared with anyone who didn’t already know.
It only reminds Merlin how short of a time they’ve had together. He wonders what Arthur will do in the military. If he’ll be one of those officers who sits at a desk, or if he’ll get involved and order men older than him, more experienced around. Merlin wonders if they still use horses for the ceremonies and how Arthur will look in full uniform on one.
“At least we’re safe now,” Merlin comments, trying not to babble, or feel where his heart is slowly sliding deeper into his chest.
Arthur closes his suitcase, clothes still strewn on the table. He turns towards Merlin and with a pained look says, “I can pack later,” before he holds his hand out and draws Merlin towards him.
They don’t learn much more about each other than they already knew, but they savor the moment as they can.
~~~
I know I promised to write you something longer and you’re probably curious about Argentina, but I can only send this quick letter and then I have to get back.
I apologize for the ink smudges, my hand wasn’t very steady today.
~ 28 August 1939
~~~
Merlin wakes up alone in bed. He wishes he could crawl back into sleep, but he can feel the space next to him divested of warmth. So he opens his eyes and meets an empty room.
Arthur’s paid up until the end of the month and Merlin’s charted a boat to Argentina that he has to catch in a few days, besides. Merlin breathes in deeply, savoring the last bit of Arthur’s horrible rolled cigarettes and the scent of sweat and sex from the night before.
He lifts himself to his feet, wincing at the sun from the open window. On the sill of the window there’s a folded note.
Merlin opens it and smiles; it’s a ‘care of’ address for Arthur, with a note covered in ink stains- ‘Write me. I’ll try to write back. Lord knows I’m not as loquacious as you, but who could be?
Write enough for the both of us.
- Arthur Pendragon
Merlin laughs once and realizes he never asked Arthur’s last name. He sits against the windowsill (naked) and traces the smudged ink in the ‘P’.
Author: Anonymous
Recipient: rotrude
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Arthur/Merlin
Warnings: Minor off-screen character death, historical homophobia
Rating: R
Word Count: 5,579
Summary: In the summer of 1939, Merlin tries to find something to write about in Spain and instead finds Arthur.
Author's Note: I tried very hard in this fic to hit your high points of likes and miss your dislikes, but I’m afraid the chosen setting and my attempt to try and fit in all of your word prompts (although lake ended up translating more to ocean) with a feeling of your first two full prompts as well may have gotten a little off course. I really hope that you end up enjoying this though.
Thanks so much to 'I' for the beta and 'S' for batting around ideas/helping me with Gwen’s last name.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction - none of this ever happened. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
Excerpts of letters from Merlin Emrys to Guinevere Legrance during the summer of 1939.
And that was the end of that. Needless to say, I am leaving Barcelona with a heavy heart and a lighter billfold. I hope that the south of Spain will provide more subject matter for my travel writing.
There’s something in the air, Gwen. I can’t quite tell what it is, but there’s something and the people feel it. I feel it. Maybe it’s these Spanish summers.
I’m going to explore today. See where my feet lead me.
~8 June 1939
~~~
Merlin isn’t quite sure he’s even in Cadiz anymore. He’s been walking for hours (also tripping over loose rocks and upturned tree roots for as long). The sun is stinging the back of his neck and the heat is getting to be a bit too much without the cool sea air to temper it.
“Go explore, Merlin,” Merlin grumbles under his breath, loosening his tie and considering rolling up his wide leg trousers, no matter how idiotic he’ll look. “That was a fantastic idea. I probably walked to Africa when I wasn’t paying attention.”
He draws the back of his arm and hand over his brow, cleaving off the sweat sticking to his hair and skin. It’s a cloying sort of heat with the mix of trees he’d never see in London blocking out the ocean air. He must have found the one entire spot in Cadiz that isn’t right next to the water.
It would figure. If he doesn’t die, he’s going to have to list out all of these things in his letter back home to Gwen so she can laugh at his misfortune with Morgana.
After an hour or so he spots sand in the distance, the long grasses move against the wind and towards some dunes and up beyond that the endless ocean.
Merlin could probably write an entire book based on the differences between the waters of England and the waters of Spain. Even the beaches themselves are so different. Merlin revels in the fact that he can toe his shoes off, hold them with his two fingers with his coat, and sink his feet into the hot sand.
At some points it is too hot, scorching, so he has to tip toe up the dunes and be careful not to stumble over at any point and get hot sand all over his clothes and face (he knows from experience this is painful), but mostly the tingle he gets from digging his toes into the sand is beyond any other.
Merlin reaches the top of the dune and looks out at the water, pushing up against the shore and turning into sea foam as it slowly drifts back in. It is a beautiful view, nothing but water, shore, and sunshine. Merlin sees a brush of some trees that he needs to draw to identify later (they don’t quite look like palms, but they’re not something he’s seen in England before) so he goes towards them and sinks down onto the shaded sand.
Merlin puts his coat and shoes to the side and pulls out his travel journal. He stares out at the waves for a long time, watching them lap up against the shore and sketches out a few of their moments in the margins. He needs to write something, but so far all he’s gotten is some descriptive nonsense about the different tastes of paella and a thousand or so words about the gorgeous sunsets.
Merlin taps his pen against the binding of his journal and catches sight of something in the water. He squints against the sunlight peppering in through the shade of the tree and sees a bare-chested blond man throw himself up from the water, his head leaning back and the water from his body splashing everywhere.
(Later, Merlin will remember that specific scene and draw the negative space around where the water drops landed. He’ll remember perfectly, even though he wasn’t close enough to really see.)
A moment later another man, darker with shoulders not quite so broad, joins the blond and they both start walking towards the beach, rubbing their hands over their hair. Merlin quickly notices they’re both naked and draws his face down to his journal, feeling uncomfortably hot even shaded from the heaviest part of the sun.
Eventually the voices get a bit closer as Merlin writes out a couple more words in his journal that look like scratches against the paper more than anything else.
They seem to be speaking Italian which is what causes Merlin to stupidly raise his head and glance at them out of curiosity. The darker man gives Merlin a friendly smile, but the blond stares right through Merlin and turns back to his friend, continuing their conversation.
Merlin’s Italian is shaky at best, but he gathers they were racing in the water. Their clothes must have been nearby, because from short glances out of the corner of his eye he can see that they’re pulling on their clothes, haphazardly with a bit of casual grace.
There’s no way Merlin can write now and he’s never going to be sure they’re not making fun of the sunburn he can feel on the tip of his ears in Italian, so he rises to his feet, grabbing his coat and shoes at the same time - which is of course when he slices his arm against a jagged edge of bark from the tree that later turns out to be another kind of palm.
~~~
I was thinking about the first time I met Arthur today when I was packing. I found that ruined shirt. I meant to throw it out, but looking at it was strange. I never knew that blood turned so dark given the time.
I can’t bring myself to throw it out now.
~30 August 1939
~~~
“My father was a war medic,” Guillermo says in perfect Portuguese, sewing up the gash on Merlin’s shoulder.
They moved from the beach to an expensive flat for this part of Cadiz, after the tourniquet Guillermo made out of his shirt soaked up with Merlin’s blood. The flat is newer, more woodwork instead of tile and stone. The windowed view of the city is gorgeous.
Merlin tries to focus on that instead of the pain from Guillermo’s boiling hot needle going through his skin. He runs facts through his mind. The fact that he left his only good coat on the beach, that he bled on his shoes, that Guillermo is Brazilian by way of Portugal and Arthur is in fact British, and so the only language they share is Italian.
“The Great War?” Merlin asks, in not so perfect Portuguese (his Spanish is much cleaner). He tries to focus on Guillermo, on the view, on anything other than Arthur who is leaning against the wall, sleeves rolled up and the wet still clinging to his hair - his expression half amused and half something else that Merlin doesn’t want to identify.
“Sí!” Guillermo says, laughing, but his Spanish has a bit of an m on the end he can’t seem to help. He says something in Italian that Merlin can’t quite catch and slaps Merlin’s wound lightly, with a Portuguese, “There you are, friend!”
Merlin tries not to fall off his chair and just mumbles his thanks and rolls his bloody sleeve back down over his shoulder and arm.
Guillermo rises up and starts speaking animatedly to Arthur in Italian, with broad hand gestures and a booming, thick laugh. Arthur smirks slightly and nods and then with that the Brazilian is out the door.
“I should probably go,” Merlin says, standing awkwardly.
Arthur nods his focus on a hand rolled cigarette. “Come around tomorrow. We’re touring Cadiz. You won’t get any good travel writing done by injuring yourself on the beach.” He lights the cigarette and his cool eyes are amused, “Besides, you might bleed out if we left you by yourself.”
Merlin suspects that Arthur is happy to have someone to speak English with (Merlin knows he is, no matter how much Arthur’s absent staring gives him chills down the back of his spine). “You never said what you and Guillermo were doing here.” Merlin rubs the wound on his arm, absently.
Arthur shrugs. “Grand Tour.”
Merlin understands the expensive flat now. He laughs, awkwardly, “Thought that went out with the train.”
“It did.” Arthur takes a drag of his cigarette, breathing in and letting the smoke out through his nose. He stares at Merlin, almost blankly. “I’m a traditionalist.”
Merlin nods, uncomfortable with the thick silence in the room, and starts to edge towards the door. He gets his hand around the handle when he hears Arthur’s voice call out, “Tomorrow, Merlin. The little café by the Cathedral.”
“Right,” Merlin says, and opens the door, shutting it behind him. He tries to put the entire thing out of his mind and get back to his hotel room.
~~~
As to Morgana’s question, tell her there is nothing to worry about. No country wants another war. The fact that the last one happened only makes us safer, people are more cautious now.
And no, I have not injured myself yet. My record in Spain remains perfect. At least for open wounds.
~19 May 1939
~~~
The next two weeks go by in a whirl of ancient buildings, Guillermo’s incessant switching from Italian to Portuguese on a moment’s notice, the thick weight of potatoes and eggs from morning tortillas, and Arthur’s quiet commentary on certain architectural features of older buildings and streets so thin they can barely fit through one at a time.
“We’re going to Seville next,” Arthur says, sitting next to Merlin (about half a meter away and two steps in front of him) on the steps of Plaza de Mina and shaded by one of the statues Merlin has forgotten the name of. “You should come.”
Merlin isn’t sure he’s gotten anything solid to write about from Cadiz. The last two nights have ended late, with the sweet taste of Spanish wine and too much laughing, by the time he stumbles to his tiny hotel room to write - nothing comes out except shading in the negative space of the tiny drawing of Guillermo dancing with castanets. Sevilla isn’t too much of a distance and Merlin might find what he needs to start really writing about Spain from it.
“Why are you going?” Merlin shifts where he’s sitting, the stone steps a bit uncomfortable under his rear. “Guillermo wants to marry a flamenco dancer?”
“Or become one,” Arthur says under his breath, glances at Merlin for a second and then leans forward, one arm resting on an upturned knee. “You can’t just write about Cadiz.”
“I’ve written about Barcelona too,” Merlin laughs and clears his throat afterward.
Arthur doesn’t say anything; he just stares out into the square, watching the people mingle together.
Merlin wonders how someone so rich, so beautiful, so perfect can always seem so very far away. Not even above, but distant, like he’s a ghost watching everyone live.
“Sevilla sounds nice,” Merlin says, and thumbs the binding of his journal, pulling it out to jot down a couple of comments Arthur made about the history of the plaza.
Arthur glances at him momentarily, smiles, and pulls out a box of tobacco and rolling paper to make himself another cigarette.
~~~
I am heading to Seville, so don’t send any correspondence until I get you a new address.
You will be pleased to know I am no longer traveling alone, nor have I been taken in by a traveling pack of gypsies. Details forthcoming once I discover how to properly describe them.
~ 21 June 1939
~~~
“Your father’s a diplomat?” Merlin asks, finally, as he and Arthur walk across a stream of birds fluttering off when they get too close. Arthur hasn’t been talking much (he doesn’t), but Merlin takes the lull in the conversation to get something out of him.
“Did Guillermo mention it?” Arthur asks, sliding his shoe against the cobblestone path in the courtyard of the Plaza de España.
“Sort of.” Merlin gives a lopsided self-deprecating smile. “My Portuguese isn’t that good; he could have said something else.”
Arthur slips his thumbs under his braces, hanging down from his shirt front. He never quite wears a completely outfit, but it is too hot for the coat Merlin always carries over his shoulder anyway. Arthur stops, stands still for a moment, and takes a deep breath, one that fills his chest so that his collarbone rises to where the collar of his shirt is loosened. He glances at Merlin and says, “He’s having diplomatic meetings with Francisco Franco, or he was.” Arthur shrugs, seemingly disinterested.
Arthur skips the next step and stares up at the tall buildings of the plaza. “Caudillo de España, por la gracia de Dios. Leader of Spain, by the grace of God.”
Arthur seems to find something funny, because his lips quirk and he snorts softly, before turning around and his face goes blank again. “Gui’s going to be at the telegram office for a while.”
“We could feed the doves?” Merlin suggests, eyeing the hopeful looking birds ambling around the area and diving into the fountain to refresh from the hot sun.
“They’re not doves,” Arthur says, staring at Merlin like he’s an idiot, “they’re white pigeons.”
Merlin rolls his eyes. “Or we could go follow the smell of churros until we find a vendor?”
“What is culture if not food,” Arthur says, a hint of a real smile on his face, before he turns away from Merlin and walks ahead of him.
Sometimes Merlin gets the feeling that Arthur creates the distance he has with people (with Merlin) all on his own.
He follows Arthur, sidestepping a few ambling doves who flutter away in opposite directions.
~~~
And Arthur is-
I find myself at a loss to properly describe Arthur. There’s something about him. I know the French call it “je nais se quoi” but I think the Spanish would just say “guapo.”
He won’t really talk to me and I feel like it is deception to ask his friend. I’m around him, with him, and it is like he’s not even there.
Or maybe I’m not.
~ 25 June 1939
~~~
It’s impossible to get out of the hot summer rain that suddenly hits them all with a deluge. Guillermo runs for cover in the little café crushed next to the side of one of the stone churches, but Arthur and Merlin run farther until they find a tiny alley way (these streets weren’t made for cars let alone people) and squeeze under a tiny bit of shelter that is an overhanging roof.
Their chests are heaving from the run and the skit-skit-skit of the rain is pelting the roof above them and splashing to the stone ground near their feet, not making things much drier. Drops of water are running down from the hair around Arthur’s face and tracks of water are sliding down his neck to his soaked shirt. He shakes his head like a wet dog under the shelter, sending scatters of water everywhere. Merlin laughs and swats blindly at Arthur’s arms in retaliation.
Arthur laughs, just once, but there’s a light in his eyes that Merlin hasn’t seen before and it catches him up for a second, or it would, if his eyes weren’t immediately drawn to Arthur’s lips. It’s when the smile flattens that Merlin glances back up and stares at Arthur.
Merlin isn’t sure what to call it. What the feeling that seems to pass through his body and flow directly into Arthur’s until he’s not quite sure where he starts, where he stops, where they begin. It might be recognition. It might be understanding.
Arthur leans forward and kisses him.
His chapped lips from too many hand-rolled cigarettes press against Merlin’s briefly, small and quick enough that it could be a mistake. A slip-up. But that look in Arthur’s eyes, that completely in the moment, on the same level, with Merlin look of his, says it was nothing but what it was.
And either way all Merlin can feel is the ghost touch of Arthur’s lips against his, even from that split second of contact. Like he’s imprinted himself forever.
Merlin doesn’t look away from Arthur, but he doesn’t kiss him. It’s too dangerous here, even in this darkened alley with the rain splattering down. He reaches one hand up and spreads his fingers over the line of Arthur’s face, that perfect angle of his jaw and rests there. Long enough to be anything but an accident.
Arthur’s slide shut and he lets out a long, relieved breath.
~~~
I still can’t describe Arthur, but now I don’t want to.
Not in a letter anyway.
It’s like you and Morgana.
~ 27 June 1939
~~~
It takes twenty minutes to make their way back up to the flat. It takes ten seconds to latch the door and fall into bed. Merlin hasn’t done this in so long, but he remembers all the steps. He knows how to unbutton a man’s shirt, to run his fingers over Arthur’s shoulders taking in the way Arthur breathes sharply at the touch. They lose their clothes, get lost in the tangle of sweaty limbs and wet sheets. They’re together in the room, in the bed, in each other’s arms. With everything else, like the twittering doves, out in the hot rain.
~~~
There’s an expression I heard here. Ojos que no ven, corazón que no siente. Eyes that do not see, heart that does not feel.
I wish I could write like that. I’ve been sketching out negative space again. The slopes of shoulders and the angle of a smile. The way the sheets fold around limbs.
I love Seville. I wish I could find the words to write about more than a bedroom.
~ 3 July 1939
~~~
It is hard sometimes. Hard to be with someone and really be with them, never knowing completely who they are and having to settle for that sense of connection you have. To be different together is all Merlin can grasp sometimes.
It’s wonderful - perfect - when he can have both.
“My father’s making me join His Majesty’s Armed Forces,” Arthur says, tangled in sheets with a relaxed, half annoyed, half amused expression on his face.
It’s strange to see it this open, to hear Arthur actually talking. Merlin leans up on his elbow and frowns. “The Royal Navy?”
“That would be the one,” Arthur snorts. “I left him at Madrid and decided to take a vacation before duty called.”
“What would you rather do?” Merlin asks hiding his smile against his shoulder as Arthur traces the light scar left from Guillermo’s stitches.
Arthur takes a deep breath, holding it, and then lets it out. “I never thought about it before.”
It is a new thing to be able to tell when Arthur is lying.
“When’s Guillermo going to be back?” Merlin asks, winding his fingers around Arthur’s bicep and drawing him closer.
“He knows to be gone for the rest of the night by now. I think he’s got a relative in Sevilla.” Arthur’s voice lowers, as he draws closer to Merlin, leans over him, “Or I’ll buy him his own bloody flat.”
Merlin laughs quietly, afraid to break the moment, still afraid to be caught, to ruin this little world they’ve created. “You really are on a Grand Tour, aren’t you?”
Arthur smiles and kisses Merlin’s hairline softly. “The grandest.”
~~~
I find that Spain, Seville in particular, puts me at a loss for words. I want to tell you how happy I am, but happy seems like such a pittance of a word. Ecstatic doesn’t have quite the right tone. Enamored makes me sound like a schoolboy. And delighted. Well, that doesn’t quite sum it up either.
Maybe there’s a Spanish word for it. Or an Italian one. Or maybe there’s no word at all and it is just this feeling bubbling up inside my chest.
~ 18 July 1939
~~~
Arthur’s naked. He seems to live naked, even with the open window (too high up for anyone to see, but still close enough to the bed that Merlin makes him shut it). He says it is too hot, but Merlin sees him rolling up a cigarette, fingers carefully working to make it tight and pink tongue darting out to wet the edge.
He lights a match, holds the flame up to the edge of the cigarette and blows the smoke out the window. “Come to the ledge.”
“I’d rather not die, thanks,” Merlin says, but comes to sit across from Arthur anyway. He brings his journal, pulls it out and starts to trace the shape Arthur’s fingers take when he holds the cigarette.
“Have you written any more since we got here?” Arthur asks, and moves his leg out to shove at Merlin’s knee.
“A little,” Merlin admits, shrugging.
“We’ll go to the Cathedral tomorrow,” Arthur says, with a sense of finality. He takes a drag of his cigarette and stares out the window. “Bad god, good architecture.”
“When,” Merlin starts, trying to ignore the skip his heart makes when Arthur turns to glance at him, “when do you have to go back to England?”
Arthur shrugs. “Eventually.”
“I think I might go to Argentina,” Merlin blurts out, his fingers tapping against the papers of his journal. It’s looked down upon, surely, but it’s legal to be who he is in Argentina, for fifty years now.
Arthur knows what he means, he must. Merlin’s learned that Arthur’s a bit infuriating when he opens up, that he’s opinionated and that he hogs the covers, but Merlin’s also learned that Arthur is smart, well educated, and very aware.
Arthur smiles and looks down. “You could make your book a Spanish theme.”
“Maybe,” Merlin agrees, “or a sequel.”
Arthur lifts himself up, puts the burning cigarette down on the windowsill and draws Merlin up away from the window. He leans in until Merlin’s pushed against the wall and they breathe into each other’s mouth. Arthur’s mouth tastes like cloves and a hearty twist of tobacco. Merlin licks his lips and waits until Arthur leans in and kisses him properly, hands twisting at Merlin’s shirt and leg slipping between his own. Gently. Like they have all the time in the world.
~~~
Amor. I think it sounds better than Love. I’m not entirely sure why. Do the Spaniards find that our words better suit their feelings, because they’re not as familiar with them? Are we reaching for that incredible sense of description that no one can quite find in their own language?
Or am I just being an incredible sap.
Tell Morgana’s she’s right. I am never going to get any work done like this. I’ll start writing about the Parque de María Luisa. Did you know they had the World’s Fair there in 1929? Doesn’t seem like all that long ago. Though I guess it was, I was barely thirteen.
~ 14 August 1939
~~~
Merlin and Arthur are discussing what type of fruit is on their plate at breakfast when Guillermo comes back with the post. He hands Merlin his letters from Gwen, none for Arthur except the bill, and brushes his fingers against his own with a tight smile.
“My brother,” he says in broken Spanish that sounds more like Portuguese, holding the letter up with a slight shake, “he’s taken forever to write me.”
Arthur smiles and his finger brushes against Merlin’s under the table, only briefly. Merlin suddenly feels like they kissed in public and heat rises from his cheeks to his ears.
Guillermo reads the letter, while Merlin sips his coffee to hide his smile.
He barely has a chance to take three sips, the third lifted to his lips when Guillermo drops the letter on the table and lets out a terrible groan, his body curling in on itself as he falls to the ground, making pained noises.
Merlin picks up the letter, out of instinct and reads through it quickly. Guillermo’s brother was sentenced for gross indecency (sodomy, buggery) and sent to prison, but was killed by a group of men on the way - they weren’t likely to catch them.
(Of course)
The lead in Merlin’s gut sits heavy as he remembers a friend who was more than a friend meeting the same fate in the street, never getting to take his two years of hard labour for something they shared.
“His brother died,” Merlin says and hands Arthur the letter, numbly.
Arthur doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t look at anything, but the people staring at Guillermo’s wrecked, sobbing body on the floor.
“It wasn’t his brother,” Arthur says, low and pitched under his breath. They both stare at the broken Brazilian on the street, howling.
~~~
The bright, raucous man broken down crying. He wept openly in the street. And the only thing Arthur and I could do was pull him inside the flat, for fear of anyone seeing his display.
I hate this, Gwen. I hate that I can write about lush scenery and delicious food that means nothing, but if I ever wrote what I was actually thinking, what I actually see - they’d burn my books.
~ 15 August 1939
~~~
Arthur smokes and looks out the window. The moonlight streams in through the window and highlights the naked planes of his back, sliding down to the strong firm buttocks and lean thighs and calves, and the way his foot curves as he rests against the window frame.
Merlin pulls the sheets up to his knees and tries not to feel sick. Guillermo is in the other room, asleep and half dead for the last few days.
“Is he going to go back to Brazil?” Merlin asks, finally when the silence gets too heavy.
“Why do you think he left?” Arthur responds and then sighs, throwing down the butt of his hand rolled cigarette, the ashes burning orange in the night and then fading into nothing but motes of smoke and air.
“Rumours,” Merlin guesses and makes room on the bed as Arthur climbs in, too hot to crawl under the sheets.
Arthur pulls Merlin back against his chest, so that they’re not facing the window. He rests his face in Merlin’s shoulder, brushes his lips lightly against the freckles there.
“Rumours are enough.”
It’s a warning, to stop this, to realize it’s going to end. Merlin can’t take it, not with the hot press of Arthur’s skin behind him. He leans back into him and kisses Arthur softly, tastes the cloves and tobacco.
~~~
It is hard to find good things to write when I feel like this. I’m hanging onto whatever I can. I don’t want to put down the good I still have on paper. I want to keep it to myself. Once the ink is on paper, part of it always feels lost.
~ 18 August 1939
~~~
Arthur looks out of place in a suit after all this time seeing him with undone braces, loosened collars, and rolled up sleeves. His duck jacket is fitted and cinched at the waist. He looks like a proper gentleman.
“You look ridiculous,” Merlin blurts out, laughing as Arthur mock-glares and comes closer to him, aiming his fist in the air like he might swing. Merlin doesn’t flinch so Arthur brings his fist lightly against his jaw and then kisses him, once softly.
“I’ll be back in a day or so,” Arthur promises and opens his palm to rest against Merlin’s neck, his thumb tapping at his pulse point. “Write,” he commands and kisses Merlin again, deeper this time, like it might be their last.
Merlin sinks into the kiss, deepens it until he can suck the taste of the hand rolled cigarettes off Arthur’s tongue and feel his body, his bones pressing against Merlin’s. He kisses him and says everything he can’t say.
“Good luck,” Merlin says instead of what he wants.
(Sometimes very late at night, Merlin will whisper ‘Quiero estar contigo para siempre’ to Arthur’s temple.
And Arthur will get this crease in his brow and this frown on his face, because he doesn’t know what it means.)
“I don’t need it,” Arthur smirks, sure of himself as he traces his finger over Merlin’s cheek bone and then drops his hand.
~~~
Arthur went to Madrid to visit his father. There’s been no sign of Guillermo, but he left a note in Italian that Arthur wouldn’t translate. He merely folded it and put it into his pocket before changing the subject.
I find the time alone makes it easier to write, without Arthur to distract me, I walked the city again. I saw it with new eyes, like young lovers traveling for a holiday might see it. The buildings are beautiful, the history is wonderful, and there’s something about the hot sun and cool sea air that makes everything a bit fresher.
The city is stunning and I am getting a lot of writing done.
I miss Arthur.
It’s only been a day.
~ 24 August 1939
~~~
Arthur never says he’s leaving at the end of the month. When he gets back from Madrid all he does is sweep Merlin into his arms and kisses him. They don’t even make it to the bed before they’re frantically falling on the floor, writhing with no composure, pain mixing into pleasure and a slow ache that Merlin feels for the rest of the night.
But Arthur leaves the train ticket to England in plain sight on the breakfast table that first day.
They make love again, frantically after that. With Merlin’s hands where he can grasp them, whispering over and over again in Spanish, “I want to be with you forever.” Because Arthur doesn’t know what it means, but the grip on Merlin’s arms, the desperate pace, seems to show he does.
~~~
I’ve decided to go to Argentina and finish my book there. Maybe the differences will help me get what I really loved about Spain. Maybe I can write it all down.
I don’t think I’ll find anything different.
~ 26 August 1939
~~~
“My mother died in the War,” Arthur says, absently like they’re sitting on a bench outside watching the sun dive into the ocean, and not packing up all his things. “She was a nurse for the army.”
“My father died there too,” Merlin wonders why they’re only getting to this now. They’ve had long nights of talking about family and friends. He’s told Arthur all about Morgana and Gwen, how Morgana wears high collars and sticks her hair in a hat when they go out so she can spin Gwen around the dancehall and hold her chair out for her. What happened to Will outside of London on a cold, dark night, nowhere near the courthouse where he was supposed to be taken. The little things Merlin’s never shared with anyone who didn’t already know.
It only reminds Merlin how short of a time they’ve had together. He wonders what Arthur will do in the military. If he’ll be one of those officers who sits at a desk, or if he’ll get involved and order men older than him, more experienced around. Merlin wonders if they still use horses for the ceremonies and how Arthur will look in full uniform on one.
“At least we’re safe now,” Merlin comments, trying not to babble, or feel where his heart is slowly sliding deeper into his chest.
Arthur closes his suitcase, clothes still strewn on the table. He turns towards Merlin and with a pained look says, “I can pack later,” before he holds his hand out and draws Merlin towards him.
They don’t learn much more about each other than they already knew, but they savor the moment as they can.
~~~
I know I promised to write you something longer and you’re probably curious about Argentina, but I can only send this quick letter and then I have to get back.
I apologize for the ink smudges, my hand wasn’t very steady today.
~ 28 August 1939
~~~
Merlin wakes up alone in bed. He wishes he could crawl back into sleep, but he can feel the space next to him divested of warmth. So he opens his eyes and meets an empty room.
Arthur’s paid up until the end of the month and Merlin’s charted a boat to Argentina that he has to catch in a few days, besides. Merlin breathes in deeply, savoring the last bit of Arthur’s horrible rolled cigarettes and the scent of sweat and sex from the night before.
He lifts himself to his feet, wincing at the sun from the open window. On the sill of the window there’s a folded note.
Merlin opens it and smiles; it’s a ‘care of’ address for Arthur, with a note covered in ink stains- ‘Write me. I’ll try to write back. Lord knows I’m not as loquacious as you, but who could be?
Write enough for the both of us.
- Arthur Pendragon
Merlin laughs once and realizes he never asked Arthur’s last name. He sits against the windowsill (naked) and traces the smudged ink in the ‘P’.