Fic: Merlin: Crépuscule, 3/4
Title: Crépuscule, part 3
Author: emei
Rating: R
Length: 2300 words.
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Warnings/spoilers: Modern AU. No specific spoilers. Some darker themes in this part.
Summary: Paris!AU. Merlin is a struggling writer living in a bookstore. Arthur's an exchange student. If they hadn't met, Arthur's life would have ended under the wheels of a parisian bus.
Notes: Part 1 is here, and Part 2 here. All comments are welcomed and cherished, concrit especially. I'm biting my nails and hoping you'll like this part, following the cliffhanger of doom. Here we go. Only one more part left after this one.
Arthur comes home, drops his bag by the door and throws his jacket over a chair, calling out:
“Merlin? Hey, could you help me out this afternoon? I really can’t figure out that subjonctif bullshit.”
It’s quiet. But Merlin’s shoes are standing by the door, left in mid-step, so he should be here. Arthur pokes his head into the bedroom. It’s also empty. In the living room, he almost stumbles over a newspaper spread out on the floor. It’s the Guardian, which Merlin buys every now and then. Arthur doesn’t understand why he can’t just read the online version, but he’s already accepted that Merlin is a quirky old-fashioned person. He turns the paper around with his toes. Acquittal in manslaughter case, the headline reads. Four men freed from all charges in suspected hate crime. -There is a lack of evidence, says the judge. We cannot prove their guilt beyond the shadow of a doubt. It might have been an ordinary pub brawl gone wrong… Gay rights groups are outraged and claim the event in February last year, when a twenty-year-old man was beaten unconscious and left to freeze to death, clearly was a hate crime. The young man, a student who was on his way from a seminar the Friday evening he was attacked, died from his injuries the same night.
He finds Merlin in the bathroom, curled in a corner, the contents of Arthur’s bathroom cabinet spread over the floor around him -bottles and tubes, painkillers scattered like white pearls, razor blades glittering in the harsh light.
“I can’t even,” Merlin says, with a desperate sound between a laugh and a sob. “He’s dead and it’s my fault and I can’t even…”
Arthur feels like he can’t breathe. He nudges a path open, taking great care to distance the razor blades from Merlin without making it obvious, then sits down next to Merlin, letting their arms touch lightly. Arthur wants to wrap Merlin in his arms, squeeze the pain out of him, and maybe shake some sense into him because there is no way Merlin could be responsible for a death. But he has a feeling that Merlin will fall apart further if he gets too close too quickly, so he just sits there and eventually Merlin’s head comes to rest on his shoulder. Arthur puts an arm around him.
“I drove off the road, you know. Crashed into a tree. The week after. They said I was lucky. Didn’t really think so.”
Arthur holds him closer, presses his face to the top of Merlin’s head, thinks about never letting go. “Oh, Merlin.” That’s when Merlin starts to shake, trembling turning to large shudders. Arthur holds him. He thinks that he maybe he should ask questions to help Merlin talk about this, like Morgana keeps telling him - you can’t deal with your feelings without ever talking about them, for god’s sake, Arthur. But he’s terrified of asking the wrong questions, of making Merlin push him away again. So he holds Merlin until the trembling stops, and then takes him to the couch, wraps him in a blanket and makes him hot chocolate.
Merlin laughs at that, says: “Hot chocolate, Arthur? I didn’t think you even knew how to boil water,” but still takes the cup and wraps his fingers around it, contently.
Arthur’s curiosity finally gets the better of him. “Who was he?”
“Will. He was…” Merlin takes a shaky breath and huddles over his cup. “Will.”
---
Gwen’s tidying when she finds the bundle of papers stuck halfway under a bookshelf, next to Merlin’s old sleeping place. He must’ve forgotten it there. He’s promised to let her read his short stories several times, but keeps forgetting to bring her them. She figures that this is an excellent solution and takes the manuscript with her to read during her break, eating lunch on the square outside.
When she realises that this has nothing to do with gay wizards whatsoever, it’s already too late to stop. She knows this is Merlin’s work, recognises his words, and knows very well that he wouldn’t want her to read this. She feels like an intruder, like a voyeur, but she cannot stop. Half an hour passes like seconds, stretched out on the lawn.
Gwen steps back inside the shop, the sheaf of papers pressed to her chest. Everything feels distant, tilted, like she’s looking through thick glass. Jean sees her and laughs. He combs her hair out with his fingers, plucking out grass and small leaves. She blinks.
“Couldn’t have waited ‘til evening, could you?” he says. “Alright, it’s a calm day anyway. Go sit out front. I figure you’ll make a fine advert for the pleasure of reading, the way you look.”
Gwen beams at him and promises to make it up to him another day.
---
Merlin is quiet and has an unnerving tendency to disappear in the middle of a conversation over the following days, staring fixedly into thin air. Arthur ignores the little voice in the back of his mind that sounds like Morgana and reminds him of the importance of talking. He tries to make things normal by acting like they are. He makes Merlin go shopping with him, and lets him laugh at how ill at ease Arthur is in Merlin’s favourite thrift stores because the thought of wearing some stranger’s old clothes makes him shudder. He tries to badger Merlin into buying a phone, but Merlin refuses without even bantering about it. Arthur has to give that idea up as a lost cause. It keeps going like this: Arthur’ll make a stupid joke, and Merlin will laugh and call him a spoiled brat, and Arthur’ll think that they’re fine after all. And five minutes later Merlin’ll do that thing again, when he’s suddenly not present.
Friday night they have a picnic dinner by Canal Saint-Martin. Merlin’s brought a blanket and plastic wine glasses, and Arthur bought the wine, five different kinds of cheese and lots of grapes. On the other bank of the channel, a group of French teenagers are sprawled on the ground around a boy strumming on a scratched guitar. It’s almost too much like a scene from a romance flick.
“Have you been to Versailles yet?” Arthur asks, and Merlin keeps staring down at the murky water. Arthur nudges him with a foot. Merlin starts.
“I asked if you’ve been to Versailles yet.”
Merlin looks at him, searchingly, considering. Arthur thinks that a yes/no-question doesn’t deserve so much thought. Merlin sets his jaw and looks the most determined Arthur’s ever seen him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t be doing this to you. You try so hard and I’m just dragging you down. I can’t do this to you.”
“What the hell do you mean? Don’t tell me you’re… ending this.”
Merlin says nothing and keeps looking so strangely unyielding.
“You’re really… No, you can’t. I won’t allow you to.”
At that, Merlin smiles, and it’s a heartbreaking crooked smile; sad and yet oddly satisfied, like Arthur’s just confirmed that he’s doing the right thing.
“Do you really think you can order me to stay? Then you’re having it wrong.”
Merlin gets up and walks away, and before Arthur’s managed to get enough of a grip on what’s happening to follow him, Merlin’s already slipped away with the metro, doors sliding decisively shut behind him.
---
“Arthur, you bloody idiot,” says Morgana.
---
“Now, whose heart are you breaking by trying to be noble and fleeing here?” asks Gaius.
“I… what?” says Merlin.
---
Gwen, to sum it up, feels like shit.
---
Merlin got his first article published in the local paper on a Wednesday, the 6th February. It criticised the homophobia of the academic world and compared it with the ideals of manliness found in the local sports clubs. He kept the paper open on the kitchen table for two days, admiring it every time he passed. Hunith said she was proud of him. Will told him not to get too full of himself just because he’d gotten his name in print, but also, in the small hours of the morning, that he loved him for writing it.
---
There are four messages on Will’s answering machine that he never heard, left during the evening of Friday the 8th of February.
18.56
“Hey there, just calling to say I’m here already. Not sure if you’ve even finished yet and it’s damn cold, so I’m not waiting outside. I’ll be at a table in the back, yeah?”
19.24
“You could’ve sent a message to say you’d be late, you know. I’m bored. And this was supposed to be a celebration. Hurry up, would you. Missing you, here.”
19.43
“Will. Where the fuck are you? Are you standing me up? I have no idea why I even like you. Bastard.”
20.01
“Alright, I’m going out to look for you. Wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve managed to slip and break your foot between uni and here. Clumsy bastard. Christ, it’s freezing. And for fucks sake, call me back already.”
In the background in the last message there’s a faint sound of sirens, coming closer.
---
Gwen steps through the open gate and looks around for Morgana, finds her sitting in the shadow under the arched roof. There’s something noble about her here, all pale skin, dark hair, perfect ease, an exotic princess hiding in her gardens - but this is Morgana, with a career in publishing and a flair for sarcasm, tapping rapidly on her cell phone, and Gwen dismisses the thought as silly. She saves the image, though, Morgana looking regal and fey in the small outer courtyard of the Café de la Mosquée. She looks up and smiles. Gwen ducks around one of the knobbly trees and sits down opposite her. Morgana orders tea for two from the waiter, a small dark man in a black vest. The leaves of the fig trees rustle in a soft breeze and by their feet two sparrows are hopping closer, searching hopefully for crumbs. Gwen fingers the bundle of papers in her bag. She pulls it out and puts it on the table between them.
“I need you to read this,” she says.
Morgana turns the bundle around, says: “Memory of will. Who wrote it?”
“Merlin.”
“Does he know that you’ve got it?”
“No.”
Morgana pauses for a moment, then says: “Alright,” and carefully places the manuscript in her handbag. Gwen instantly feels lighter, freed. The waiter arrives with two small glasses, elegantly painted in gold, and places them on the blue-white mosaic tabletop. The tea is strong, sweet peppermint. Morgana remarks that she’s finished the Gertrude Stein, and then they spend a good part of the afternoon comparing impressions.
---
Arthur looks a bit apprehensive when he opens the door of his flat and finds Merlin on the other side. He steps out and drags the door mostly shut behind him.
“I’m sorry,” Merlin says. “I’ve been a bit of an idiot, I think.”
Apprehension transforms into a smile on Arthur’s face and Merlin can’t do anything but put his hands around Arthur’s face and kiss him until they’re both breathless. They stand, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling.
“My father’s here,” says Arthur in a hoarse almost-whisper.
“I should leave then.”
Merlin brushes his thumb over Arthur’s cheek, waiting for an answer, then pulls himself up and walks down the stairs when he gets none. Arthur makes no move and no sound behind him, then reopens the door once Merlin’s disappeared and steps back into his flat.
“What was that about,” asks Uther, seated on the couch with a tumbler of whisky in one hand.
“A friend,” answers Arthur, still standing in the doorway.
“Why didn’t you invite her in? Trying to hide your private life from your father, are you?” Uther looks amused, takes another sip of whisky and arches an eyebrow. “Well?”
Arthur has a moment when all his nervousness and just recovered happiness and want and fear and old worries and new ones all consolidate into a think blank. Then -
“I’ll - be right back,” and he’s out the door, taking the stairs four by four, stumbling out on the street and calling “Merlin!” right as the familiar slim figure is about to turn the corner. Merlin stops, spins around and stands perfectly still as Arthur strides up to him.
“Merlin. My father’s come to visit, so I’m not completely free. I’m sorry. But would you like to come up and meet him?”
“Nah,” Merlin answers. “Maybe some other time, if he’s staying long.”
His grin is brilliant, splitting his face in two, and Arthur surges forward, kisses him, claiming this maniac smile, this happiness, this Merlin as his own. Merlin hesitates for seconds, then angles his head to deepen the kiss, wraps his arms around Arthur and presses himself as close as possible. Every nerve in Arthur’s body seems to be on fire.
Next to them on the sidewalk, and old lady walking a tiny furball of a dog falters and stops in midstride.
---
“Gwen?” says Morgana in the lull between two songs, as the singer on the tiny makeshift stage tunes her guitar. Gwen puts her glass down on the table and leans a little closer.
“Yes?”
“Merlin’s manuscript. It must be published.”
“I know,” sighs Gwen. “I mean it does, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” says Morgana and strokes a rebellious lock of hair out of Gwen’s eyes.
“He’ll hate me,” she says and bites her lip. “I know he will. But it really must.”
When the singer strikes up her next tune, all soft chords and meandering vocals, Morgana sneaks her arm around Gwen and draws her closer.
Continued in Part 4 - where Morgana talks to Merlin, Arthur reads a book and Gwen eats strawberries.
Author: emei
Rating: R
Length: 2300 words.
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Warnings/spoilers: Modern AU. No specific spoilers. Some darker themes in this part.
Summary: Paris!AU. Merlin is a struggling writer living in a bookstore. Arthur's an exchange student. If they hadn't met, Arthur's life would have ended under the wheels of a parisian bus.
Notes: Part 1 is here, and Part 2 here. All comments are welcomed and cherished, concrit especially. I'm biting my nails and hoping you'll like this part, following the cliffhanger of doom. Here we go. Only one more part left after this one.
Arthur comes home, drops his bag by the door and throws his jacket over a chair, calling out:
“Merlin? Hey, could you help me out this afternoon? I really can’t figure out that subjonctif bullshit.”
It’s quiet. But Merlin’s shoes are standing by the door, left in mid-step, so he should be here. Arthur pokes his head into the bedroom. It’s also empty. In the living room, he almost stumbles over a newspaper spread out on the floor. It’s the Guardian, which Merlin buys every now and then. Arthur doesn’t understand why he can’t just read the online version, but he’s already accepted that Merlin is a quirky old-fashioned person. He turns the paper around with his toes. Acquittal in manslaughter case, the headline reads. Four men freed from all charges in suspected hate crime. -There is a lack of evidence, says the judge. We cannot prove their guilt beyond the shadow of a doubt. It might have been an ordinary pub brawl gone wrong… Gay rights groups are outraged and claim the event in February last year, when a twenty-year-old man was beaten unconscious and left to freeze to death, clearly was a hate crime. The young man, a student who was on his way from a seminar the Friday evening he was attacked, died from his injuries the same night.
He finds Merlin in the bathroom, curled in a corner, the contents of Arthur’s bathroom cabinet spread over the floor around him -bottles and tubes, painkillers scattered like white pearls, razor blades glittering in the harsh light.
“I can’t even,” Merlin says, with a desperate sound between a laugh and a sob. “He’s dead and it’s my fault and I can’t even…”
Arthur feels like he can’t breathe. He nudges a path open, taking great care to distance the razor blades from Merlin without making it obvious, then sits down next to Merlin, letting their arms touch lightly. Arthur wants to wrap Merlin in his arms, squeeze the pain out of him, and maybe shake some sense into him because there is no way Merlin could be responsible for a death. But he has a feeling that Merlin will fall apart further if he gets too close too quickly, so he just sits there and eventually Merlin’s head comes to rest on his shoulder. Arthur puts an arm around him.
“I drove off the road, you know. Crashed into a tree. The week after. They said I was lucky. Didn’t really think so.”
Arthur holds him closer, presses his face to the top of Merlin’s head, thinks about never letting go. “Oh, Merlin.” That’s when Merlin starts to shake, trembling turning to large shudders. Arthur holds him. He thinks that he maybe he should ask questions to help Merlin talk about this, like Morgana keeps telling him - you can’t deal with your feelings without ever talking about them, for god’s sake, Arthur. But he’s terrified of asking the wrong questions, of making Merlin push him away again. So he holds Merlin until the trembling stops, and then takes him to the couch, wraps him in a blanket and makes him hot chocolate.
Merlin laughs at that, says: “Hot chocolate, Arthur? I didn’t think you even knew how to boil water,” but still takes the cup and wraps his fingers around it, contently.
Arthur’s curiosity finally gets the better of him. “Who was he?”
“Will. He was…” Merlin takes a shaky breath and huddles over his cup. “Will.”
---
Gwen’s tidying when she finds the bundle of papers stuck halfway under a bookshelf, next to Merlin’s old sleeping place. He must’ve forgotten it there. He’s promised to let her read his short stories several times, but keeps forgetting to bring her them. She figures that this is an excellent solution and takes the manuscript with her to read during her break, eating lunch on the square outside.
When she realises that this has nothing to do with gay wizards whatsoever, it’s already too late to stop. She knows this is Merlin’s work, recognises his words, and knows very well that he wouldn’t want her to read this. She feels like an intruder, like a voyeur, but she cannot stop. Half an hour passes like seconds, stretched out on the lawn.
Gwen steps back inside the shop, the sheaf of papers pressed to her chest. Everything feels distant, tilted, like she’s looking through thick glass. Jean sees her and laughs. He combs her hair out with his fingers, plucking out grass and small leaves. She blinks.
“Couldn’t have waited ‘til evening, could you?” he says. “Alright, it’s a calm day anyway. Go sit out front. I figure you’ll make a fine advert for the pleasure of reading, the way you look.”
Gwen beams at him and promises to make it up to him another day.
---
Merlin is quiet and has an unnerving tendency to disappear in the middle of a conversation over the following days, staring fixedly into thin air. Arthur ignores the little voice in the back of his mind that sounds like Morgana and reminds him of the importance of talking. He tries to make things normal by acting like they are. He makes Merlin go shopping with him, and lets him laugh at how ill at ease Arthur is in Merlin’s favourite thrift stores because the thought of wearing some stranger’s old clothes makes him shudder. He tries to badger Merlin into buying a phone, but Merlin refuses without even bantering about it. Arthur has to give that idea up as a lost cause. It keeps going like this: Arthur’ll make a stupid joke, and Merlin will laugh and call him a spoiled brat, and Arthur’ll think that they’re fine after all. And five minutes later Merlin’ll do that thing again, when he’s suddenly not present.
Friday night they have a picnic dinner by Canal Saint-Martin. Merlin’s brought a blanket and plastic wine glasses, and Arthur bought the wine, five different kinds of cheese and lots of grapes. On the other bank of the channel, a group of French teenagers are sprawled on the ground around a boy strumming on a scratched guitar. It’s almost too much like a scene from a romance flick.
“Have you been to Versailles yet?” Arthur asks, and Merlin keeps staring down at the murky water. Arthur nudges him with a foot. Merlin starts.
“I asked if you’ve been to Versailles yet.”
Merlin looks at him, searchingly, considering. Arthur thinks that a yes/no-question doesn’t deserve so much thought. Merlin sets his jaw and looks the most determined Arthur’s ever seen him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t be doing this to you. You try so hard and I’m just dragging you down. I can’t do this to you.”
“What the hell do you mean? Don’t tell me you’re… ending this.”
Merlin says nothing and keeps looking so strangely unyielding.
“You’re really… No, you can’t. I won’t allow you to.”
At that, Merlin smiles, and it’s a heartbreaking crooked smile; sad and yet oddly satisfied, like Arthur’s just confirmed that he’s doing the right thing.
“Do you really think you can order me to stay? Then you’re having it wrong.”
Merlin gets up and walks away, and before Arthur’s managed to get enough of a grip on what’s happening to follow him, Merlin’s already slipped away with the metro, doors sliding decisively shut behind him.
---
“Arthur, you bloody idiot,” says Morgana.
---
“Now, whose heart are you breaking by trying to be noble and fleeing here?” asks Gaius.
“I… what?” says Merlin.
---
Gwen, to sum it up, feels like shit.
---
Merlin got his first article published in the local paper on a Wednesday, the 6th February. It criticised the homophobia of the academic world and compared it with the ideals of manliness found in the local sports clubs. He kept the paper open on the kitchen table for two days, admiring it every time he passed. Hunith said she was proud of him. Will told him not to get too full of himself just because he’d gotten his name in print, but also, in the small hours of the morning, that he loved him for writing it.
---
There are four messages on Will’s answering machine that he never heard, left during the evening of Friday the 8th of February.
18.56
“Hey there, just calling to say I’m here already. Not sure if you’ve even finished yet and it’s damn cold, so I’m not waiting outside. I’ll be at a table in the back, yeah?”
19.24
“You could’ve sent a message to say you’d be late, you know. I’m bored. And this was supposed to be a celebration. Hurry up, would you. Missing you, here.”
19.43
“Will. Where the fuck are you? Are you standing me up? I have no idea why I even like you. Bastard.”
20.01
“Alright, I’m going out to look for you. Wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve managed to slip and break your foot between uni and here. Clumsy bastard. Christ, it’s freezing. And for fucks sake, call me back already.”
In the background in the last message there’s a faint sound of sirens, coming closer.
---
Gwen steps through the open gate and looks around for Morgana, finds her sitting in the shadow under the arched roof. There’s something noble about her here, all pale skin, dark hair, perfect ease, an exotic princess hiding in her gardens - but this is Morgana, with a career in publishing and a flair for sarcasm, tapping rapidly on her cell phone, and Gwen dismisses the thought as silly. She saves the image, though, Morgana looking regal and fey in the small outer courtyard of the Café de la Mosquée. She looks up and smiles. Gwen ducks around one of the knobbly trees and sits down opposite her. Morgana orders tea for two from the waiter, a small dark man in a black vest. The leaves of the fig trees rustle in a soft breeze and by their feet two sparrows are hopping closer, searching hopefully for crumbs. Gwen fingers the bundle of papers in her bag. She pulls it out and puts it on the table between them.
“I need you to read this,” she says.
Morgana turns the bundle around, says: “Memory of will. Who wrote it?”
“Merlin.”
“Does he know that you’ve got it?”
“No.”
Morgana pauses for a moment, then says: “Alright,” and carefully places the manuscript in her handbag. Gwen instantly feels lighter, freed. The waiter arrives with two small glasses, elegantly painted in gold, and places them on the blue-white mosaic tabletop. The tea is strong, sweet peppermint. Morgana remarks that she’s finished the Gertrude Stein, and then they spend a good part of the afternoon comparing impressions.
---
Arthur looks a bit apprehensive when he opens the door of his flat and finds Merlin on the other side. He steps out and drags the door mostly shut behind him.
“I’m sorry,” Merlin says. “I’ve been a bit of an idiot, I think.”
Apprehension transforms into a smile on Arthur’s face and Merlin can’t do anything but put his hands around Arthur’s face and kiss him until they’re both breathless. They stand, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling.
“My father’s here,” says Arthur in a hoarse almost-whisper.
“I should leave then.”
Merlin brushes his thumb over Arthur’s cheek, waiting for an answer, then pulls himself up and walks down the stairs when he gets none. Arthur makes no move and no sound behind him, then reopens the door once Merlin’s disappeared and steps back into his flat.
“What was that about,” asks Uther, seated on the couch with a tumbler of whisky in one hand.
“A friend,” answers Arthur, still standing in the doorway.
“Why didn’t you invite her in? Trying to hide your private life from your father, are you?” Uther looks amused, takes another sip of whisky and arches an eyebrow. “Well?”
Arthur has a moment when all his nervousness and just recovered happiness and want and fear and old worries and new ones all consolidate into a think blank. Then -
“I’ll - be right back,” and he’s out the door, taking the stairs four by four, stumbling out on the street and calling “Merlin!” right as the familiar slim figure is about to turn the corner. Merlin stops, spins around and stands perfectly still as Arthur strides up to him.
“Merlin. My father’s come to visit, so I’m not completely free. I’m sorry. But would you like to come up and meet him?”
“Nah,” Merlin answers. “Maybe some other time, if he’s staying long.”
His grin is brilliant, splitting his face in two, and Arthur surges forward, kisses him, claiming this maniac smile, this happiness, this Merlin as his own. Merlin hesitates for seconds, then angles his head to deepen the kiss, wraps his arms around Arthur and presses himself as close as possible. Every nerve in Arthur’s body seems to be on fire.
Next to them on the sidewalk, and old lady walking a tiny furball of a dog falters and stops in midstride.
---
“Gwen?” says Morgana in the lull between two songs, as the singer on the tiny makeshift stage tunes her guitar. Gwen puts her glass down on the table and leans a little closer.
“Yes?”
“Merlin’s manuscript. It must be published.”
“I know,” sighs Gwen. “I mean it does, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” says Morgana and strokes a rebellious lock of hair out of Gwen’s eyes.
“He’ll hate me,” she says and bites her lip. “I know he will. But it really must.”
When the singer strikes up her next tune, all soft chords and meandering vocals, Morgana sneaks her arm around Gwen and draws her closer.
Continued in Part 4 - where Morgana talks to Merlin, Arthur reads a book and Gwen eats strawberries.