Fic: Crépuscule, 4/4 - Completed
Title: Crépuscule, part 4
Author: emei
Rating: R
Length: about 2300 words.
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur, Gwen/Morgana subtext, past Merlin/Will.
Warnings/spoilers: Modern AU. No specific spoilers. Some darker themes.
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, Part 2 here, and Part 3 here. All comments are welcomed and cherished, concrit especially. You should all go look at this lovely fanart by gallifreycalls Conversation, of Merlin and Arthur on île de la cité. Imagine Merlin referencing Zola, there.
Finally done! This fic is now twenty pages in total, 10930 words. It boggles my mind. Hope you enjoy this last part and thank you all so very much for the wonderful comments this has gotten.
Uther leaves Paris the very next day, having finished his business deal. Arthur doesn’t get around to introducing him to Merlin. He knows he will, next time, he’ll probably say: Father, this is Merlin, my… boyfriend, and be awkward and fumbling. He doesn’t know how Uther will react - confused probably, possibly disapproving, stiff and uncomfortable. Arthur will be very bothered by however it goes down, he knows. He also knows that it’ll happen anyway - that he decided it the moment he left his father alone in the flat to pull Merlin into a crushing kiss on the sidewalk, and yet it feels like a decision taken a lifetime ago, already written in bold letters, unquestionable.
---
Merlin is surprised when it turns out that the dinner Morgana invited him to is for just the two of them. She never said either way when she stopped him outside the shop earlier in the afternoon, but he’d assumed that Gwen and Arthur would be there at least. Fortunately she doesn’t seem to be trying to impress him or some such. Considering how Arthur chose a restaurant when trying to make a good impression on her, and how she took the fanciness all in stride, it’s a relief that they go for sandwiches. Well, they are sandwiches made from ecological freshly baked bread, in a small very pretty little shop with a café. A few middle-aged women are having tea and chattering in low tones, exclusive bags spread out around them. Still, at least there’s no expensive wine list.
“Merlin,” Morgana says and folds her napkin into a small square. “I would like to publish your book.”
Merlin’s just taken a bite of his gigantic, well-filled sandwich. It feels like it’s swelling in his mouth now, as he chews and chews and stares at Morgana. There’s an odd twitch at the corner of her mouth, and she keeps fiddling with the napkin.
“Really? I thought you only worked with non-fiction. My fantasy stuff is about as far from non-fiction as you get… And hang on, why d‘you… you haven’t even read it yet.”
There is a moment of silence. Morgana smoothes the napkin out. Merlin says: “Have you?”
“Not your fantasy, Merlin. Memory of will.” She meets his eyes properly again, steadfast, convinced. Merlin feels like the bottom of his stomach dropped out, like his inside turned into a bottomless pit he could disappear in. He’s balancing on the edge, stuttering.
“When… How did you,” he says.
“You’d left a copy of the manuscript in the bookstore. Gwen found it, and passed it on to me.”
“You had no right. Either of you,” Merlin bites out.
“It needs to be published,” she says. “For your sake. For Will’s. For everybody, really.”
“How dare you,” Merlin says and stands, pushes himself up. His hands only stop shaking when he presses them flat on the table, supporting his weight.
“Fuck you, Morgana,” he says as he leaves, and once more with emphasis. The shop falls very silent behind him.
---
Somehow, Merlin isn’t very surprised when Arthur finds him where’s he’s sitting down by the Seine, feet dangling over the edge of the quay.
“Hey,” he says as Arthur slides down next to him. “How did you find me?”
“Morgana called,” Arthur says. “Said you’d had a fight of some kind. And then I figured I’d find you here. You’re kind of predictable, you know.”
Merlin huffs a tiny laugh. It’s possibly true - Merlin tends to waver between maintaining a very bohemian lifestyle and giving in to his natural tendency to be a creature of habit.
“And don’t take Morgana too seriously. She goes too far for everybody, sooner or later, being her insufferable self. Don’t let her get to you, alright?”
Arthur knows nothing. Merlin feels like the void inside him diminishes by every minute that Arthur’s there, naively caring, drawing him away from the edge with a warm hand around his hip.
---
Three days later Gwen is taking an afternoon shift in the store, covering for Jean, who’s either on a date or off doing something so dodgy that would Gwen rather not find out. It’s an on and off day - for an hour the shop’s filled to the brim with people and she answers three questions a minute, and then it’s so completely still that she can read uninterrupted for twenty minutes. Merlin comes during one of the calm moments. She looks up from her book (Nina Bouraoui, Poupée Bella, she’s dipping her toes in contemporary French literature) and smiles widely when he steps through the door. She’s been missing him lately. But the second he sets eyes on her, he turns to leave.
“Merlin, wait!”
When he swirls back, he’s blazing with anger.
“Gwen. Don’t talk to me. I don’t understand how you could, but I don’t want to hear it.” And then he’s gone.
---
Merlin refuses to say another word to either Gwen or Morgana for two weeks.
---
In the evening, sitting cross-legged in the middle of Morgana’s queen-sized hotel room bed, Gwen says: “I should have known better. He’s my friend.”
“Yes, you’re his friend,” Morgana answers. “And that’s why you did it.”
“He hates me. I know he does, now. I should’ve left it alone,” Gwen says to her knees.
“We need to give him some time. He’ll come around,” says Morgana. Gwen really, really wants to believe her.
---
Arthur can tell that this conflict’s making Merlin unhappy. He no longer seems to be on the verge of fleeing from Arthur, but he laughs too little and broods too much. It must be this thing with Morgana and Gwen. As far as Arthur can tell, Gwen is quite brilliant at making Merlin laugh, so he thinks she’d better get back to it.
He tries to act as a go-between, but he doesn’t understand what the problem is and therefore mostly makes things worse.
---
Merlin gets another letter from his mother. It ends like this: take care, my little storyteller. It’s been a while since she called him that. She used to, all the time. She’d say: “Oh, my little storyteller. What have you gotten yourself into now?” Usually he had gotten himself into something he couldn’t manage to get himself out of, letting his mouth run along with his brain. His stories were always better at getting him into messes than out of them.
That was who he was, who he’s always been - little storyteller. Will used to call him bigmouth and braggart and then ask for another cock and bull story, please.
---
There’s a thick bundle of papers left on Arthur’s bed. On top lies a note in Merlin’s sprawling handwriting. I need you to read this. If I’m doing this. Out walking, will be back later.
---
Morgana doesn’t, as a general rule, do sleepovers. But when she and Gwen have finished marathon-watching Kieslowski’s Three Colours, the last metro is long gone and Gwen is sprawled bonelessly across Morgana’s bed, fighting to keep her eyes open. She digs out an extra toothbrush and a t-shirt for her to sleep in.
Morgana wakes from winding dreams in the darkest hours of the night, breathing hard, fingers twisted, cramped, in the soft fabric of Gwen’s t-shirt. Gwen is watching her, rubbing small circles on Morgana’s shoulder. She can just make out the shape of her in the dusk of the room, eyes wide open, half-lying on her side, propped up on one elbow. “What am I doing, Gwen,” Morgana breathes. “What am I doing. Sometimes I think… I just don’t know.”
Gwen hushes her and holds her close, asks no questions. Slowly, Morgana drifts back to sleep. At dawn, she wakes up again with Gwen’s arm slung comfortably around her middle. It’s a little too hot. Gwen’s hair curls damply around her face. Morgana remembers why she hates waking up next to someone in a shared bed - the feeling of exposure, the smothering warmth and lack of space. She brushes the hair off Gwen’s forehead and feels surprisingly light, warm and content.
Later, for breakfast, she feeds Gwen strawberries. Gwen marvels a bit at the idea of ordering strawberries for breakfast from room service, and then eating them in bed, but doesn’t actually protest. And Morgana loves the way she looks, still dishevelled from sleep, dark hair all tangled, tucked up against the headboard of the bed with her feet tangled in the sheets, licking strawberry juice from her thumb.
---
Arthur opens the balcony door and sits down to read in the sun. It’s a tiny French balcony, so he’s sitting with his back against the doorframe and his legs stretched out on the balcony, feet propped up on the bottom of the railing. He doesn’t know what to expect - the whole manner of asking him to read seems a little to serious for the gay wizards short stories Merlin’s been making light-hearted references to ever since they met. He wonders briefly about the note - the “if I’m doing this” and what, exactly, Morgana did or said to upset Merlin that badly. He’s been bothering her about it since, naturally, but she refuses to say. She alternates between telling him to mind his own business already and stop pushing his nose into things he doesn’t understand, and telling him that if Merlin wants him to know, Merlin will tell him. Which actually kind of makes sense. Arthur simply finds it easier to bother Morgana with questions than trying to draw something out of Merlin and risk pushing him into one of those distant, fragile moods. Even if Morgana takes great pleasure in verbally tearing him down.
---
Merlin calls Will’s mother. She cries at him for half an hour over the phone. The she tells him that she’s been waiting for him to tell their story.
---
It’s called Memory of will. Will as in willpower? Arthur thinks it might be. But also, will as in Will, a boy who loved and was loved with adolescent fervour and plenty of teenage awkwardness and fumbling. A boy who died. Arthur can’t find it in him to be jealous. He is however, irrationally angry with this Will. For being part of every aspect of Merlin’s life for years and years, through childhood tree climbing and scraped knees, handling bullies and homework and disappearing fathers, teenage rebellion and drunken fumbles, village gossip and small town intolerance, the start of a path towards a bigger life. Reaching for more than was accepted. For loving and being loved, never in such big words but none the less completely, and then getting himself killed. Arthur burns with anger at what Merlin has been left with - the hard knowledge of how Will bled to death on a dirty pavement a cold February evening. The absolute loneliness of it. For both of them.
---
That night, Arthur tells Merlin that he loves him. He whispers it to the pale skin of Merlin’s stomach, to the nape of his neck, the soft dip of his collarbones. Perhaps Merlin hears him, perhaps he doesn’t. His hands flit over Arthur’s body, stroking, tracing, teasing, drawing him close. He mumbles Arthur’s name into the kisses. Arthur draws him into his arms and holds him, tucks Merlin’s head against his chest and hooks a leg over his hip. Merlin’s hair tickles his chin and mouth. Arthur whispers: “You’re kind of brilliant, Merlin. And I’m here and I’m staying.”
---
In the morning, Merlin goes to talk to Gwen.
“I still don’t know if I’m sorry of angry,” he tells her. “But thank you.”
She smiles, glittering and bordering on tearstained.
“You, you are going to be famous. Because you’re an absolutely amazing writer, you stupid thing. You should’ve known you are. Then I wouldn’t have had to act so stupidly… Oh, Merlin.” She hugs him, hard. Then she tells him that she’s sorry, but also that he really is stupid, and then calls herself horrible to make up for it, then names him a surprisingly dumb genius. Merlin has to laugh.
---
The press-release, which Morgana reads to them on a rainy afternoon while they’re dawdling in a coffee shop all four of them, describes Memory of will as one of the most important books published this year. A gripping tale, a love story, a tragedy.
The bookstore has pre-ordered a fair number of copies. Jean swears that he’ll make sure to display them very prominently and tell everybody that he knows the author personally. “Odd fellow, very distinctive ears, but he does indeed have a way with words.” Merlin chucked a pen at his head for that, but as he couldn’t stop smiling the effect might’ve been a bit lost.
---
It’s the blue hour, dusk, crepuscule. The pale blue, purple, rosy, golden light wraps the city in soft colours, fuzzy shapes in the distance contrasting with sharp silhouettes closer up. The domes of Sacre Cœur shine white like a beacon. Dew falls. There’s a chilly bite in the air. Merlin leans on the railing next to Arthur, rubbing his hands together to get some feeling back into his fingers.
“I think I kind of love this place,” Arthur says, admiring the city spreading out below them. Merlin agrees. “Let’s stay for a while, yeah?”
The thing about life, Merlin thinks, is that it goes on. As long as you keep breathing it continues, moves, develops, in old patterns or unexpectedly, but always, always changing somewhat with every single breath you take. On molecular levels or in revolutionary grand ways. Love grows, changes. Keep breathing and a thousand paths lie open.
Arthur’s hands rests next to his. Merlin weaves their fingers together, thinks, this, this is it now - the possibilities are never-ending -
Author: emei
Rating: R
Length: about 2300 words.
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur, Gwen/Morgana subtext, past Merlin/Will.
Warnings/spoilers: Modern AU. No specific spoilers. Some darker themes.
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, Part 2 here, and Part 3 here. All comments are welcomed and cherished, concrit especially. You should all go look at this lovely fanart by gallifreycalls Conversation, of Merlin and Arthur on île de la cité. Imagine Merlin referencing Zola, there.
Finally done! This fic is now twenty pages in total, 10930 words. It boggles my mind. Hope you enjoy this last part and thank you all so very much for the wonderful comments this has gotten.
Uther leaves Paris the very next day, having finished his business deal. Arthur doesn’t get around to introducing him to Merlin. He knows he will, next time, he’ll probably say: Father, this is Merlin, my… boyfriend, and be awkward and fumbling. He doesn’t know how Uther will react - confused probably, possibly disapproving, stiff and uncomfortable. Arthur will be very bothered by however it goes down, he knows. He also knows that it’ll happen anyway - that he decided it the moment he left his father alone in the flat to pull Merlin into a crushing kiss on the sidewalk, and yet it feels like a decision taken a lifetime ago, already written in bold letters, unquestionable.
---
Merlin is surprised when it turns out that the dinner Morgana invited him to is for just the two of them. She never said either way when she stopped him outside the shop earlier in the afternoon, but he’d assumed that Gwen and Arthur would be there at least. Fortunately she doesn’t seem to be trying to impress him or some such. Considering how Arthur chose a restaurant when trying to make a good impression on her, and how she took the fanciness all in stride, it’s a relief that they go for sandwiches. Well, they are sandwiches made from ecological freshly baked bread, in a small very pretty little shop with a café. A few middle-aged women are having tea and chattering in low tones, exclusive bags spread out around them. Still, at least there’s no expensive wine list.
“Merlin,” Morgana says and folds her napkin into a small square. “I would like to publish your book.”
Merlin’s just taken a bite of his gigantic, well-filled sandwich. It feels like it’s swelling in his mouth now, as he chews and chews and stares at Morgana. There’s an odd twitch at the corner of her mouth, and she keeps fiddling with the napkin.
“Really? I thought you only worked with non-fiction. My fantasy stuff is about as far from non-fiction as you get… And hang on, why d‘you… you haven’t even read it yet.”
There is a moment of silence. Morgana smoothes the napkin out. Merlin says: “Have you?”
“Not your fantasy, Merlin. Memory of will.” She meets his eyes properly again, steadfast, convinced. Merlin feels like the bottom of his stomach dropped out, like his inside turned into a bottomless pit he could disappear in. He’s balancing on the edge, stuttering.
“When… How did you,” he says.
“You’d left a copy of the manuscript in the bookstore. Gwen found it, and passed it on to me.”
“You had no right. Either of you,” Merlin bites out.
“It needs to be published,” she says. “For your sake. For Will’s. For everybody, really.”
“How dare you,” Merlin says and stands, pushes himself up. His hands only stop shaking when he presses them flat on the table, supporting his weight.
“Fuck you, Morgana,” he says as he leaves, and once more with emphasis. The shop falls very silent behind him.
---
Somehow, Merlin isn’t very surprised when Arthur finds him where’s he’s sitting down by the Seine, feet dangling over the edge of the quay.
“Hey,” he says as Arthur slides down next to him. “How did you find me?”
“Morgana called,” Arthur says. “Said you’d had a fight of some kind. And then I figured I’d find you here. You’re kind of predictable, you know.”
Merlin huffs a tiny laugh. It’s possibly true - Merlin tends to waver between maintaining a very bohemian lifestyle and giving in to his natural tendency to be a creature of habit.
“And don’t take Morgana too seriously. She goes too far for everybody, sooner or later, being her insufferable self. Don’t let her get to you, alright?”
Arthur knows nothing. Merlin feels like the void inside him diminishes by every minute that Arthur’s there, naively caring, drawing him away from the edge with a warm hand around his hip.
---
Three days later Gwen is taking an afternoon shift in the store, covering for Jean, who’s either on a date or off doing something so dodgy that would Gwen rather not find out. It’s an on and off day - for an hour the shop’s filled to the brim with people and she answers three questions a minute, and then it’s so completely still that she can read uninterrupted for twenty minutes. Merlin comes during one of the calm moments. She looks up from her book (Nina Bouraoui, Poupée Bella, she’s dipping her toes in contemporary French literature) and smiles widely when he steps through the door. She’s been missing him lately. But the second he sets eyes on her, he turns to leave.
“Merlin, wait!”
When he swirls back, he’s blazing with anger.
“Gwen. Don’t talk to me. I don’t understand how you could, but I don’t want to hear it.” And then he’s gone.
---
Merlin refuses to say another word to either Gwen or Morgana for two weeks.
---
In the evening, sitting cross-legged in the middle of Morgana’s queen-sized hotel room bed, Gwen says: “I should have known better. He’s my friend.”
“Yes, you’re his friend,” Morgana answers. “And that’s why you did it.”
“He hates me. I know he does, now. I should’ve left it alone,” Gwen says to her knees.
“We need to give him some time. He’ll come around,” says Morgana. Gwen really, really wants to believe her.
---
Arthur can tell that this conflict’s making Merlin unhappy. He no longer seems to be on the verge of fleeing from Arthur, but he laughs too little and broods too much. It must be this thing with Morgana and Gwen. As far as Arthur can tell, Gwen is quite brilliant at making Merlin laugh, so he thinks she’d better get back to it.
He tries to act as a go-between, but he doesn’t understand what the problem is and therefore mostly makes things worse.
---
Merlin gets another letter from his mother. It ends like this: take care, my little storyteller. It’s been a while since she called him that. She used to, all the time. She’d say: “Oh, my little storyteller. What have you gotten yourself into now?” Usually he had gotten himself into something he couldn’t manage to get himself out of, letting his mouth run along with his brain. His stories were always better at getting him into messes than out of them.
That was who he was, who he’s always been - little storyteller. Will used to call him bigmouth and braggart and then ask for another cock and bull story, please.
---
There’s a thick bundle of papers left on Arthur’s bed. On top lies a note in Merlin’s sprawling handwriting. I need you to read this. If I’m doing this. Out walking, will be back later.
---
Morgana doesn’t, as a general rule, do sleepovers. But when she and Gwen have finished marathon-watching Kieslowski’s Three Colours, the last metro is long gone and Gwen is sprawled bonelessly across Morgana’s bed, fighting to keep her eyes open. She digs out an extra toothbrush and a t-shirt for her to sleep in.
Morgana wakes from winding dreams in the darkest hours of the night, breathing hard, fingers twisted, cramped, in the soft fabric of Gwen’s t-shirt. Gwen is watching her, rubbing small circles on Morgana’s shoulder. She can just make out the shape of her in the dusk of the room, eyes wide open, half-lying on her side, propped up on one elbow. “What am I doing, Gwen,” Morgana breathes. “What am I doing. Sometimes I think… I just don’t know.”
Gwen hushes her and holds her close, asks no questions. Slowly, Morgana drifts back to sleep. At dawn, she wakes up again with Gwen’s arm slung comfortably around her middle. It’s a little too hot. Gwen’s hair curls damply around her face. Morgana remembers why she hates waking up next to someone in a shared bed - the feeling of exposure, the smothering warmth and lack of space. She brushes the hair off Gwen’s forehead and feels surprisingly light, warm and content.
Later, for breakfast, she feeds Gwen strawberries. Gwen marvels a bit at the idea of ordering strawberries for breakfast from room service, and then eating them in bed, but doesn’t actually protest. And Morgana loves the way she looks, still dishevelled from sleep, dark hair all tangled, tucked up against the headboard of the bed with her feet tangled in the sheets, licking strawberry juice from her thumb.
---
Arthur opens the balcony door and sits down to read in the sun. It’s a tiny French balcony, so he’s sitting with his back against the doorframe and his legs stretched out on the balcony, feet propped up on the bottom of the railing. He doesn’t know what to expect - the whole manner of asking him to read seems a little to serious for the gay wizards short stories Merlin’s been making light-hearted references to ever since they met. He wonders briefly about the note - the “if I’m doing this” and what, exactly, Morgana did or said to upset Merlin that badly. He’s been bothering her about it since, naturally, but she refuses to say. She alternates between telling him to mind his own business already and stop pushing his nose into things he doesn’t understand, and telling him that if Merlin wants him to know, Merlin will tell him. Which actually kind of makes sense. Arthur simply finds it easier to bother Morgana with questions than trying to draw something out of Merlin and risk pushing him into one of those distant, fragile moods. Even if Morgana takes great pleasure in verbally tearing him down.
---
Merlin calls Will’s mother. She cries at him for half an hour over the phone. The she tells him that she’s been waiting for him to tell their story.
---
It’s called Memory of will. Will as in willpower? Arthur thinks it might be. But also, will as in Will, a boy who loved and was loved with adolescent fervour and plenty of teenage awkwardness and fumbling. A boy who died. Arthur can’t find it in him to be jealous. He is however, irrationally angry with this Will. For being part of every aspect of Merlin’s life for years and years, through childhood tree climbing and scraped knees, handling bullies and homework and disappearing fathers, teenage rebellion and drunken fumbles, village gossip and small town intolerance, the start of a path towards a bigger life. Reaching for more than was accepted. For loving and being loved, never in such big words but none the less completely, and then getting himself killed. Arthur burns with anger at what Merlin has been left with - the hard knowledge of how Will bled to death on a dirty pavement a cold February evening. The absolute loneliness of it. For both of them.
---
That night, Arthur tells Merlin that he loves him. He whispers it to the pale skin of Merlin’s stomach, to the nape of his neck, the soft dip of his collarbones. Perhaps Merlin hears him, perhaps he doesn’t. His hands flit over Arthur’s body, stroking, tracing, teasing, drawing him close. He mumbles Arthur’s name into the kisses. Arthur draws him into his arms and holds him, tucks Merlin’s head against his chest and hooks a leg over his hip. Merlin’s hair tickles his chin and mouth. Arthur whispers: “You’re kind of brilliant, Merlin. And I’m here and I’m staying.”
---
In the morning, Merlin goes to talk to Gwen.
“I still don’t know if I’m sorry of angry,” he tells her. “But thank you.”
She smiles, glittering and bordering on tearstained.
“You, you are going to be famous. Because you’re an absolutely amazing writer, you stupid thing. You should’ve known you are. Then I wouldn’t have had to act so stupidly… Oh, Merlin.” She hugs him, hard. Then she tells him that she’s sorry, but also that he really is stupid, and then calls herself horrible to make up for it, then names him a surprisingly dumb genius. Merlin has to laugh.
---
The press-release, which Morgana reads to them on a rainy afternoon while they’re dawdling in a coffee shop all four of them, describes Memory of will as one of the most important books published this year. A gripping tale, a love story, a tragedy.
The bookstore has pre-ordered a fair number of copies. Jean swears that he’ll make sure to display them very prominently and tell everybody that he knows the author personally. “Odd fellow, very distinctive ears, but he does indeed have a way with words.” Merlin chucked a pen at his head for that, but as he couldn’t stop smiling the effect might’ve been a bit lost.
---
It’s the blue hour, dusk, crepuscule. The pale blue, purple, rosy, golden light wraps the city in soft colours, fuzzy shapes in the distance contrasting with sharp silhouettes closer up. The domes of Sacre Cœur shine white like a beacon. Dew falls. There’s a chilly bite in the air. Merlin leans on the railing next to Arthur, rubbing his hands together to get some feeling back into his fingers.
“I think I kind of love this place,” Arthur says, admiring the city spreading out below them. Merlin agrees. “Let’s stay for a while, yeah?”
The thing about life, Merlin thinks, is that it goes on. As long as you keep breathing it continues, moves, develops, in old patterns or unexpectedly, but always, always changing somewhat with every single breath you take. On molecular levels or in revolutionary grand ways. Love grows, changes. Keep breathing and a thousand paths lie open.
Arthur’s hands rests next to his. Merlin weaves their fingers together, thinks, this, this is it now - the possibilities are never-ending -