fic: and under day-old sheets
and under day-old sheets
Merlin, Arthur/Merlin (Arthur/Gwen, Gwen/Morgana), modern AU (PG)
2 396 words
notes: Written for a kinkme_merlin prompt: Modern AU, second chances. Arthur and Gwen fall in love; Merlin's heart gets broken. Then, some time passes, and Gwen and Arthur don't work out. Somehow, Merlin and Arthur start talking again, but I want Arthur to work for the relationship. Originally posted here; original - longer - prompt here. One line shamelessly stolen from this.
In his head, Arthur makes a list of things he thinks he might love about Gwen - the arch of her spine; her veracity; her hands pressing against his shoulders - after the second time.
He files it next to the litany of things about Merlin he's never said he adores.
(This is how it begins:
The District line is suspended for some unexplainable reason and for a second Arthur thinks no, no, no; please god no because he vividly remembers a day in July five years ago, turning on the radio in the office, and he never wants to experience that again. Then a message about an earlier failure at Edgware Road is put through the speakers and that's all right then, he thinks, exhaling in tandem with the woman next to him.
He's late for supper, though; a note on the kitchen table says At the pub with Gwen. Reheat something from the fridge, TWAT and he feels a bit guilty at that.
Merlin is suitably pissed for a Thursday night when Gwen rings the bell, and when he stumbles into the flat Arthur just barely catches his wrist, strokes his forearm absentmindedly. Gwen smiles and it's a bit brilliant; Arthur grins, hiding his face in Merlin's hair. The front door closes and he stares at it for a minute, until Merlin's weight slumps against him.
He dreams about curls and freckled cheeks.)
Their bed smells of Merlin's shampoo and it's lovely, it's comfortable, it's so very warm -
it's nothing like the way he knows he sometimes looks at Gwen.
They kiss on a dare and it's sort of wonderful, tracing the outlines of someone else's mouth.
Later, after the whispers of oh and shit and what is this? the guilt will press the thrill back, just barely.
In his head, Arthur makes a list of things he thinks he might love about Gwen - the arch of her spine; her veracity; her hands pressing against his shoulders - after the second time.
He files it next to the litany of things about Merlin he's never said he adores.
It's not falling out of love so much as it is falling in love, really.
They have the conversation on a Thursday, fifty-two days afterwards.
Merlin is working, fingers dancing across a keyboard; Arthur breathes in rhythm with each press.
'Do you think -' he begins, without really thinking, 'Do you think you can be in love with more than one person?'
Merlin's eyes don't leave the screen. 'Yes.'
'Merlin,' Arthur says, 'Merlin,' and there must be something in his voice because Merlin knocks his cup over and watches the tea spill over the table with a set jaw.
'Who?' he asks, and oh, Arthur really doesn't want to do this.
'I -' and he doesn't know what to say because how does he explain something like this? 'Gwen.'
Merlin snorts, but his eyes are hard when they meet Arthur's.
'Oh.' He flexes his hand and for a second Arthur thinks he's going to hit something - someone - but Merlin just digs his fingers into his palm. 'The truth is important, I used to think.'
Arthur presses his fingers to his cheeks; pushes them into the wet skin so hard he's certain there will be bruises. He wants to tell Merlin I'm sorry; I'm so, so sorry but the only things he manages are whimpers.
'Monogamy was always your favourite word,' Merlin says and looks away.
Arthur isn't surprised to find two boxes of clothes and books outside the door when he comes back; every shirt folded neatly and novels in alphabetical order.
He tosses his key into the mailbox before he leaves.
He gets an email three days later: I'm keeping the flat is all it says, and Arthur doesn't know if his hands shaking means relief or something entirely different.
Morgana never rings and it's uncomfortable for Arthur but devastating to Gwen. They spend a weekend with fingers tangled and muttered reassurances and don't think about whether it's supposed to be so difficult, this.
There are good days: days when Arthur presses kisses against Gwen's stomach and it's soft and welcoming and everything his father ever wanted for him; days when he remembers how she takes her tea and she smiles into his shoulder; days when he wakes up with the sun in his eyes.
For a few weeks, he thinks that yes, this is it exactly. Five weeks, maybe six, before he catches Gwen mumbling Morgana's name in her sleep and wonders if that might make sense, too.
(They never talk about the way their mouths say maybe against necks and hipbones.
There are only absolutes, son, Uther used to say. Arthur thinks that perhaps he was wrong.)
They are having breakfast the first time doubt hangs over their heads: heavy raindrops fall against the kitchen window and it's so wretchedly appropriate that Arthur wants to draw the blinds.
'I love you,' Gwen says and he doesn't want to think about how the timing is completely wrong, 'I've always loved you.'
'Me too,' Arthur manages. His mouth is dry. 'Not enough, though, is it?'
'Where's your romance?' Gwen asks and grimaces, just a bit.
'I don't know if I was ever romantic,' he sighs, because he doesn't know what else to say.
Gwen nods, slowly.
He lets himself think about Merlin a lot more after that.
On Morgana's birthday Arthur wears tailored trousers and polished shoes; there are things that are expected of him and Morgana is his sister, still.
He doesn't bring Gwen. He doesn't really ask her to come and it's probably better like that, they both know.
His aunt claps his shoulder with a stiff hand and Arthur recognises the disapproval even before he sees Nimueh's set lips. It hurts more than he would like it to, and for a moment Arthur aches for his father even though he would have turned his back completely, his face whispering of disloyalty.
'I'm having drinks with Merlin and his boyfriend later,' Morgana smirks and it's so bitter that he almost wants to mention Gwen out of spite.
He doesn't; Arthur isn't a good man, but he desperately wants to be.
(This is how they end it:
A brush of fingers and a suitcase filled with clothes; whispers of regrets but not mistakes because Gwen tells him, resolutely, that she refuses to make them into an error, as though they were something shameful.
'It's just time,' she says softly. 'It'll pass.'
Arthur mouths Morgana to her before he leaves; her eyes widen and she looks at him like she wants to respond in kind.
He is relieved that she doesn't.)
Lance buys him an inadvisable amount of bitter and it's probably a mistake to go to the pub that's just round the corner; every time Arthur sees flushed cheeks and black hair his stomach clenches. In the corner of his eye he notices a straw-coloured head that looks like it could belong to someone who used to be a friend of someone and it's so painful, this, not knowing how to move in a familiar space.
'I don't think you've been very happy for months,' Lance says, almost in passing and presses his elbow to Elaine's side.
Arthur looks at them, at the traces of complete devotion in her face and the uncomfortable grip Lance has on his glass, knuckles white; wonders if that was how they looked, sometimes, before and realises that it doesn't really matter if he's thinking about Merlin or Gwen because both press thick bile up his throat.
'I know.'
There are traces of sometimes I miss you on every street corner and in every face in the tiny part of London that used to be theirs.
For half a second Arthur thinks that maybe he would be happier if he left Newington Green.
It takes him seven weeks to call Morgana; another two pass before she decides to answer her mobile.
There is a party and everyone is invited; Arthur doesn't mention how Lance has never been particularly good at diplomacy even though he really wants to. Morgana nods at him when he arrives, her hair brushing across Gwen's cheek and it's a relief to see that some things are maybe the way they are supposed to be.
'I don't think Merlin is bringing Kay,' Gwen says and that's all their interaction amounts to that evening; Arthur tries to taste something other than very slight pleasure on his tongue, but his mouth refuses to form around the names and Merlin and Kay is so uncomfortably foreign that he really doesn't try very hard.
It's much later when he does approach Merlin, and Arthur's made certain that he is at least a little drunk, almost tiptoeing around the table in the front room as though he's scared of everything in the enclosed space.
'Hi.'
Merlin barely nods, but his shoulders tense for just a second when Arthur sits down a few feet away and clears his throat.
'I -' and god, he really should have rehearsed this, 'I meant to talk to you.' He doesn't say I wasn't sure if you wanted me to but when he looks at Merlin he thinks it flashes across his face anyway.
Merlin swallows and presses back into the sofa.
'I'm afraid I'll say something stupid like I miss you, you understand?'
'I miss you,' Arthur says, before he can think about what that means, hand hovering an inch above Merlin's, 'I miss you.'
Merlin rises and takes a step towards the hallway, and if he moved any closer Arthur could reach out, stroke his thumb against a wrist.
'And I don't know what to do with that information.'
Suddenly it seems that Merlin is everywhere; but then, maybe he always was.
When Morgana stops tossing around Kay like it's just another word they're having dinner, all of them, and Merlin tells him - in a moment Arthur assumes is a little defenceless - that it was not because of him.
He knows that much is true.
Arthur gets thoroughly sloshed more often than he used to:
'I've got a list,' he murmurs (slurs), 'A list of things I forgot to tell you.'
Merlin looks thoughtful for just a second.
'Not I'm shagging our mutual friend, then?' It's a little bitter but he almost smiles, lips turning soft around his smirk.
There's a half-empty bottle of vodka tipped towards a vase of orchids. Arthur isn't sure when Morgana started getting flowers.
'No,' he says, slowly, because this is important, he's certain, 'Things I loved about you. Stupid things.'
When he shifts his weight his shoulder bumps against Merlin's elbow.
'Stupid things?'
'Just -' Arthur mumbles and tries not to focus on the way his fingers flex around the neck of his beer bottle, 'That it takes you half an hour to buy the paper because you know the newsagent is lonely so you always have a proper chat with her. I love that.'
'Things like that?'
'Things like that,' he replies and looks up.
'I promised to myself that today I would do something I'd regret,' Merlin whispers and kisses him, quickly.
Arthur breathes into his skin before Merlin leaves.
(When they were seventeen Arthur had woken up with Merlin in his bed; with a day-old ashen aftertaste in his mouth and promises of cocking this up terrifically breathed against his hair.
He had interrupted Merlin and said that we don't need to promise each other anything.)
On a Sunday he almost forgets that he hasn't got a key any longer:
Arthur's hand wavers in front of the door; he makes a fist but that shakes, too, back and forth until he's knocking without really meaning to.
With the first inch of an opening the sun blinds him; somewhere in the background Arthur hears Kirsty Young and he thinks oh, Radio 4.
'That's another thing,' he says to the interstice, 'Another thing I love. That you only listen to middle-aged radio.'
Merlin kicks the door open, arms crossed; everything about him seems so familiar and it makes Arthur's skin prickle until Merlin's body tenses into a stressed line that's uncomfortably foreign.
'Gwen a massive fan of Fearne Cotton?'
Arthur doesn't say I haven't got a clue when his hand almost reaches out but ends up pressed against his thigh instead, sweat sticking to wayward fibre.
'I think I'd forgotten about everything,' he says instead.
Merlin asks, 'Everything?' on an exhale.
'You. And - well. What beginnings are.'
He can practically hear Merlin biting the inside of his cheek.
'It wasn't like I thought it would be,' Arthur tells him and traces the lines in the palm of his hand.
Merlin rolls his head to the side; his sigh is almost lethargic but his words are clipped.
'Is anything?'
'I don't think I know what expectations mean,' Arthur says.
'Then maybe you should learn.'
He flinches when the door closes and stays absolutely still until he hears the lock turning.
It's May and nine months past -
Morgana and Gwen take a holiday.
The first time Merlin steps back when he is at the door Arthur's head has been murmuring of leaving something out for three weeks. At the kitchen table his mouth tries to form around something like an apology.
(It's almost enough.)
'This is the thing,' Merlin sighs, 'I'll become comfortable and you will be bored because you're impatient and you've got less than no attention span.'
'Maybe we know better now.'
'Do we?' Merlin wrinkles his nose; Arthur's skin feels too tight and he wants to scratch at it until there is nothing left but shadows of please and let me try.
'I don't like promises,' he says and inches just a little bit closer. 'I'd rather have faith.'
Merlin snorts and shifts his eyes to the window for a second, tries to hide a smile.
'I don't believe in God,' and it sounds like a speech Arthur remembers really well.
Merlin presses his lips together, gaze flickering from his hands to the hallway to the plethora of papers next to his computer. They breathe in rhythm and with every exhale Arthur thinks he can taste something familiar on his lips.
'I don't like surprises,' Merlin says and closes his eyes.
Arthur tries not to think about reassurances.
'I know.'
There is another fifteen seconds before Merlin looks at him. (Or maybe it's four minutes - time is an illusion, everyone knows.)
'Okay.'
'Yeah?'
'Yeah.'
Arthur leans in.
(This is perhaps where no endings end.)
fin.
Merlin, Arthur/Merlin (Arthur/Gwen, Gwen/Morgana), modern AU (PG)
2 396 words
notes: Written for a kinkme_merlin prompt: Modern AU, second chances. Arthur and Gwen fall in love; Merlin's heart gets broken. Then, some time passes, and Gwen and Arthur don't work out. Somehow, Merlin and Arthur start talking again, but I want Arthur to work for the relationship. Originally posted here; original - longer - prompt here. One line shamelessly stolen from this.
In his head, Arthur makes a list of things he thinks he might love about Gwen - the arch of her spine; her veracity; her hands pressing against his shoulders - after the second time.
He files it next to the litany of things about Merlin he's never said he adores.
(This is how it begins:
The District line is suspended for some unexplainable reason and for a second Arthur thinks no, no, no; please god no because he vividly remembers a day in July five years ago, turning on the radio in the office, and he never wants to experience that again. Then a message about an earlier failure at Edgware Road is put through the speakers and that's all right then, he thinks, exhaling in tandem with the woman next to him.
He's late for supper, though; a note on the kitchen table says At the pub with Gwen. Reheat something from the fridge, TWAT and he feels a bit guilty at that.
Merlin is suitably pissed for a Thursday night when Gwen rings the bell, and when he stumbles into the flat Arthur just barely catches his wrist, strokes his forearm absentmindedly. Gwen smiles and it's a bit brilliant; Arthur grins, hiding his face in Merlin's hair. The front door closes and he stares at it for a minute, until Merlin's weight slumps against him.
He dreams about curls and freckled cheeks.)
Their bed smells of Merlin's shampoo and it's lovely, it's comfortable, it's so very warm -
it's nothing like the way he knows he sometimes looks at Gwen.
They kiss on a dare and it's sort of wonderful, tracing the outlines of someone else's mouth.
Later, after the whispers of oh and shit and what is this? the guilt will press the thrill back, just barely.
In his head, Arthur makes a list of things he thinks he might love about Gwen - the arch of her spine; her veracity; her hands pressing against his shoulders - after the second time.
He files it next to the litany of things about Merlin he's never said he adores.
It's not falling out of love so much as it is falling in love, really.
They have the conversation on a Thursday, fifty-two days afterwards.
Merlin is working, fingers dancing across a keyboard; Arthur breathes in rhythm with each press.
'Do you think -' he begins, without really thinking, 'Do you think you can be in love with more than one person?'
Merlin's eyes don't leave the screen. 'Yes.'
'Merlin,' Arthur says, 'Merlin,' and there must be something in his voice because Merlin knocks his cup over and watches the tea spill over the table with a set jaw.
'Who?' he asks, and oh, Arthur really doesn't want to do this.
'I -' and he doesn't know what to say because how does he explain something like this? 'Gwen.'
Merlin snorts, but his eyes are hard when they meet Arthur's.
'Oh.' He flexes his hand and for a second Arthur thinks he's going to hit something - someone - but Merlin just digs his fingers into his palm. 'The truth is important, I used to think.'
Arthur presses his fingers to his cheeks; pushes them into the wet skin so hard he's certain there will be bruises. He wants to tell Merlin I'm sorry; I'm so, so sorry but the only things he manages are whimpers.
'Monogamy was always your favourite word,' Merlin says and looks away.
Arthur isn't surprised to find two boxes of clothes and books outside the door when he comes back; every shirt folded neatly and novels in alphabetical order.
He tosses his key into the mailbox before he leaves.
He gets an email three days later: I'm keeping the flat is all it says, and Arthur doesn't know if his hands shaking means relief or something entirely different.
Morgana never rings and it's uncomfortable for Arthur but devastating to Gwen. They spend a weekend with fingers tangled and muttered reassurances and don't think about whether it's supposed to be so difficult, this.
There are good days: days when Arthur presses kisses against Gwen's stomach and it's soft and welcoming and everything his father ever wanted for him; days when he remembers how she takes her tea and she smiles into his shoulder; days when he wakes up with the sun in his eyes.
For a few weeks, he thinks that yes, this is it exactly. Five weeks, maybe six, before he catches Gwen mumbling Morgana's name in her sleep and wonders if that might make sense, too.
(They never talk about the way their mouths say maybe against necks and hipbones.
There are only absolutes, son, Uther used to say. Arthur thinks that perhaps he was wrong.)
They are having breakfast the first time doubt hangs over their heads: heavy raindrops fall against the kitchen window and it's so wretchedly appropriate that Arthur wants to draw the blinds.
'I love you,' Gwen says and he doesn't want to think about how the timing is completely wrong, 'I've always loved you.'
'Me too,' Arthur manages. His mouth is dry. 'Not enough, though, is it?'
'Where's your romance?' Gwen asks and grimaces, just a bit.
'I don't know if I was ever romantic,' he sighs, because he doesn't know what else to say.
Gwen nods, slowly.
He lets himself think about Merlin a lot more after that.
On Morgana's birthday Arthur wears tailored trousers and polished shoes; there are things that are expected of him and Morgana is his sister, still.
He doesn't bring Gwen. He doesn't really ask her to come and it's probably better like that, they both know.
His aunt claps his shoulder with a stiff hand and Arthur recognises the disapproval even before he sees Nimueh's set lips. It hurts more than he would like it to, and for a moment Arthur aches for his father even though he would have turned his back completely, his face whispering of disloyalty.
'I'm having drinks with Merlin and his boyfriend later,' Morgana smirks and it's so bitter that he almost wants to mention Gwen out of spite.
He doesn't; Arthur isn't a good man, but he desperately wants to be.
(This is how they end it:
A brush of fingers and a suitcase filled with clothes; whispers of regrets but not mistakes because Gwen tells him, resolutely, that she refuses to make them into an error, as though they were something shameful.
'It's just time,' she says softly. 'It'll pass.'
Arthur mouths Morgana to her before he leaves; her eyes widen and she looks at him like she wants to respond in kind.
He is relieved that she doesn't.)
Lance buys him an inadvisable amount of bitter and it's probably a mistake to go to the pub that's just round the corner; every time Arthur sees flushed cheeks and black hair his stomach clenches. In the corner of his eye he notices a straw-coloured head that looks like it could belong to someone who used to be a friend of someone and it's so painful, this, not knowing how to move in a familiar space.
'I don't think you've been very happy for months,' Lance says, almost in passing and presses his elbow to Elaine's side.
Arthur looks at them, at the traces of complete devotion in her face and the uncomfortable grip Lance has on his glass, knuckles white; wonders if that was how they looked, sometimes, before and realises that it doesn't really matter if he's thinking about Merlin or Gwen because both press thick bile up his throat.
'I know.'
There are traces of sometimes I miss you on every street corner and in every face in the tiny part of London that used to be theirs.
For half a second Arthur thinks that maybe he would be happier if he left Newington Green.
It takes him seven weeks to call Morgana; another two pass before she decides to answer her mobile.
There is a party and everyone is invited; Arthur doesn't mention how Lance has never been particularly good at diplomacy even though he really wants to. Morgana nods at him when he arrives, her hair brushing across Gwen's cheek and it's a relief to see that some things are maybe the way they are supposed to be.
'I don't think Merlin is bringing Kay,' Gwen says and that's all their interaction amounts to that evening; Arthur tries to taste something other than very slight pleasure on his tongue, but his mouth refuses to form around the names and Merlin and Kay is so uncomfortably foreign that he really doesn't try very hard.
It's much later when he does approach Merlin, and Arthur's made certain that he is at least a little drunk, almost tiptoeing around the table in the front room as though he's scared of everything in the enclosed space.
'Hi.'
Merlin barely nods, but his shoulders tense for just a second when Arthur sits down a few feet away and clears his throat.
'I -' and god, he really should have rehearsed this, 'I meant to talk to you.' He doesn't say I wasn't sure if you wanted me to but when he looks at Merlin he thinks it flashes across his face anyway.
Merlin swallows and presses back into the sofa.
'I'm afraid I'll say something stupid like I miss you, you understand?'
'I miss you,' Arthur says, before he can think about what that means, hand hovering an inch above Merlin's, 'I miss you.'
Merlin rises and takes a step towards the hallway, and if he moved any closer Arthur could reach out, stroke his thumb against a wrist.
'And I don't know what to do with that information.'
Suddenly it seems that Merlin is everywhere; but then, maybe he always was.
When Morgana stops tossing around Kay like it's just another word they're having dinner, all of them, and Merlin tells him - in a moment Arthur assumes is a little defenceless - that it was not because of him.
He knows that much is true.
Arthur gets thoroughly sloshed more often than he used to:
'I've got a list,' he murmurs (slurs), 'A list of things I forgot to tell you.'
Merlin looks thoughtful for just a second.
'Not I'm shagging our mutual friend, then?' It's a little bitter but he almost smiles, lips turning soft around his smirk.
There's a half-empty bottle of vodka tipped towards a vase of orchids. Arthur isn't sure when Morgana started getting flowers.
'No,' he says, slowly, because this is important, he's certain, 'Things I loved about you. Stupid things.'
When he shifts his weight his shoulder bumps against Merlin's elbow.
'Stupid things?'
'Just -' Arthur mumbles and tries not to focus on the way his fingers flex around the neck of his beer bottle, 'That it takes you half an hour to buy the paper because you know the newsagent is lonely so you always have a proper chat with her. I love that.'
'Things like that?'
'Things like that,' he replies and looks up.
'I promised to myself that today I would do something I'd regret,' Merlin whispers and kisses him, quickly.
Arthur breathes into his skin before Merlin leaves.
(When they were seventeen Arthur had woken up with Merlin in his bed; with a day-old ashen aftertaste in his mouth and promises of cocking this up terrifically breathed against his hair.
He had interrupted Merlin and said that we don't need to promise each other anything.)
On a Sunday he almost forgets that he hasn't got a key any longer:
Arthur's hand wavers in front of the door; he makes a fist but that shakes, too, back and forth until he's knocking without really meaning to.
With the first inch of an opening the sun blinds him; somewhere in the background Arthur hears Kirsty Young and he thinks oh, Radio 4.
'That's another thing,' he says to the interstice, 'Another thing I love. That you only listen to middle-aged radio.'
Merlin kicks the door open, arms crossed; everything about him seems so familiar and it makes Arthur's skin prickle until Merlin's body tenses into a stressed line that's uncomfortably foreign.
'Gwen a massive fan of Fearne Cotton?'
Arthur doesn't say I haven't got a clue when his hand almost reaches out but ends up pressed against his thigh instead, sweat sticking to wayward fibre.
'I think I'd forgotten about everything,' he says instead.
Merlin asks, 'Everything?' on an exhale.
'You. And - well. What beginnings are.'
He can practically hear Merlin biting the inside of his cheek.
'It wasn't like I thought it would be,' Arthur tells him and traces the lines in the palm of his hand.
Merlin rolls his head to the side; his sigh is almost lethargic but his words are clipped.
'Is anything?'
'I don't think I know what expectations mean,' Arthur says.
'Then maybe you should learn.'
He flinches when the door closes and stays absolutely still until he hears the lock turning.
It's May and nine months past -
Morgana and Gwen take a holiday.
The first time Merlin steps back when he is at the door Arthur's head has been murmuring of leaving something out for three weeks. At the kitchen table his mouth tries to form around something like an apology.
(It's almost enough.)
'This is the thing,' Merlin sighs, 'I'll become comfortable and you will be bored because you're impatient and you've got less than no attention span.'
'Maybe we know better now.'
'Do we?' Merlin wrinkles his nose; Arthur's skin feels too tight and he wants to scratch at it until there is nothing left but shadows of please and let me try.
'I don't like promises,' he says and inches just a little bit closer. 'I'd rather have faith.'
Merlin snorts and shifts his eyes to the window for a second, tries to hide a smile.
'I don't believe in God,' and it sounds like a speech Arthur remembers really well.
Merlin presses his lips together, gaze flickering from his hands to the hallway to the plethora of papers next to his computer. They breathe in rhythm and with every exhale Arthur thinks he can taste something familiar on his lips.
'I don't like surprises,' Merlin says and closes his eyes.
Arthur tries not to think about reassurances.
'I know.'
There is another fifteen seconds before Merlin looks at him. (Or maybe it's four minutes - time is an illusion, everyone knows.)
'Okay.'
'Yeah?'
'Yeah.'
Arthur leans in.
(This is perhaps where no endings end.)
fin.