When I Wake Up I Find You're Gone, part 1
Author: MarInk (MarInk1485 in the English fandoms)
Title: When I Wake Up I Find You're Gone
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Genre: Angst, Drama
Rating: R
Summary: Written as a fill for this prompt at Merlin kinkmeme on LJ: Arthur/Merlin, established relationship. Merlin ends up on a wheelchair and at first Arthur is very sweet and caring with him. When he overhears the doctors saying that he would lose the ability to feel anything from his waist down Arthur panics because he's always been very sexually active with Merlin and the idea of not having sex anymore scares the hell out of him. He leaves him without confronting him and even if the guilt eats him he distracts himself otherwise (cheating, gambling, drinking)...
A/N: The title is from Wolfsheim's song 'Find You're Gone'. Divided into parts due to the length. Also you can read it on FanFiction.Net in one piece here.
Warnings: swearing, dirty talk, disturbing scenes of alcohol intoxication.
Word Count: ~ 23 000
Status: Complete.
Part 1
Arthur is there when Merlin wakes up. At first he blinks sleepily and squints at the lamps that are way too bright, and only several seconds later the realisation dawns. Arthur watches Merlin's facial expressions change - from confused to frightened, from panicked to lost and hurt.
“Hey,” says Arthur squeezing Merlin's hand in his.
“Hey,” says Merlin, all hoarse though he didn't scream from pain - the doctors told Arthur that he had lost consciousness once the car crashed into that blasted tree. “What happened?”
Arthur doesn't want to be the one telling Merlin that but he really has no choice with Merlin's eyes wide and Merlin's fingers cold and limp in his hand.
“An accident,” says Arthur hurriedly because the pause has been far too long. “You drove right into a tree. Didn't you see it?”
“It was dark.” The tips of Merlin's ears go pink, and he licks his lips. “And I was so tired... I think I fell asleep at some point.”
“You could've called me, and I'd've picked you up.”
At first, when he learned about the accident, he was scared shitless. Then he was angry, but it passed too while they operated on Merlin, so many hours on end, and he sat outside with a coffee in his hand and waited, cold fear coiling and rolling inside his stomach. He wouldn't know if the coffee was any good, but he remembered every flaw of the paint of the operation room door. By the time it was over, Arthur was just numb, and he doesn't feel strong enough right now to yell at Merlin for being an irresponsible idiot.
Merlin sighs. He doesn't like asking Arthur to do something for him because Arthur always agrees and does. Arthur knows that though he could never understand why it is so. Merlin lifts the blanket with his free hand and sneaks a peak at his body.
“I've broken some bones, haven't I? There's plaster and bandages all over. I feel like I'm in a Second World War movie, some injured hero of the battlefield, and you're the pretty nurse.” He tries to smile, but it looks rather fake to Arthur.
“Didn't know that roleplay was your cup of tea.” Arthur leans down and kisses Merlin - just because he can. Merlin's lips are chapped and dry and weak in their response and the familiar taste of Merlin is faint underneath sour pain and plastic tinge of the breathing tubes that were taken off only half an hour ago, but Arthur still loves every second of it. “We can give it a try when you are better,” he promises running his thumb over Merlin's cheek.
“When will I be better, then?” Merlin smiles again and it's more genuine this time, but his eyes are still full of anxiety, guilt and unrest.
“They say you were thrown sideways by the impact and bent all over the seatbelt. There's something wrong with your spine, they don't know what exactly yet, and you legs are... well... not well,” finishes Arthur awkwardly. “I can go talk to them now, maybe there's some update.”
“Bring me something to drink when you are back, will you? Tea or water.”
“Sure.” Arthur leaves the room still numb and tense, but breathing seems to be a bit easier now that Merlin is awake. Everything's gonna be alright now one way or the other, isn't it?
* * *
Merlin leaves the hospital two weeks later. In a wheelchair. Arthur carries him into the car and folds the wheelchair clumsily - he's not used to it, but he reckons he will be. Merlin is pliant and heavy in his arms when Arthur carries him to bed at home, and his lips are warm and scratchy on Arthur's neck. He depends on Arthur now and though he's never liked it he seems to be alright with it. After all, his struggling for doing things himself was partially the reason of all this.
“You should go to work,” Merlin says while Arthur's fretting to bring some water and Merlin's laptop and the whole bunch of pills that were prescribed by the doctors. “You'll be missed.”
“Work can wait till tomorrow. 'S not like the end of the world is happening right there and now. Do you want some cookies? Your mother sent us loads, I guess it's her motherly revenge for you talking her out of coming here from Ealdor the moment she knew.”
“Nah, I'm fine.” Merlin puts his laptop on his lap demostrating clearly that he'll be perfectly fine on his own if Arthur goes and tries to work right now. “I'll watch something if you give me the DVDs. And don't say Morgana doesn't call you six times a day with this question or that, so you'd better go and answer them all at once.”
Merlin has a point - Arthur's unsufferable PA does call him all the time because a company doesn't run itself without its CEO. But Merlin is more important, somehow, then the work of Arthur's life.
Merlin opens his laptop and looks at the screen so pointedly as if there's something interesting there already. Arthur takes an armful of DVDs from the shelf and drops them beside Merlin.
“I'll go buy some groceries then,” says he feeling suddenly the odd man out in his own home. “Here, they wrote that you should take the yellow little ones every half an hour, and there's a salve for your spine but don't touch it, I'll help you with it as soon as I'm back...”
“OK.” Merlin takes the A4 piece of paper with detailed prescriptions and kisses Arthur's knuckles - briefly, fleetingly, gratefully - and goes back to his laptop like nothing happened at all, but Arthur's heart clenches for some reason. “Go, it's alright, really.”
And Arthur goes because what else can he do at this point, really? He keeps his mobile in his inner pocket so he won't miss a call from Merlin but Merlin doesn't call while Arthur's out.
Arthur buys a coffee after leaving the supermarket with plastic bags stuffed with everything he could think of - Merlin usually does the groceries, and Arthur is a tad at a loss as he doesn't actually know what they need - and, sipping it, he visits his office for a little while. Morgana sends him home almost immediately - apparently the woman thinks she knows best what Arthur and Merlin both have to be doing at the moment, and she can be persistant.
Arthur goes home with his coffee and lots of vegetables, flour, bread, sausages and whatnot, and thinks why is that that he's become not particularly welcome in his two favourite places in the world in one day.
He kisses Merlin when he's back. Merlin tastes like the little yellow pills although they are meant to be swallowed whole, not chewed.
Arthur reckons, he'll have to get used to it as well.
* * *
Arthur never actually got to the yelling thing - Merlin looks far too fragile and pale wrapped in their giant duvet, and Arthur’s anger that appears when he remembers that Merlin’s stubborness and wish to be independent led to what they have now shuts down every time. Eventually there’s no anger anymore, and Arthur doesn’t miss it.
They have new rituals now. Cooking together is replaced with Arthur trying to figure out a recipe that will be suitable for a sick person and Merlin reading his Spanish surrealists quietly in his wheelchair in the corner of the kitchen (Merlin says that even if he’s injured there’s no reason for him to fall back on his postgrad work, so he does a lot of reading for which he couldn’t find time before). They don’t go out anymore even though Merlin says it’s alright if Arthur goes and has a relaxing evening. Arthur is sick of the word ‘alright’ and thinks of forbidding Merlin to use it altogether.
Also Arthur sends Merlin texts to remind him what pills he should take now. However strange it is, in text messages Merlin seems more carefree and cheerful than in person. Perhaps because it’s almost like before, Arthur thinks. He doesn’t know and doesn’t ask Merlin about it.
Every evening, after dinner, Arthur turns Merlin onto his stomach and pushes the duvet and Merlin’s t-shirt away to reveal his back. After that Arthur takes the tube with the salve from the nightstand and warms it carefully between his fingers before applying it to Merlin’s back.
Merlin is quiet under Arthur’s touch; he lies unmoving with his chin propped on his hands, and his shoulders are tense - Arthur sees it even under the oversized t-shirt. Arthur is glad that one can’t see their own back without a mirror because Merlin’s skin is a mess of scars which are still raw and bright: it will take many months for them to become pale and more or less invisible. Arthur imagines tracing every single one with his tongue - will it make Merlin shiver, will it make him gasp, or writhe, or moan softly like he does when Arthur teases him with featherlight touches for a long time? He saves the idea for later, though, - the doctors say Merlin doesn’t feel anything from his waist down right now. Later, when Merlin’s sensitive and strong and playful again.
Arthur always finishes rubbing the salve with a kiss between Merlin’s shoulderblades. Merlin sighs deeply in response as if grateful for something that Arthur can’t fully grasp or, the other way round, sad because of something that he never talks about.
* * *
Morgana can say what she likes - which she does anyway - but Arthur is a gentleman. He waits for a week and a half before trying to seduce Merlin after their teeth are brushed, the lights are off and the moonlight starts gathering in stain-like puddles on the floor. He’s not after sex as it is seeing as Merlin is still far from recovery but, well, a little bit of affection would be nice. Arthur is hungry for touch, the tenderness and the passion that always accompany him and Merlin in bed; he feels like since the accident some kind of wall is growing between them and he can’t even properly see Merlin behind it.
He caresses Merlin’s shoulder with his lips and fingertips, that warm smooth skin he loves so much. Merlin is motionless, and Arthur would think he’s asleep if not for the fact that his breathing is far too even and cautious.
“I miss it,” whispers Arthur, and Merlin gives up pretending, opening his eyes. They look dark blue without a single spark, practically pitch-black in the darkness of the bedroom, and he’s all the more pale for it. “I miss you inside me, your cock in my mouth, your legs around my back.”
A fair share of dirty talk never fails to turn Merlin on. However, that doesn’t seem to be the case - more than that, Merlin goes all stiff under Arthur like that person in a movie who was hypnotised and laid between two chairs, supported only at their neck and at their ankles but lying there nonetheless because they were told to.
“Arthur,” exhales Merlin.
Arthur kisses his face with little silly kisses of care and fondness, over Merlin’s eyebrows and hollows in his cheeks and the alae of his nose and the corners of his mouth. When he touches Merlin’s eyelashes with his lips he feels wetness of bitter-salty taste.
It’s tears.
“What’s wrong?” Arthur cups Melin’s nape and leans in to press his forehead against Merlin’s. “Are you in pain?”
“No,” Merlin says sounding like he has to drag the words out of himself while they are actively against it. “No, I’m not in pain. I just… I don’t feel anything. I can’t… I can’t give you what you want. And it doesn’t get better, the salve doesn’t help, nothing helps, and I look at you and think that you are the most shaggable person in the world and I don’t actually want to do anything with you because that part of me is long gone!”
Merlin catches breath, and Arthur notices distantly that Merlin’s fingers dig deep into his shoulder as if he’s trying to hold Arthur where he is. As if Arthur’s going to run away.
Arthur covers Merlin’s body with his and pulls Merlin as close as he can, and that’s the last straw that breaks Merlin. He sobs silently into Arthur’s shoulder and hugs him like he hasn’t hugged even once during these three weeks and a half and Arthur whispers that it will be alright, everything will be fine, everything will turn out well because it must, because there’s no other way it can end.
Merlin cries himself to sleep and goes slack and sleepy-warm still clutching at Arthur.
Arthur watches the moonlight move along the floor until dawn.
* * *
In the morning they go to the hospital for a regular check-up and some therapy that Merlin has to go through. His eyes are still puffy and red-rimmed despite the fact that he has slept for nine hours but otherwise he seems rested and calm. And he hugs Arthur tightly when he’s carried to the car, and Arthur kisses the top of Merlin’s head because he understands that this hug is all that Merlin can give him now. All that Merlin has at the moment, to be precise.
Arthur takes Merlin to the x-ray room and then to the therapy room where dr Gaius meets them as usually. Merlin trusts dr Gaius to make everything right, maybe because the man has something grandfartherly and reassuring around him but Arthur doesn’t miss the uncertainty in his eyes under bushy white eyebrows and light, almost translucent eyelashes.
He goes back to the x-ray room to fetch the resuls stretching his wrists - he’s still not really used to driving a wheelchair of all things, and it’s quite heavy and hulky. The door is ajar and Arthur stops right outside to work on his wrists a bit more. The doctors inside the room are talking and Arthur recognises voices - dr Nimueh, dr Edwin Muirden, dr Lancelot du Lac and that little intern Freya Lake who takes to Merlin like house on fire and always manages to make him smile.
“It’s hopeless,” says dr Nimueh (is it a name or a surname? Arthur is not sure). “Look, he’s deteorating day by day.”
“We can’t give up just yet,” du Lac sounds resigned as if he argues out of sheer stubborness and can’t help but see that Nimueh is right. “Therapy can turn the process back…”
“It never does if the process is detereoration,” snaps dr Muirden. “It would take a miracle to at least stop it. Therapy is no miracle.”
“So what you both are suggesting is basically to go to the young man and say that he’s going to be a half of himself for the rest of his life?” du Lac is angry judging by his voice. “Aren’t you too quick to make conclusions?”
“Well, it’s better than giving your patients false hope for years before they consult someone else and commit suicide,” hisses Muirden. It’s a low blow, thinks Arthur but he can’t quite sympathize with polite and charming du Lac because he’s trying to figure out who they are talking about. It could be anyone, right? This hospital cares of thousands of patients, doesn’t it?
“Shut up before I hit you,” warns du Lac, and Muirden doesn’t answer.
“It’s been less than a month,” says Freya quietly. “He still hopes a great deal. Let’s wait a bit. Maybe, half a year? So that he can grow accustomed to what he has. It will be easier to accept that it’s what’s going to be the rest of his life.” Her voice is high and raw as if she’s ready to cry but she speaks steadily - it’s obviously not an improvisation.
“OK,” dr Nimueh sounds tired and broken. “We’ll do as you suggest Freya. Will you take his results to the therapy room? He’s got to be there with Gaius now.”
“His partner always fetches them,” there are sounds like folding paper that surround Freya’s voice and the echo of her steps. “Arthur, that’s his name. Tell him I’ve already gone to the therapy room if he shows up? You remember him, that stunning blond who looks like he owns the world.”
Arthur steps back and to the wall to his right led by pure instinct. The door opens wide and Freys hurries past with some x-ray pictures without noticing Arthur. Dr du Lac and dr Nimueh leave the room after her and they are not in a hurry so they don’t miss Arthur in the shadow of the door.
“Well,” says Arthur. “There’s no need for me to fetch the results, then, seeing as intern Lake has already gone to the therapy room.”
Words feel like pebbles in his mouth grinding against each other clumsily and tasting like sand and earth. Arthur turns away from the doctors and goes along the corridor to the therapy room accompanied by Nimueh’s quiet “Fuck.”
* * *
Merlin looks hopeful studying the results of his x-ray. He doesn’t know shit about how to read these pictures but Gaius gives them to him with a smile and Merlin evidently thinks it’s a good sign. Arthur feels sick knowing that this smile is as fake as a fake thing in the land of fake things.
“See, your spine bones have been shattered here, here and here,” shows Gaius. “They are starting to heal now, that’s a slow process but they will surely not resemble stray noodles in your soup in a few months.”
“Will they recover fully?” Arthur can’t stop himself asking as if a naughty goblin is controlling his tongue.
Freys winces at that and looks at him frightened. Gaius lookes confused for a second but then he looks just tired. He knows that Arthur knows.
“The salve we are using has been fabulous at the clinic trials and obviously it’s meant just for the kind of trauma that mr Emrys is dealing with. Ninety per cent of similar patients recover fully with proper treatment.” He doesn’t say outright lies and this should make Merlin suspect but it doesn’t. Though it does make Arthur angry and makes him think what it is that one is supposed to do when one or somebody one loves doesn’t fit the lucky ninety per cent. What happens when the logical cycle of being injured and being cured is broken, shattered to pieces just like Merlin’s spine? Arthur doesn’t really know and he’s fucking bone-chiling terrified by understanding that he will have to know it because the injured stage is likely to go on forever, his own and Merlin’s personal forever.
“Thank you,” says Merlin sincerely.
“You’re welcome, young man, you’re quite welcome.” Caius takes the handles of the wheelchair. “Let’s put you to some therapy, that will do you good.” His voice is soft and fond when he talks to Merlin though they are just a doctor and a patient. Merlin is able to melt ice with his shiny smiles, probably, Arthur always thought so. It’s just that right now the ice inside Arthur has apparently grown immune to them, and it feels so cold and tight in his chest.
* * *
Merlin is taking a nap after lunch. Arthur is not sure why but he just takes the open book off of Merlin’s evenly rising and falling chest and pulls the duvet higher so that Merlin’s bony shoulders wouldn’t feel cold. Then he slips out and goes to the living-room where there is his laptop on the coffee table.
Arthue has a blog. No one knows about it - well, perhaps, Merlin knows since he knows more about Arthur than any person in their right mind would want to but he never says anything if he does. Arthur uses a pseudonym in his blog in case anyone he knows ever stumbles across it; he’s prince028 and it is a really lame name up to anyone’s standarts but Arthur doesn’t care - and it’s nice not to care once in awhile. He started the blog three years ago when there was no Merlin in his life but he already felt that biting need to talk to someone and no one trustworthy enough was around. He thought of buying a goldfish that would be making bubbles out of its mute round mouth while he’d be telling it about his day but registering on a site was easier and didn’t even require standing up from his chair.
He writes all kinds of things in his blog but avoids carefully any details that may compromise his anonymity and he doesn’t really want to write about business deals or post his photos or recall his nights out in written form listing every bar he visited - for that he has his workmail, a Facebook account and no time or wish correspondingly. He posts all kind of stupid things that come to his mind and he never stopped writing in the blog even after he’d got to know Merlin whom he could trust with his pride (and that is sometimes more to him than his life so it counts for something). He writes about how the colour of his shoelaces matched the colour of the pavement one morning, and how much colder the floor seems at night when it’s all quiet and he walks barefoot along the corridor to the kitchen to get a glass of water, and how he looked out of the window last night and linked the lights of the city below with a line in his imagination and what he got looked exactly like the constellation of Orion in his old encyclopedia for children. Sometimes he writes about Merlin calling him ‘my partner’ because it’s just his luck to be dating someone with the rarest name in the whole of the United Kingdom and says utterly idiotic things about him like how Merlin loves strawberry jam and how he grows some ridiculous fat violet flowers on the windowsill and stuff.
The decision to have a blog was a strike of genius - it is like talking to someone and not talking to anyone at all because nobody was subscribed to his blog. Arthur liked it fine but a few months later readers started to appear. There weren’t many but they were there and sometimes they even commented on this entry or that wishing him luck or seconding something. Arthur is pretty sure he didn’t know any of them in real life and wondered idly what they could possibly find interesting in his blog but he never bothered to ask and they just went on being subscribed. It doesn’t feel much different than back when he was writing for no one but himself.
Today he clicks the ‘new entry’ link for the first time during last month and types:
My partner is crippled for life.
It feels more like I’m the one who’s in the wheelchair with only a half of his body working. I suppose thinking that makes me selfish but I can’t help it.
I am helpless.
Suddenly typing an entry seems the stupidest and the hollowest thing he can do about the mess that his life has turned into and he posts it as it is and turns off comments to this one, just in case.
He closes his laptop with a sharp thwack of plastic hitting plastic and sits there for some time while Merlin sleeps behind the next door.
“My parther is crippled for life,” repeats he out loud and it should probably sound ominous or heartbreaking or nerve-wrecking or something along those lines but it sounds just like any other words. Like, ‘The weather is terrible today, don’t you think?’ ‘Well yes, but I have a crippled boyfriend who can’t and won’t touch or kiss me or look at me twice anymore and I don’t pay all that much attention to the weather’ ‘Lucky you, it drives me insane all day and I don’t have any distraction’ ‘Lucky me indeed. Could you pass me the salt?’ Arthur laughs not feeling that anything is actually funny.
He has a quick and rather unpleasant wank in the shower before making some dinner for tonight and heading to work.
Morgana doesn’t kick him out to take care of Merlin today but her glare says she wants to.
Arthur really couldn’t care less.
* * *
Next time they visit the hospital Arthur doesn’t talk to the doctors whose not-so-private conversation he has overheard and they don’t seem eager to chat with him as well. Freya keeps shooting looks full of terror in his direction - she must think he told Merlin everything the moment they were alone and ruined whatever hope Merlin still clung to, and for some reason the fact that Arthur hasn’t done any such thing - yet - doesn’t make her believe that he won’t be a cruel douchebag around his crippled partner. Maybe she’s right to be so afraid of that but Arthur doesn’t want her to be right.
When the therapy is over for today, dr Gaius asks Arthur to stay behind for a minute.
“I can take you downstairs myself,” offers Freya quickly to stop Merlin from asking what it is that needs to be discussed with Arthur in secret. “You never told me about that time after which you started hating French fries.”
“Hate is a strong word,” Merlin snickers. “But I really really really don’t like it.”
Freya giggles recognizing the song reference and drives the wheelchair away so swiftly that Merlin is out before he can even say goodbye to Gaius.
Arthur lifts his eyebrow at Gaius expectantly.
Gaius lifts one of his eyebrows as well. It looks properly intimidating but Arthur doesn’t find it in himself to be genuinely impressed.
The battle of eyebrows lasts for almost twenty seconds. Then Gaius looks away and sits down heavily.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him right away.”
“I’m not going to,” Arthur shrugs. He isn’t, that is true. Not because he wants to go along with the plan that Freya made up - who’s the real douchebag here after that, if you don’t mind Arthur asking? - but because he is not sure what he would say and what Merlin would hear in between the words he’d choose. “Not today and not tomorrow anyway. Is that all you wanted to talk about?”
“Yes Arthur, that is all,” Gaius dismisses him with his first name all of a sudden as if he is somehow closer to him because both of them are lying to Merlin every day and every hour. Arthur hates that it actually sort of makes them closer a little bit and hate is not a too strong word this time.
In the car, before starting the engine, Arthur kisses Merlin - first on the lips but it feels so wrong for the lack of enthusiastic response from Merlin that Arthur ends up with a peck on his cheek and looks out on the road all the way home.
Merlin is reading something again and Arthur doesn’t ask what it is.
* * *
Arhtur has never been the one for rash or bold decisions. For all that he runs a huge company it’s just a branch of his father’s business empire and most things in his life were decided for him - and one can’t really blame Arthur because one certainly doesn’t have a father like Uther Pendragon. Even if it’s been seven years since his father moved permanently to New-York where the company is headquartered, Arthur still feels his shadow looming over him every day. Usually the world spins around smoothly and Arthur is just taken away by the flow of convenient and well-organized events but now it’s not the case.
He can’t see himself living with Merlin for years to come and not having sex. Probably they could find some way to satisfy Arthur - Merlin’s hands and mouth are still in perfect working order after all and there are sex toys - but Arthur knows that Merlin doesn’t really want that anymore and the idea that Merlin will be calmly planning the next chapter of his postgrad work while jerking him off makes him feel miserable and sick. He doesn’t see himself leaving Merlin in this state because he loves Merlin just as much as he loved before and the lack of sex is the only thing that really disturbs him - he doesn’t mind helping Merlin to deal with his body needs, cooking, cleaning, shopping, bringing every single useful and entertaining thing to the nightstand so that these things are within an arm’s reach for Merlin. But he can’t stand cold nights and kisses without heat, he really can’t. One isn’t a kinesthetic for nothing and Arthur’s sensory system is crying out loud at night when Merlin is an inch apart from him but could as well be a mile away.
He thought of staying and cheating on Merlin sometimes, going to clubs and pulling one night stands just to get an orgasm and forget about sex as it is till the next night he goes but it sounds way too pervert for him. He knows Merlin would know. Perhaps Merlin would even like to talk about those that Arthur’d fuck not bothering to ask their name to demonstrate that it doesn’t concern him as long as Arthur comes back home to him because that is what Merlin is - kind and understanding and forgiving and so damn sensible for all his idiocy. He can’t see himself coming back late and smelling like sweat and sex and desperation and going to the same bed as Merlin.
Basically, he doesn’t know what to do but the suspicion that he has to make some decision that will almost surely ruin his life one way or the other nags at the back of his mind constantly.
He spends his morning at work with Morgana giving him some papers to sign and leading him to the conference room when needed, and reading some stock market statistics for the previous week but generally just tuning the world out and doodling in his notepad as if he’s taking notes. But all his pen leaves on paper is pretty crude images depicting wheelchairs and tubes of salve.
Just before lunch he sends Morgana to eat earlier than usually and googles HR agencies on his own.
After a few calls he has appointed an interview with nurse Percival who, according to the secretary of the agency, has excellent experience and possesses every appropriate quality that there is from physical strength to modesty and responsibility. He hopes at least a half of it is true because he needs someone good to look after Merlin during the day.
Arthur calls Merlin to tell him that he hires a nurse. Merlin sounds actually relieved and says that he was anxious that Arthur’s company suffered because Arthur paid more attention to Merlin’s needs that to deals and negotiations. He also says thank you shyly and tenderly and Arthur hangs up with a feeling that he can’t properly breathe.
When he can breathe again, several tears burn their way down his cheeks. He washes his face with cold water and holds a staff meeting after lunch composed and competent as always.
* * *
While driving to the agency he thinks of Merlin.
The first time they met is still vivid in his memory. It happened in a club one night. Merlin was at the bar when Arthur saw him drinking some frilly colourful cocktail with his lush red lips wrapped around the straw and the collar of his shirt hanging low so Arthur had a nice view on those delicious sharp collarbones of his. They were both relatively sober as it was still early but had drunk enough to feel young and irresistible and bursting with energy and, to sum it up, completely invincible.
In half an hour he kissed Merlin’s lips for the first time and found them soft and sweet from the cocktail and positively intoxicating. In twelve hours he woke up with a medium-sized hangover and sleeping Merlin beside him with those lips still puffy from kissing and sucking and caressing, and now open and letting out a bit of drool. He liked that morning so much (excluding the hangover, that is) that he repeated it many times until he didn’t have any other mornings.
He thinks that maybe he should write about it in his blog but it seems for some reason too intimate to ever tell anyone. Maybe because it’s all in the past now and these memories of days and nights filled with affection and lovemaking to the brim are nothing but memories, bright and happy and completely useless like the photos from his first school trip, and if he lets them go into the world he’ll lose them forever.
He thinks he’s being sappy and pathetic but he doesn’t see what he can do about it.
* * *
Nurse Percival reminds Arthur of mountains and Stonehenge - he’s just that big. It means he’d be able to lift skinny Merlin just like Arthur lifts his pen and it is good. Also Percival appears to be quite laconic but not in that no-nonsense macho way that is sometimes so appealing to school bullies but in a considerate and reassuring way and that is good too.
“You’ll have a separate bank account where your salary will be coming to,” says Arthur. “I will pay you what it says in the contract and if you do anything extra for Merlin when he asks - like going to the library for him or buying something urgently, etc - you will be paid extra. Evenings after seven o’clock and weekends will be your time off. Are you alright with that?”
“Yes, mr Pendragon,” says Percival, and that’s pretty much it.
Percival starts this very day - there’s a lot of time left till seven and Merlin is alone - and Arthur leaves work at five feeling guilty and goes for a walk along the Themes. It’s cold and windy today, and Arthur stops feeling his fingers after five minutes but he doesn’t mind. Maybe if he walks long enough his heart and brain will get frozen too and he won’t be pulled by them in a dozen of different directions at once.
They don’t get frozen though and he warms himself in the supermarket standing near the shelf with fresh bread baked right here in the back rooms. He buys a strawberry pie for Merlin and a grapefruit for himself and goes home.
The grapefruit appears to be really bitter. Arthur doesn’t complain.
* * *
Merlin likes Percival judging by what he tells Arthur in the evening. Percival is tactful and efficient, and the only thing that makes Merlin restless now is the fact that a good nurse costs a lot and Arthur’s paying for everything. Arthur thinks if it will be really rude to say that now Merlin can hardly go and pull a shift or two in the nearest coffehouse or bookstore for the sake of his independence.
It’s not even that the money that Arthur pays to Percival is of any significance to him; he pays more to have his car properly washed and cleaned every week. Sadly, this kind of argument makes Merlin either miserable or angry, so Arthur settles on keeping his mouth shut just this once.
“I’m grateful,” says Merlin awkwardly when the pause becomes unbearably huge and torturous. “For being there for me, you know. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Arthur knows that Merlin is sincere. What would seem an attempt at flattery or at attacking his bank accounts or his bachelor status coming from any other person is painfully true and honest coming from Merlin. Merlin most probably wouldn’t give a fuck if Arthur lost all his money tomorrow and would just say that they’d have to really cut down on that overpriced African coffee that they both like shamelessly. Merlin never asks Arthur for anything other then being himself and almost never accepts anything else.
But he knows how to express his feelings and does just that whenever he deems it necessary. It always catches Arthur unawares and leaves him vulnerable, and Arthur thinks right now, with his heart thudding heavily somewhere at his throat and at the pit of his stomach at the same time, that it’s the only thing he could ever hate Merlin for. If he ever could hate Merlin on principle, of course.
“You’d probably stay over somewhere that night and wouldn’t be hurrying back to our place exhausted and in the dark,” says Arthur and it’s probably the wrong thing to say but then he doesn’t know what the right one is like.
Merlin winces, and Arthur muses that maybe Merlin has thought of that himself before but has shooed the unkind and hopeless thought away. That would be very Merlin-ish.
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.”
“There’s a thousand of things that made everything happen the way it did. It’s not like I’d be perfectly safe if I never met you.”
“Is that what you told yourself while thinking about it?” asks Arthur. It might sound a bit too mean even for him, the Certified Prattish Clotpole, but he honestly wants to know and doesn’t imply anything. He’s got enough shit on his mind these days as it is and doesn’t want to add some more by offending Merlin.
Merlin doesn’t wince this time but his fingers clutching the blanket on his lap are white and unmoving.
Arthur goes down on his knees, takes Merlin’s hands in his own carefully and kisses his fingers lightly, those slender delicate fingers that he secretly worshipped before and for some unfathomable reason worships even more now when they will never touch him the way he wants them to again. “I’m sorry,” says he resting his head on Merlin’s lap. It feels like a solid rock in the middle of a storming sea. “I’m sorry so much. I didn’t mean for it to look like… that.”
There were days when apologies had to be practically dragged out of him forcefully. This one slips easily from his tongue because it’s not for what he feels guilty about.
“I know you didn’t,” says Merlin and his voice is soft and sad as if he sees through all of Arthur’s confused cowardly thoughts and never says anything just out of pity for either Arthur or their relationship that is no longer what it once was. “I love you.”
Arthur feels his mind burning and his mouth getting dry on the inside and his lips quivering and he suspects that he might just be at the very edge after which he’ll simply go nuts and won’t be bothered by anything anymore, and it’s not like Merlin has never said it before but this time it means something entirely new and Arthur doesn’t know what and he can’t even ask to explain. He just knows that Merlin strokes his hair and this little physical contact goes throughout his whole body like a shot of tequila and makes him feel warm and dizzy and watch the world becoming somehow fuzzy around the edges until he dozes off for a little while still sitting on the floor by Merlin’s wheelchair.
* * *
Percival takes a lot of Arthur’s former duties but two things are left as they were - firstly, it’s Arthur texting Merlin to remind what pills he has to take right now and never mind that Percival knows that schedule by heart and Merlin probably does as well since it’s already been more than two months. Secondly, every evening after Percival leaves and Arthur makes up some dinner for himself and Merlin, the latter turns over with an effort and Arthur rubs the (totally useless) (deceitful rubbish) salve into his scarred back. He finds it both comforting because at least it’s a legitimate reason to touch Merlin and gut-wrenching because the smell and texture of the salve stay with him all evening however thoroughly he washes his hands and remind him every second that he hasn’t told Merlin yet. No one has.
“I don’t feel anything,” says Merlin once. “It’s so strange. You’re sitting on my legs and touching my back and I’d never know that you’re doing that if it weren’t for the sound of you breathing.”
He doesn’t sound broken - he sounds like he’s starting to adjust to what he has and Arthur thinks: shit, Freya’s plan’s working, he loses hope on his own, is it better if he loses it all in one go or should I go on keeping silent?
“Well, good for you then,” says Arthur. “You always complained I was too heavy whenever I was on top of you, remember? None of that trouble anymore.”
He keeps his voice under control to make sure that it is cheering and carefree, not offensive. However, he must be utter rubbish at this control thing when it comes down to his partner because Merlin props himself up on his elbows and looks back at Arthur over his shoulder - and he doesn’t look particularly cheered.
“I think I was an idiot then,” says Merlin evenly.
“Oh,” says Arthur because he can’t think of anything better. The sharp smell of the salve tickles his nostrils and he sheezes.
Merlin turns away once again lying down with his cheek on the pillow.
Arthur tries to take the smell off of his palms with soap and pumice tonight; it leaves his skin pink and raw and still stinking ever so strongly with the (fucking) (bloody) (useless just like him) salve.
* * *
Percival usually comes early, greets Arthur with a polite nod and goes straight to the bedroom to wake Merlin while Arthur has his scarce cup-of-hellishly-strong-coffee breakfast standing by the counter. This time, though, he stops for a second to cast a longing look at the small coffee machine.
“You want some?” Arthur asks because looks like this one are social cues he’s learnt not to ignore.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Arthur can swear that it’s the longest sentence that Percival has ever uttered in his presence. “I slept in today, didn’t have time for anything.”
Arthur puts his mug down and flicks the switch - the coffee will be not so strong because Arthur’s too lazy to put a new spoonful of grinded beans into the filter but it should be drinkable and better than the instant in any case.
They wait in companionable silence for the machine to start humming busily and pouring the hot brown liquid into a clean guest mug.
“Thank you,” says Percival wrapping his hands around the mug which suddenly looks small. Perhaps a goblet like the ones from the Middle Ages would suit Percival better but Arthur and Merlin don’t have one of those.
“You’re welcome,” Arthur mutters gazing out of the window at the bleak sky.
They have coffee together the next day and the day after that. And then Arthur catches himself checking out Percival’s arse in tight jeans as he walks out of the kitchen and oh God Arthur thanks all heavens that Percival doesn’t look back because if he did he’d find his employer glued to the floor, a bit flailing and gawking mindlessly like that goldfish that has never been bought.
He’s half-hard imagining briefly what it’d be like to squeeze these taut spheres and how warm and simply human they’d be under his touch so he runs away not having finished his coffee. Well, he’s already awake as much as he can be so there’s no need to pump himself up with coffeine, is there?
At work he opens his blog and logs in. There are several private messages for him that all flash sympathetic and caring phrases at him as he scrolls the page down. He deletes them all without answering and types a new entry:
I am disgusting.
I betrayed him today and it felt so good.
He turns comments off once again. He thinks it really counts as betrayal even if it’s not more of one than the thoughts he has about leaving or cheating or using Merlin as a sex doll.
And it actually felt good notwithstanding that Percival could or could not be completely straight. Just imagining that there could be something more than a peck on the cheek and holding hands. In fact Arthur doesn’t need either of those he just needs to be fucked well and proper out of his wits.
Merlin used to do that for him after especially stressful days. He took a couple of Arthur’s ties from the drawer and tied Arthur’s wrists to the headboard and teased him for what felt like eternity and fucked him senseless until Arthur was a puddle of happy, sore and very infatuated jelly. Sometimes it was against the counter, sometimes on the couch, sometimes on the floor - and Arthur threw away the rug after the first time because they both were itchy for two days with rug burns. And more often than not they made it to bed where Arthur could make Merlin writhe and gasp and thrust as much as he liked.
Merlin used to love all of it without put-upon modesty or restraint. He laughed afterwards rubbing gently the traces from the ties on Arthur’s wrists or new cloth burns or unexpected bruises and said he could do much better writing a postgrad in sex than in some vague foreign literature. Arthur agreed wholeheartedly but apparently the system of education in Britain possessed some major flaws which didn’t allow the true talents of youth to be revealed.
Arthur sobs and shakes without tears and accepts the cup of tea that Morgana brings silently.
He can’t help but wonder if she’d put a doze of laxative into this cup if she knew what he’s decided to do.
* * *
In the end it’s easier to accomplish than to nick a candy from a baby’s hand. He calls his father to talk for a minute and a half and calls Percival to leave a message on his answerphone and gives Morgana a to do list and packs whatever personal items he keeps in the office into a plastic bag and makes several more phone calls to arrange and to confirm and to instruct and to order.
He feels strangely numb again, even number than that day which he spent looking at the door of the operating room and not thinking of what he’ll do if Merlin doesn’t make it. Funny, though, it never occurred to him then to ask nimself what he’ll do if Merlin does make it essentially but still not quite.
He leaves work early, tail between his legs, fear and disgust and exhaustion lumpy in his chest and the plastic bag plus the briefcase in hand. A taxi is waiting to take him to the airport.
When the pretty stewardess demands that the mobiles are turned off, he complies. His finger is a millimetre away from the button when the whole phone shudders in his unpleasantly sweaty palm and Merlin’s name and photo pop out on the screen.
Arthur looks at the photo for good thirty seconds memorizing Merlin’s face with his tongue stuck out and his eyes shining with fondness and then turns the phone off to never turn it on again.
At least that’s what he plans to do or, rather, not to do.
The plane takes off and Arthur doesn’t know how it could do that with such burdensome excess baggage as his guilt. Modern machines are indeed so perfect that they resemble magic.
He sleeps through most of his journey and his dreams are dark and empty and dusty like old attics.
On to Part 2
Title: When I Wake Up I Find You're Gone
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Genre: Angst, Drama
Rating: R
Summary: Written as a fill for this prompt at Merlin kinkmeme on LJ: Arthur/Merlin, established relationship. Merlin ends up on a wheelchair and at first Arthur is very sweet and caring with him. When he overhears the doctors saying that he would lose the ability to feel anything from his waist down Arthur panics because he's always been very sexually active with Merlin and the idea of not having sex anymore scares the hell out of him. He leaves him without confronting him and even if the guilt eats him he distracts himself otherwise (cheating, gambling, drinking)...
A/N: The title is from Wolfsheim's song 'Find You're Gone'. Divided into parts due to the length. Also you can read it on FanFiction.Net in one piece here.
Warnings: swearing, dirty talk, disturbing scenes of alcohol intoxication.
Word Count: ~ 23 000
Status: Complete.
Part 1
Arthur is there when Merlin wakes up. At first he blinks sleepily and squints at the lamps that are way too bright, and only several seconds later the realisation dawns. Arthur watches Merlin's facial expressions change - from confused to frightened, from panicked to lost and hurt.
“Hey,” says Arthur squeezing Merlin's hand in his.
“Hey,” says Merlin, all hoarse though he didn't scream from pain - the doctors told Arthur that he had lost consciousness once the car crashed into that blasted tree. “What happened?”
Arthur doesn't want to be the one telling Merlin that but he really has no choice with Merlin's eyes wide and Merlin's fingers cold and limp in his hand.
“An accident,” says Arthur hurriedly because the pause has been far too long. “You drove right into a tree. Didn't you see it?”
“It was dark.” The tips of Merlin's ears go pink, and he licks his lips. “And I was so tired... I think I fell asleep at some point.”
“You could've called me, and I'd've picked you up.”
At first, when he learned about the accident, he was scared shitless. Then he was angry, but it passed too while they operated on Merlin, so many hours on end, and he sat outside with a coffee in his hand and waited, cold fear coiling and rolling inside his stomach. He wouldn't know if the coffee was any good, but he remembered every flaw of the paint of the operation room door. By the time it was over, Arthur was just numb, and he doesn't feel strong enough right now to yell at Merlin for being an irresponsible idiot.
Merlin sighs. He doesn't like asking Arthur to do something for him because Arthur always agrees and does. Arthur knows that though he could never understand why it is so. Merlin lifts the blanket with his free hand and sneaks a peak at his body.
“I've broken some bones, haven't I? There's plaster and bandages all over. I feel like I'm in a Second World War movie, some injured hero of the battlefield, and you're the pretty nurse.” He tries to smile, but it looks rather fake to Arthur.
“Didn't know that roleplay was your cup of tea.” Arthur leans down and kisses Merlin - just because he can. Merlin's lips are chapped and dry and weak in their response and the familiar taste of Merlin is faint underneath sour pain and plastic tinge of the breathing tubes that were taken off only half an hour ago, but Arthur still loves every second of it. “We can give it a try when you are better,” he promises running his thumb over Merlin's cheek.
“When will I be better, then?” Merlin smiles again and it's more genuine this time, but his eyes are still full of anxiety, guilt and unrest.
“They say you were thrown sideways by the impact and bent all over the seatbelt. There's something wrong with your spine, they don't know what exactly yet, and you legs are... well... not well,” finishes Arthur awkwardly. “I can go talk to them now, maybe there's some update.”
“Bring me something to drink when you are back, will you? Tea or water.”
“Sure.” Arthur leaves the room still numb and tense, but breathing seems to be a bit easier now that Merlin is awake. Everything's gonna be alright now one way or the other, isn't it?
* * *
Merlin leaves the hospital two weeks later. In a wheelchair. Arthur carries him into the car and folds the wheelchair clumsily - he's not used to it, but he reckons he will be. Merlin is pliant and heavy in his arms when Arthur carries him to bed at home, and his lips are warm and scratchy on Arthur's neck. He depends on Arthur now and though he's never liked it he seems to be alright with it. After all, his struggling for doing things himself was partially the reason of all this.
“You should go to work,” Merlin says while Arthur's fretting to bring some water and Merlin's laptop and the whole bunch of pills that were prescribed by the doctors. “You'll be missed.”
“Work can wait till tomorrow. 'S not like the end of the world is happening right there and now. Do you want some cookies? Your mother sent us loads, I guess it's her motherly revenge for you talking her out of coming here from Ealdor the moment she knew.”
“Nah, I'm fine.” Merlin puts his laptop on his lap demostrating clearly that he'll be perfectly fine on his own if Arthur goes and tries to work right now. “I'll watch something if you give me the DVDs. And don't say Morgana doesn't call you six times a day with this question or that, so you'd better go and answer them all at once.”
Merlin has a point - Arthur's unsufferable PA does call him all the time because a company doesn't run itself without its CEO. But Merlin is more important, somehow, then the work of Arthur's life.
Merlin opens his laptop and looks at the screen so pointedly as if there's something interesting there already. Arthur takes an armful of DVDs from the shelf and drops them beside Merlin.
“I'll go buy some groceries then,” says he feeling suddenly the odd man out in his own home. “Here, they wrote that you should take the yellow little ones every half an hour, and there's a salve for your spine but don't touch it, I'll help you with it as soon as I'm back...”
“OK.” Merlin takes the A4 piece of paper with detailed prescriptions and kisses Arthur's knuckles - briefly, fleetingly, gratefully - and goes back to his laptop like nothing happened at all, but Arthur's heart clenches for some reason. “Go, it's alright, really.”
And Arthur goes because what else can he do at this point, really? He keeps his mobile in his inner pocket so he won't miss a call from Merlin but Merlin doesn't call while Arthur's out.
Arthur buys a coffee after leaving the supermarket with plastic bags stuffed with everything he could think of - Merlin usually does the groceries, and Arthur is a tad at a loss as he doesn't actually know what they need - and, sipping it, he visits his office for a little while. Morgana sends him home almost immediately - apparently the woman thinks she knows best what Arthur and Merlin both have to be doing at the moment, and she can be persistant.
Arthur goes home with his coffee and lots of vegetables, flour, bread, sausages and whatnot, and thinks why is that that he's become not particularly welcome in his two favourite places in the world in one day.
He kisses Merlin when he's back. Merlin tastes like the little yellow pills although they are meant to be swallowed whole, not chewed.
Arthur reckons, he'll have to get used to it as well.
* * *
Arthur never actually got to the yelling thing - Merlin looks far too fragile and pale wrapped in their giant duvet, and Arthur’s anger that appears when he remembers that Merlin’s stubborness and wish to be independent led to what they have now shuts down every time. Eventually there’s no anger anymore, and Arthur doesn’t miss it.
They have new rituals now. Cooking together is replaced with Arthur trying to figure out a recipe that will be suitable for a sick person and Merlin reading his Spanish surrealists quietly in his wheelchair in the corner of the kitchen (Merlin says that even if he’s injured there’s no reason for him to fall back on his postgrad work, so he does a lot of reading for which he couldn’t find time before). They don’t go out anymore even though Merlin says it’s alright if Arthur goes and has a relaxing evening. Arthur is sick of the word ‘alright’ and thinks of forbidding Merlin to use it altogether.
Also Arthur sends Merlin texts to remind him what pills he should take now. However strange it is, in text messages Merlin seems more carefree and cheerful than in person. Perhaps because it’s almost like before, Arthur thinks. He doesn’t know and doesn’t ask Merlin about it.
Every evening, after dinner, Arthur turns Merlin onto his stomach and pushes the duvet and Merlin’s t-shirt away to reveal his back. After that Arthur takes the tube with the salve from the nightstand and warms it carefully between his fingers before applying it to Merlin’s back.
Merlin is quiet under Arthur’s touch; he lies unmoving with his chin propped on his hands, and his shoulders are tense - Arthur sees it even under the oversized t-shirt. Arthur is glad that one can’t see their own back without a mirror because Merlin’s skin is a mess of scars which are still raw and bright: it will take many months for them to become pale and more or less invisible. Arthur imagines tracing every single one with his tongue - will it make Merlin shiver, will it make him gasp, or writhe, or moan softly like he does when Arthur teases him with featherlight touches for a long time? He saves the idea for later, though, - the doctors say Merlin doesn’t feel anything from his waist down right now. Later, when Merlin’s sensitive and strong and playful again.
Arthur always finishes rubbing the salve with a kiss between Merlin’s shoulderblades. Merlin sighs deeply in response as if grateful for something that Arthur can’t fully grasp or, the other way round, sad because of something that he never talks about.
* * *
Morgana can say what she likes - which she does anyway - but Arthur is a gentleman. He waits for a week and a half before trying to seduce Merlin after their teeth are brushed, the lights are off and the moonlight starts gathering in stain-like puddles on the floor. He’s not after sex as it is seeing as Merlin is still far from recovery but, well, a little bit of affection would be nice. Arthur is hungry for touch, the tenderness and the passion that always accompany him and Merlin in bed; he feels like since the accident some kind of wall is growing between them and he can’t even properly see Merlin behind it.
He caresses Merlin’s shoulder with his lips and fingertips, that warm smooth skin he loves so much. Merlin is motionless, and Arthur would think he’s asleep if not for the fact that his breathing is far too even and cautious.
“I miss it,” whispers Arthur, and Merlin gives up pretending, opening his eyes. They look dark blue without a single spark, practically pitch-black in the darkness of the bedroom, and he’s all the more pale for it. “I miss you inside me, your cock in my mouth, your legs around my back.”
A fair share of dirty talk never fails to turn Merlin on. However, that doesn’t seem to be the case - more than that, Merlin goes all stiff under Arthur like that person in a movie who was hypnotised and laid between two chairs, supported only at their neck and at their ankles but lying there nonetheless because they were told to.
“Arthur,” exhales Merlin.
Arthur kisses his face with little silly kisses of care and fondness, over Merlin’s eyebrows and hollows in his cheeks and the alae of his nose and the corners of his mouth. When he touches Merlin’s eyelashes with his lips he feels wetness of bitter-salty taste.
It’s tears.
“What’s wrong?” Arthur cups Melin’s nape and leans in to press his forehead against Merlin’s. “Are you in pain?”
“No,” Merlin says sounding like he has to drag the words out of himself while they are actively against it. “No, I’m not in pain. I just… I don’t feel anything. I can’t… I can’t give you what you want. And it doesn’t get better, the salve doesn’t help, nothing helps, and I look at you and think that you are the most shaggable person in the world and I don’t actually want to do anything with you because that part of me is long gone!”
Merlin catches breath, and Arthur notices distantly that Merlin’s fingers dig deep into his shoulder as if he’s trying to hold Arthur where he is. As if Arthur’s going to run away.
Arthur covers Merlin’s body with his and pulls Merlin as close as he can, and that’s the last straw that breaks Merlin. He sobs silently into Arthur’s shoulder and hugs him like he hasn’t hugged even once during these three weeks and a half and Arthur whispers that it will be alright, everything will be fine, everything will turn out well because it must, because there’s no other way it can end.
Merlin cries himself to sleep and goes slack and sleepy-warm still clutching at Arthur.
Arthur watches the moonlight move along the floor until dawn.
* * *
In the morning they go to the hospital for a regular check-up and some therapy that Merlin has to go through. His eyes are still puffy and red-rimmed despite the fact that he has slept for nine hours but otherwise he seems rested and calm. And he hugs Arthur tightly when he’s carried to the car, and Arthur kisses the top of Merlin’s head because he understands that this hug is all that Merlin can give him now. All that Merlin has at the moment, to be precise.
Arthur takes Merlin to the x-ray room and then to the therapy room where dr Gaius meets them as usually. Merlin trusts dr Gaius to make everything right, maybe because the man has something grandfartherly and reassuring around him but Arthur doesn’t miss the uncertainty in his eyes under bushy white eyebrows and light, almost translucent eyelashes.
He goes back to the x-ray room to fetch the resuls stretching his wrists - he’s still not really used to driving a wheelchair of all things, and it’s quite heavy and hulky. The door is ajar and Arthur stops right outside to work on his wrists a bit more. The doctors inside the room are talking and Arthur recognises voices - dr Nimueh, dr Edwin Muirden, dr Lancelot du Lac and that little intern Freya Lake who takes to Merlin like house on fire and always manages to make him smile.
“It’s hopeless,” says dr Nimueh (is it a name or a surname? Arthur is not sure). “Look, he’s deteorating day by day.”
“We can’t give up just yet,” du Lac sounds resigned as if he argues out of sheer stubborness and can’t help but see that Nimueh is right. “Therapy can turn the process back…”
“It never does if the process is detereoration,” snaps dr Muirden. “It would take a miracle to at least stop it. Therapy is no miracle.”
“So what you both are suggesting is basically to go to the young man and say that he’s going to be a half of himself for the rest of his life?” du Lac is angry judging by his voice. “Aren’t you too quick to make conclusions?”
“Well, it’s better than giving your patients false hope for years before they consult someone else and commit suicide,” hisses Muirden. It’s a low blow, thinks Arthur but he can’t quite sympathize with polite and charming du Lac because he’s trying to figure out who they are talking about. It could be anyone, right? This hospital cares of thousands of patients, doesn’t it?
“Shut up before I hit you,” warns du Lac, and Muirden doesn’t answer.
“It’s been less than a month,” says Freya quietly. “He still hopes a great deal. Let’s wait a bit. Maybe, half a year? So that he can grow accustomed to what he has. It will be easier to accept that it’s what’s going to be the rest of his life.” Her voice is high and raw as if she’s ready to cry but she speaks steadily - it’s obviously not an improvisation.
“OK,” dr Nimueh sounds tired and broken. “We’ll do as you suggest Freya. Will you take his results to the therapy room? He’s got to be there with Gaius now.”
“His partner always fetches them,” there are sounds like folding paper that surround Freya’s voice and the echo of her steps. “Arthur, that’s his name. Tell him I’ve already gone to the therapy room if he shows up? You remember him, that stunning blond who looks like he owns the world.”
Arthur steps back and to the wall to his right led by pure instinct. The door opens wide and Freys hurries past with some x-ray pictures without noticing Arthur. Dr du Lac and dr Nimueh leave the room after her and they are not in a hurry so they don’t miss Arthur in the shadow of the door.
“Well,” says Arthur. “There’s no need for me to fetch the results, then, seeing as intern Lake has already gone to the therapy room.”
Words feel like pebbles in his mouth grinding against each other clumsily and tasting like sand and earth. Arthur turns away from the doctors and goes along the corridor to the therapy room accompanied by Nimueh’s quiet “Fuck.”
* * *
Merlin looks hopeful studying the results of his x-ray. He doesn’t know shit about how to read these pictures but Gaius gives them to him with a smile and Merlin evidently thinks it’s a good sign. Arthur feels sick knowing that this smile is as fake as a fake thing in the land of fake things.
“See, your spine bones have been shattered here, here and here,” shows Gaius. “They are starting to heal now, that’s a slow process but they will surely not resemble stray noodles in your soup in a few months.”
“Will they recover fully?” Arthur can’t stop himself asking as if a naughty goblin is controlling his tongue.
Freys winces at that and looks at him frightened. Gaius lookes confused for a second but then he looks just tired. He knows that Arthur knows.
“The salve we are using has been fabulous at the clinic trials and obviously it’s meant just for the kind of trauma that mr Emrys is dealing with. Ninety per cent of similar patients recover fully with proper treatment.” He doesn’t say outright lies and this should make Merlin suspect but it doesn’t. Though it does make Arthur angry and makes him think what it is that one is supposed to do when one or somebody one loves doesn’t fit the lucky ninety per cent. What happens when the logical cycle of being injured and being cured is broken, shattered to pieces just like Merlin’s spine? Arthur doesn’t really know and he’s fucking bone-chiling terrified by understanding that he will have to know it because the injured stage is likely to go on forever, his own and Merlin’s personal forever.
“Thank you,” says Merlin sincerely.
“You’re welcome, young man, you’re quite welcome.” Caius takes the handles of the wheelchair. “Let’s put you to some therapy, that will do you good.” His voice is soft and fond when he talks to Merlin though they are just a doctor and a patient. Merlin is able to melt ice with his shiny smiles, probably, Arthur always thought so. It’s just that right now the ice inside Arthur has apparently grown immune to them, and it feels so cold and tight in his chest.
* * *
Merlin is taking a nap after lunch. Arthur is not sure why but he just takes the open book off of Merlin’s evenly rising and falling chest and pulls the duvet higher so that Merlin’s bony shoulders wouldn’t feel cold. Then he slips out and goes to the living-room where there is his laptop on the coffee table.
Arthue has a blog. No one knows about it - well, perhaps, Merlin knows since he knows more about Arthur than any person in their right mind would want to but he never says anything if he does. Arthur uses a pseudonym in his blog in case anyone he knows ever stumbles across it; he’s prince028 and it is a really lame name up to anyone’s standarts but Arthur doesn’t care - and it’s nice not to care once in awhile. He started the blog three years ago when there was no Merlin in his life but he already felt that biting need to talk to someone and no one trustworthy enough was around. He thought of buying a goldfish that would be making bubbles out of its mute round mouth while he’d be telling it about his day but registering on a site was easier and didn’t even require standing up from his chair.
He writes all kinds of things in his blog but avoids carefully any details that may compromise his anonymity and he doesn’t really want to write about business deals or post his photos or recall his nights out in written form listing every bar he visited - for that he has his workmail, a Facebook account and no time or wish correspondingly. He posts all kind of stupid things that come to his mind and he never stopped writing in the blog even after he’d got to know Merlin whom he could trust with his pride (and that is sometimes more to him than his life so it counts for something). He writes about how the colour of his shoelaces matched the colour of the pavement one morning, and how much colder the floor seems at night when it’s all quiet and he walks barefoot along the corridor to the kitchen to get a glass of water, and how he looked out of the window last night and linked the lights of the city below with a line in his imagination and what he got looked exactly like the constellation of Orion in his old encyclopedia for children. Sometimes he writes about Merlin calling him ‘my partner’ because it’s just his luck to be dating someone with the rarest name in the whole of the United Kingdom and says utterly idiotic things about him like how Merlin loves strawberry jam and how he grows some ridiculous fat violet flowers on the windowsill and stuff.
The decision to have a blog was a strike of genius - it is like talking to someone and not talking to anyone at all because nobody was subscribed to his blog. Arthur liked it fine but a few months later readers started to appear. There weren’t many but they were there and sometimes they even commented on this entry or that wishing him luck or seconding something. Arthur is pretty sure he didn’t know any of them in real life and wondered idly what they could possibly find interesting in his blog but he never bothered to ask and they just went on being subscribed. It doesn’t feel much different than back when he was writing for no one but himself.
Today he clicks the ‘new entry’ link for the first time during last month and types:
My partner is crippled for life.
It feels more like I’m the one who’s in the wheelchair with only a half of his body working. I suppose thinking that makes me selfish but I can’t help it.
I am helpless.
Suddenly typing an entry seems the stupidest and the hollowest thing he can do about the mess that his life has turned into and he posts it as it is and turns off comments to this one, just in case.
He closes his laptop with a sharp thwack of plastic hitting plastic and sits there for some time while Merlin sleeps behind the next door.
“My parther is crippled for life,” repeats he out loud and it should probably sound ominous or heartbreaking or nerve-wrecking or something along those lines but it sounds just like any other words. Like, ‘The weather is terrible today, don’t you think?’ ‘Well yes, but I have a crippled boyfriend who can’t and won’t touch or kiss me or look at me twice anymore and I don’t pay all that much attention to the weather’ ‘Lucky you, it drives me insane all day and I don’t have any distraction’ ‘Lucky me indeed. Could you pass me the salt?’ Arthur laughs not feeling that anything is actually funny.
He has a quick and rather unpleasant wank in the shower before making some dinner for tonight and heading to work.
Morgana doesn’t kick him out to take care of Merlin today but her glare says she wants to.
Arthur really couldn’t care less.
* * *
Next time they visit the hospital Arthur doesn’t talk to the doctors whose not-so-private conversation he has overheard and they don’t seem eager to chat with him as well. Freya keeps shooting looks full of terror in his direction - she must think he told Merlin everything the moment they were alone and ruined whatever hope Merlin still clung to, and for some reason the fact that Arthur hasn’t done any such thing - yet - doesn’t make her believe that he won’t be a cruel douchebag around his crippled partner. Maybe she’s right to be so afraid of that but Arthur doesn’t want her to be right.
When the therapy is over for today, dr Gaius asks Arthur to stay behind for a minute.
“I can take you downstairs myself,” offers Freya quickly to stop Merlin from asking what it is that needs to be discussed with Arthur in secret. “You never told me about that time after which you started hating French fries.”
“Hate is a strong word,” Merlin snickers. “But I really really really don’t like it.”
Freya giggles recognizing the song reference and drives the wheelchair away so swiftly that Merlin is out before he can even say goodbye to Gaius.
Arthur lifts his eyebrow at Gaius expectantly.
Gaius lifts one of his eyebrows as well. It looks properly intimidating but Arthur doesn’t find it in himself to be genuinely impressed.
The battle of eyebrows lasts for almost twenty seconds. Then Gaius looks away and sits down heavily.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him right away.”
“I’m not going to,” Arthur shrugs. He isn’t, that is true. Not because he wants to go along with the plan that Freya made up - who’s the real douchebag here after that, if you don’t mind Arthur asking? - but because he is not sure what he would say and what Merlin would hear in between the words he’d choose. “Not today and not tomorrow anyway. Is that all you wanted to talk about?”
“Yes Arthur, that is all,” Gaius dismisses him with his first name all of a sudden as if he is somehow closer to him because both of them are lying to Merlin every day and every hour. Arthur hates that it actually sort of makes them closer a little bit and hate is not a too strong word this time.
In the car, before starting the engine, Arthur kisses Merlin - first on the lips but it feels so wrong for the lack of enthusiastic response from Merlin that Arthur ends up with a peck on his cheek and looks out on the road all the way home.
Merlin is reading something again and Arthur doesn’t ask what it is.
* * *
Arhtur has never been the one for rash or bold decisions. For all that he runs a huge company it’s just a branch of his father’s business empire and most things in his life were decided for him - and one can’t really blame Arthur because one certainly doesn’t have a father like Uther Pendragon. Even if it’s been seven years since his father moved permanently to New-York where the company is headquartered, Arthur still feels his shadow looming over him every day. Usually the world spins around smoothly and Arthur is just taken away by the flow of convenient and well-organized events but now it’s not the case.
He can’t see himself living with Merlin for years to come and not having sex. Probably they could find some way to satisfy Arthur - Merlin’s hands and mouth are still in perfect working order after all and there are sex toys - but Arthur knows that Merlin doesn’t really want that anymore and the idea that Merlin will be calmly planning the next chapter of his postgrad work while jerking him off makes him feel miserable and sick. He doesn’t see himself leaving Merlin in this state because he loves Merlin just as much as he loved before and the lack of sex is the only thing that really disturbs him - he doesn’t mind helping Merlin to deal with his body needs, cooking, cleaning, shopping, bringing every single useful and entertaining thing to the nightstand so that these things are within an arm’s reach for Merlin. But he can’t stand cold nights and kisses without heat, he really can’t. One isn’t a kinesthetic for nothing and Arthur’s sensory system is crying out loud at night when Merlin is an inch apart from him but could as well be a mile away.
He thought of staying and cheating on Merlin sometimes, going to clubs and pulling one night stands just to get an orgasm and forget about sex as it is till the next night he goes but it sounds way too pervert for him. He knows Merlin would know. Perhaps Merlin would even like to talk about those that Arthur’d fuck not bothering to ask their name to demonstrate that it doesn’t concern him as long as Arthur comes back home to him because that is what Merlin is - kind and understanding and forgiving and so damn sensible for all his idiocy. He can’t see himself coming back late and smelling like sweat and sex and desperation and going to the same bed as Merlin.
Basically, he doesn’t know what to do but the suspicion that he has to make some decision that will almost surely ruin his life one way or the other nags at the back of his mind constantly.
He spends his morning at work with Morgana giving him some papers to sign and leading him to the conference room when needed, and reading some stock market statistics for the previous week but generally just tuning the world out and doodling in his notepad as if he’s taking notes. But all his pen leaves on paper is pretty crude images depicting wheelchairs and tubes of salve.
Just before lunch he sends Morgana to eat earlier than usually and googles HR agencies on his own.
After a few calls he has appointed an interview with nurse Percival who, according to the secretary of the agency, has excellent experience and possesses every appropriate quality that there is from physical strength to modesty and responsibility. He hopes at least a half of it is true because he needs someone good to look after Merlin during the day.
Arthur calls Merlin to tell him that he hires a nurse. Merlin sounds actually relieved and says that he was anxious that Arthur’s company suffered because Arthur paid more attention to Merlin’s needs that to deals and negotiations. He also says thank you shyly and tenderly and Arthur hangs up with a feeling that he can’t properly breathe.
When he can breathe again, several tears burn their way down his cheeks. He washes his face with cold water and holds a staff meeting after lunch composed and competent as always.
* * *
While driving to the agency he thinks of Merlin.
The first time they met is still vivid in his memory. It happened in a club one night. Merlin was at the bar when Arthur saw him drinking some frilly colourful cocktail with his lush red lips wrapped around the straw and the collar of his shirt hanging low so Arthur had a nice view on those delicious sharp collarbones of his. They were both relatively sober as it was still early but had drunk enough to feel young and irresistible and bursting with energy and, to sum it up, completely invincible.
In half an hour he kissed Merlin’s lips for the first time and found them soft and sweet from the cocktail and positively intoxicating. In twelve hours he woke up with a medium-sized hangover and sleeping Merlin beside him with those lips still puffy from kissing and sucking and caressing, and now open and letting out a bit of drool. He liked that morning so much (excluding the hangover, that is) that he repeated it many times until he didn’t have any other mornings.
He thinks that maybe he should write about it in his blog but it seems for some reason too intimate to ever tell anyone. Maybe because it’s all in the past now and these memories of days and nights filled with affection and lovemaking to the brim are nothing but memories, bright and happy and completely useless like the photos from his first school trip, and if he lets them go into the world he’ll lose them forever.
He thinks he’s being sappy and pathetic but he doesn’t see what he can do about it.
* * *
Nurse Percival reminds Arthur of mountains and Stonehenge - he’s just that big. It means he’d be able to lift skinny Merlin just like Arthur lifts his pen and it is good. Also Percival appears to be quite laconic but not in that no-nonsense macho way that is sometimes so appealing to school bullies but in a considerate and reassuring way and that is good too.
“You’ll have a separate bank account where your salary will be coming to,” says Arthur. “I will pay you what it says in the contract and if you do anything extra for Merlin when he asks - like going to the library for him or buying something urgently, etc - you will be paid extra. Evenings after seven o’clock and weekends will be your time off. Are you alright with that?”
“Yes, mr Pendragon,” says Percival, and that’s pretty much it.
Percival starts this very day - there’s a lot of time left till seven and Merlin is alone - and Arthur leaves work at five feeling guilty and goes for a walk along the Themes. It’s cold and windy today, and Arthur stops feeling his fingers after five minutes but he doesn’t mind. Maybe if he walks long enough his heart and brain will get frozen too and he won’t be pulled by them in a dozen of different directions at once.
They don’t get frozen though and he warms himself in the supermarket standing near the shelf with fresh bread baked right here in the back rooms. He buys a strawberry pie for Merlin and a grapefruit for himself and goes home.
The grapefruit appears to be really bitter. Arthur doesn’t complain.
* * *
Merlin likes Percival judging by what he tells Arthur in the evening. Percival is tactful and efficient, and the only thing that makes Merlin restless now is the fact that a good nurse costs a lot and Arthur’s paying for everything. Arthur thinks if it will be really rude to say that now Merlin can hardly go and pull a shift or two in the nearest coffehouse or bookstore for the sake of his independence.
It’s not even that the money that Arthur pays to Percival is of any significance to him; he pays more to have his car properly washed and cleaned every week. Sadly, this kind of argument makes Merlin either miserable or angry, so Arthur settles on keeping his mouth shut just this once.
“I’m grateful,” says Merlin awkwardly when the pause becomes unbearably huge and torturous. “For being there for me, you know. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Arthur knows that Merlin is sincere. What would seem an attempt at flattery or at attacking his bank accounts or his bachelor status coming from any other person is painfully true and honest coming from Merlin. Merlin most probably wouldn’t give a fuck if Arthur lost all his money tomorrow and would just say that they’d have to really cut down on that overpriced African coffee that they both like shamelessly. Merlin never asks Arthur for anything other then being himself and almost never accepts anything else.
But he knows how to express his feelings and does just that whenever he deems it necessary. It always catches Arthur unawares and leaves him vulnerable, and Arthur thinks right now, with his heart thudding heavily somewhere at his throat and at the pit of his stomach at the same time, that it’s the only thing he could ever hate Merlin for. If he ever could hate Merlin on principle, of course.
“You’d probably stay over somewhere that night and wouldn’t be hurrying back to our place exhausted and in the dark,” says Arthur and it’s probably the wrong thing to say but then he doesn’t know what the right one is like.
Merlin winces, and Arthur muses that maybe Merlin has thought of that himself before but has shooed the unkind and hopeless thought away. That would be very Merlin-ish.
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.”
“There’s a thousand of things that made everything happen the way it did. It’s not like I’d be perfectly safe if I never met you.”
“Is that what you told yourself while thinking about it?” asks Arthur. It might sound a bit too mean even for him, the Certified Prattish Clotpole, but he honestly wants to know and doesn’t imply anything. He’s got enough shit on his mind these days as it is and doesn’t want to add some more by offending Merlin.
Merlin doesn’t wince this time but his fingers clutching the blanket on his lap are white and unmoving.
Arthur goes down on his knees, takes Merlin’s hands in his own carefully and kisses his fingers lightly, those slender delicate fingers that he secretly worshipped before and for some unfathomable reason worships even more now when they will never touch him the way he wants them to again. “I’m sorry,” says he resting his head on Merlin’s lap. It feels like a solid rock in the middle of a storming sea. “I’m sorry so much. I didn’t mean for it to look like… that.”
There were days when apologies had to be practically dragged out of him forcefully. This one slips easily from his tongue because it’s not for what he feels guilty about.
“I know you didn’t,” says Merlin and his voice is soft and sad as if he sees through all of Arthur’s confused cowardly thoughts and never says anything just out of pity for either Arthur or their relationship that is no longer what it once was. “I love you.”
Arthur feels his mind burning and his mouth getting dry on the inside and his lips quivering and he suspects that he might just be at the very edge after which he’ll simply go nuts and won’t be bothered by anything anymore, and it’s not like Merlin has never said it before but this time it means something entirely new and Arthur doesn’t know what and he can’t even ask to explain. He just knows that Merlin strokes his hair and this little physical contact goes throughout his whole body like a shot of tequila and makes him feel warm and dizzy and watch the world becoming somehow fuzzy around the edges until he dozes off for a little while still sitting on the floor by Merlin’s wheelchair.
* * *
Percival takes a lot of Arthur’s former duties but two things are left as they were - firstly, it’s Arthur texting Merlin to remind what pills he has to take right now and never mind that Percival knows that schedule by heart and Merlin probably does as well since it’s already been more than two months. Secondly, every evening after Percival leaves and Arthur makes up some dinner for himself and Merlin, the latter turns over with an effort and Arthur rubs the (totally useless) (deceitful rubbish) salve into his scarred back. He finds it both comforting because at least it’s a legitimate reason to touch Merlin and gut-wrenching because the smell and texture of the salve stay with him all evening however thoroughly he washes his hands and remind him every second that he hasn’t told Merlin yet. No one has.
“I don’t feel anything,” says Merlin once. “It’s so strange. You’re sitting on my legs and touching my back and I’d never know that you’re doing that if it weren’t for the sound of you breathing.”
He doesn’t sound broken - he sounds like he’s starting to adjust to what he has and Arthur thinks: shit, Freya’s plan’s working, he loses hope on his own, is it better if he loses it all in one go or should I go on keeping silent?
“Well, good for you then,” says Arthur. “You always complained I was too heavy whenever I was on top of you, remember? None of that trouble anymore.”
He keeps his voice under control to make sure that it is cheering and carefree, not offensive. However, he must be utter rubbish at this control thing when it comes down to his partner because Merlin props himself up on his elbows and looks back at Arthur over his shoulder - and he doesn’t look particularly cheered.
“I think I was an idiot then,” says Merlin evenly.
“Oh,” says Arthur because he can’t think of anything better. The sharp smell of the salve tickles his nostrils and he sheezes.
Merlin turns away once again lying down with his cheek on the pillow.
Arthur tries to take the smell off of his palms with soap and pumice tonight; it leaves his skin pink and raw and still stinking ever so strongly with the (fucking) (bloody) (useless just like him) salve.
* * *
Percival usually comes early, greets Arthur with a polite nod and goes straight to the bedroom to wake Merlin while Arthur has his scarce cup-of-hellishly-strong-coffee breakfast standing by the counter. This time, though, he stops for a second to cast a longing look at the small coffee machine.
“You want some?” Arthur asks because looks like this one are social cues he’s learnt not to ignore.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Arthur can swear that it’s the longest sentence that Percival has ever uttered in his presence. “I slept in today, didn’t have time for anything.”
Arthur puts his mug down and flicks the switch - the coffee will be not so strong because Arthur’s too lazy to put a new spoonful of grinded beans into the filter but it should be drinkable and better than the instant in any case.
They wait in companionable silence for the machine to start humming busily and pouring the hot brown liquid into a clean guest mug.
“Thank you,” says Percival wrapping his hands around the mug which suddenly looks small. Perhaps a goblet like the ones from the Middle Ages would suit Percival better but Arthur and Merlin don’t have one of those.
“You’re welcome,” Arthur mutters gazing out of the window at the bleak sky.
They have coffee together the next day and the day after that. And then Arthur catches himself checking out Percival’s arse in tight jeans as he walks out of the kitchen and oh God Arthur thanks all heavens that Percival doesn’t look back because if he did he’d find his employer glued to the floor, a bit flailing and gawking mindlessly like that goldfish that has never been bought.
He’s half-hard imagining briefly what it’d be like to squeeze these taut spheres and how warm and simply human they’d be under his touch so he runs away not having finished his coffee. Well, he’s already awake as much as he can be so there’s no need to pump himself up with coffeine, is there?
At work he opens his blog and logs in. There are several private messages for him that all flash sympathetic and caring phrases at him as he scrolls the page down. He deletes them all without answering and types a new entry:
I am disgusting.
I betrayed him today and it felt so good.
He turns comments off once again. He thinks it really counts as betrayal even if it’s not more of one than the thoughts he has about leaving or cheating or using Merlin as a sex doll.
And it actually felt good notwithstanding that Percival could or could not be completely straight. Just imagining that there could be something more than a peck on the cheek and holding hands. In fact Arthur doesn’t need either of those he just needs to be fucked well and proper out of his wits.
Merlin used to do that for him after especially stressful days. He took a couple of Arthur’s ties from the drawer and tied Arthur’s wrists to the headboard and teased him for what felt like eternity and fucked him senseless until Arthur was a puddle of happy, sore and very infatuated jelly. Sometimes it was against the counter, sometimes on the couch, sometimes on the floor - and Arthur threw away the rug after the first time because they both were itchy for two days with rug burns. And more often than not they made it to bed where Arthur could make Merlin writhe and gasp and thrust as much as he liked.
Merlin used to love all of it without put-upon modesty or restraint. He laughed afterwards rubbing gently the traces from the ties on Arthur’s wrists or new cloth burns or unexpected bruises and said he could do much better writing a postgrad in sex than in some vague foreign literature. Arthur agreed wholeheartedly but apparently the system of education in Britain possessed some major flaws which didn’t allow the true talents of youth to be revealed.
Arthur sobs and shakes without tears and accepts the cup of tea that Morgana brings silently.
He can’t help but wonder if she’d put a doze of laxative into this cup if she knew what he’s decided to do.
* * *
In the end it’s easier to accomplish than to nick a candy from a baby’s hand. He calls his father to talk for a minute and a half and calls Percival to leave a message on his answerphone and gives Morgana a to do list and packs whatever personal items he keeps in the office into a plastic bag and makes several more phone calls to arrange and to confirm and to instruct and to order.
He feels strangely numb again, even number than that day which he spent looking at the door of the operating room and not thinking of what he’ll do if Merlin doesn’t make it. Funny, though, it never occurred to him then to ask nimself what he’ll do if Merlin does make it essentially but still not quite.
He leaves work early, tail between his legs, fear and disgust and exhaustion lumpy in his chest and the plastic bag plus the briefcase in hand. A taxi is waiting to take him to the airport.
When the pretty stewardess demands that the mobiles are turned off, he complies. His finger is a millimetre away from the button when the whole phone shudders in his unpleasantly sweaty palm and Merlin’s name and photo pop out on the screen.
Arthur looks at the photo for good thirty seconds memorizing Merlin’s face with his tongue stuck out and his eyes shining with fondness and then turns the phone off to never turn it on again.
At least that’s what he plans to do or, rather, not to do.
The plane takes off and Arthur doesn’t know how it could do that with such burdensome excess baggage as his guilt. Modern machines are indeed so perfect that they resemble magic.
He sleeps through most of his journey and his dreams are dark and empty and dusty like old attics.
On to Part 2