[FIC] All my empty spaces (Arthur/Merlin; R)
Author: Anon
Title: All my empty spaces
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Arthur/Merlin
Rating: barely r
Summary: They're doing it all wrong, moving too fast, but Merlin recognizes something in Arthur, and he can tell, from the way Arthur watches him, that he sees it too.
Warnings (if any): none
Total Word Count/Length: 4,274w
Original prompt number: 168 - Submitted by accioscar
Disclaimer: This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by the BBC and Shine TV. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's notes (if any): I fell in love with this prompt when I first saw it, so thanks to the prompter, and thanks so much to my beta. This would have been a much more painful writing process if I didn't know there was someone out there to read this over.
Beta(s): Anon
( Read on AO3 )
There are times in the afternoon, when the clouds are so dark and thick, that Arthur's room feels too small. The grey carpet on the floor and the wooden furniture just add to the illusion of darkness in the house. The rain is falling fast, pounding against the windows, the wind shaking the frame. It's quiet, despite all the noise, the flat empty without anyone in Arthur's bed.
He's seated at his desk, the straight back chair forcing him to sit up. There's a lamp on the right corner of his desk, angled so that the light shines from the top right corner of his desk to the bottom left. The paperback Arthur tossed there two nights ago is covered with a thin layer of dust and the cup of tea from this morning sits on a coaster.
There is water running in rivulets down the window in front of Arthur's desk. He can't see much past the fog that covers the window, and even if he could, there's nothing he hasn't seen. His flat looks out into long stretches of sand that separate the house from the ocean. Arthur jogs there in the mornings, just runs along the beach until the sun starts coming up over the horizon.
He stands up from his desk, goes to the white bedroom door. His hand is on the doorknob, but he doesn't turn it. He knows what he'll find outside of his bedroom. He has a couch in his living room, a TV that he only turns on every few days. The kitchen has a pair of plates, cups, and utensils, but only because things never come in packets of one.
Arthur drops his hand from the doorknob. He sits back down at his desk and watches the way the water runs down his window. He doesn’t touch the book, and after a moment, he goes back to bed.
-
Merlin was born knowing he was missing someone, but he forget, he supposes, along the way. He has friends who like to take him out on the weekends, and even if his mum is a country over, she's never been gone. He's actually a decent enough artist that he sells his paintings and isn't above using his connections to get a little place in the private beach. There's nothing glaringly missing from his life and Merlin wouldn't even know if it weren't for the dreams.
Nights are the worst, especially on nights like today, when the sound of rain is loud against the top of the air conditioner he forgets to put away from the winter. He dreams of a Prince, golden haired and dressed in red. Merlin doesn't know his name, but he knows that in his dreams, the Prince is looking for him. He calls out to Merlin from atop his black warhorse and Merlin wants to answer him, but can't.
He never can.
Sometimes, if Merlin is having a really bad night, he and the Prince see each other. They're usually at opposite ends of a stone hallway, torches lighting the path they're to walk. The Prince is dressed in chainmail, blond hair short and combed away from his face. He smiles at Merlin in this dream, whispers his name and holds out a hand.
Merlin imagines that hand would be calloused because the Prince has a sword strapped to his side. In his dream, Merlin reaches out, but he doesn't move. He knows the Prince is supposed to come to him, because if Merlin moves, he wakes up.
The Prince never comes.
-
Arthur likes watching the sunrise because it reminds him of the days he used to spend with his father. They'd sit on the porch and watch the joggers make their way down the beach. It's a private beach, so there were never many joggers, but Uther said he enjoyed watching them.
"It's good to know the people around you," his father used to say.
Arthur sits on his steps and watches the empty beach. He blames the bad weather they’ve been having for the lack of people running. It's fine, Arthur tells himself, as he warms his hands in his cup of tea. There's always tomorrow.
He's standing up, ready to make his way into the house when the boy runs up.
"Hey," the boy calls, still too far away to make out clearly.
Arthur walks down his steps, waits there as the boy-the man-comes to a stop in front of him. He has dark hair and dark blue eyes that widen when they see Arthur. His skin is pale, his nose red from the cold morning air. Arthur frowns as he watches the man shift from foot to foot.
"What," Arthur asks, voice harder than he intended.
"Oh, sorry, mate," the man says. "I was just passing through."
"And you thought it was necessary to talk to me?"
The man opens his mouth but stops himself from saying anything. There's something familiar about the tilt of his head and the way he looks at Arthur. It's as though Arthur knows this man in his dark jeans and loose plaid button down.
"It's polite, right," the man smiles, his dimples highlighting his sharp cheekbones.
Arthur says nothing.
"What," the man asks and Arthur has to shake his head when he realizes he's been staring.
"Sorry," he says extending a hand. "I'm Arthur."
The man looks at Arthur's hand, but doesn't take it. "Merlin," he says.
"You're kidding?"
"Wish I was."
They stare at each other, Merlin's right eyebrow raised in amusement as Arthur frowns.
"Merlin," Arthur asks. "Really?"
Merlin nods. "It's almost like-"
"Don't," Arthur groans putting his hand down. "Don't say destiny."
"So, you've read the books then?"
"Who hasn't?"
Merlin grins, "you'd be surprised."
There's a break where neither of them know what to say, but it doesn't feel wrong. It's not like the silences Arthur is used to, because this one isn't laced with unspoken words. There's comfort in this silence as he and Merlin stare at each other. The wind is ruffling Merlin's hair, colouring his ears to a dark pink. Arthur realizes he's grinning when he sees the way Merlin's eyes widen, sees how Merlin's eyes trace the edges of Arthur's lips.
"It's cold," Merlin says.
Arthur gets the hint and, for the first time in a long time, he invites someone into his home.
-
The house is huge, bigger than any beach house has a right to be. It's too big for just Arthur, the rooms filled with empty space more than they are filled with furniture. Merlin says nothing though as he makes himself comfortable on the grey couch in the living room.
"Tea," Arthur asks him.
"Yeah, thanks."
Merlin watches as Arthur goes to the kitchen, sees the empty cupboard with a single mug. He tries not to think about how lonely it must be in the house, how if Merlin were to paint it, he'd use grey and black.
He watches Arthur because he reminds Merlin of the Prince in his dreams. They both have the same blond hair, Arthur's shinier, his blue eyes more alive than the ones Merlin sees in his dreams. Arthur doesn't have a sword either. He dresses in jeans and a white t-shirt that makes him look younger than he probably is.
"Milk?"
Merlin shakes his head and accepts the mug Arthur offers him. They sit. Merlin can almost see the quiet, like black smoke, seeping into every crevice of the house. There's nothing for it to hide behind, the furniture too sparse. The room is too big.
"So, what do you do for a living," Merlin asks.
Arthur is sitting on the couch next to Merlin, close enough that Merlin can feel the heat coming from Arthur's leg.
"I used to write."
Merlin turns at the words and Arthur is already watching him. There's sadness in the downturned corners of Arthur's mouth, pain hiding in the Arthur's blue eyes. Their eyes catch and Merlin can't look away. The mug of tea is too warm against Merlin's fingers, but he pays it no attention. He watches the way Arthur's eyelids droop as though it takes too much effort to keep his eyes open.
Merlin's free hand is moving before he can stop himself, settling on Arthur's forearm. He leans a little closer, watches fascinated at the recognition in Arthur's eyes.
"Do I know you," Arthur whispers.
"What do you mean used to," Merlin asks instead of answering.
"I don’t write anymore," Arthur says.
"Why?"
Arthur is the first to look away, his eyes flicking downwards to where Merlin's hand is wrapped around his mug of tea. Merlin looks down too, sees that Arthur's fingers are a stretch away from touching the back of Merlin's hand.
Merlin doesn't look back up. He stares at Arthur's hand, the way his fingers uncurl. He holds his breath as Arthur runs the tip of his middle finger up the back of his hand. Merlin feels it all the way up his spine and he has to swallow against the sudden lump in his throat.
It's too soon, too new.
He's up at the same time that Arthur wraps his other hand around the back of Merlin's free hand. The touch is warm and the palm of Arthur's hand is soft, sure, as he hooks his fingers inside Merlin's palm.
"Will you come back?"
Merlin stares down at his hand in Arthur's, the way Merlin's fingers are covering Arthur's. They fit together so easily, fit so right it's painful.
"Yeah," Merlin answers, tightening his hold on Arthur's fingers. "I'll come back."
-
Merlin comes the next morning and he and Arthur sit on the steps of Arthur's house. It's cloudy and there are still no joggers along the beach, but the waves are high and there are seagulls trotting around on the wet sand.
"Do you do this often," Merlin asks.
"Used to do it with my dad," Arthur answers.
"Where's your dad now?"
Arthur knows Merlin can't possibly know about the shooting, or the nights Arthur spent by his father's bed, waiting, hoping. Merlin doesn’t even know about Arthur's mother and how she died soon after Arthur was born. Merlin doesn’t know how Arthur hasn't been able to write since Gwen left him, how he'd thought he was getting back into it before his father died.
"He's gone," Arthur answers.
"Oh."
They're quiet and Arthur lets his eyes wander down the beach. The seagulls are leaving webbed prints on the wet sand as they ruffle their feathers. Arthur notes the white feathers, the darker grey ones that blend into their wings. There's something heavy and untold in the prints on the sand, a story about two boys on the porch steps of an empty house, with their legs barely touching, watching the waddling birds.
"You should write," Merlin says, pulling Arthur out of his thoughts.
"What," Arthur asks. He feels his face twist itself into an incredulous expression, one eyebrow raised even as he shakes his head.
"I draw," Merlin offers. "I know what it's like to want to and not do it."
Arthur sighs, leans his elbows back on the step behind him. His leg brushes against Merlin's, and when Merlin leans back, their forearms touch too. Arthur looks at Merlin's hands, his long fingers, and he notices the pencil smudges on Merlin's middle and index fingers.
"Did you draw before coming here," Arthur asks.
Merlin flexes his fingers, and Arthur hears his heart speed up in his own ears. He remembers yesterday, the way Merlin had let Arthur hold his hand, how he'd hung on. He remembers the promise, likes that Merlin kept it and is sitting here on Arthur's porch. He understands that it feels right to talk to Merlin, to let Merlin push a little, to ask questions Arthur might not answer.
Arthur doesn't really understand why, but that isn't new. There have been many times in Arthur's life where he hasn't understood why things happen. He's learned to just go with it.
"I drew the sunrise," Merlin says when Arthur looks back at him, "or tried anyway."
Arthur's laugh is more of a scoff and he rolls his eyes, but Merlin is smiling, watching Arthur with assessing eyes. Arthur lets himself believe that Merlin wants to draw him too. They're watching each other again, and there's a pang of recognition that hits Arthur right in the chest. There's a lump in his throat that he can't swallow around, happiness that hurts instead of comforts. It's like Merlin is someone he lost, someone he's still trying to find.
"I haven't tried to write since my wife left me," Arthur tells Merlin. "She said I wasn't happy."
"And were you," Merlin asks shifting onto his side so that his back is to the step railing.
Arthur hasn't thought about it much, not when he was with Gwen because everything just seemed easy with her. She believed in him, no matter how much Arthur fucked up. He'd never thought about happiness with her because it seemed obvious; part of their relationship. But, as he watches the light in Merlin's eyes, Arthur's not sure. Because, with Gwen, there was never the sense of rightness that seems to pour out of Merlin, as though Merlin belongs spread out on Arthur's steps.
"I loved her," Arthur says, because he's sure of that. "She got my dad to like her an hour into our first lunch together."
This time, Arthur does laugh. "She wasn't from money, not the way we were, so she had no idea that there were different spoons for different kinds of soup. She complained about it and my dad just agreed with her. They spent the entire lunch trying to eat their soup with their forks. I think my dad even tried to eat his cake with the steak knife."
"She sounds nice."
Arthur nods. He doesn’t realize his hand is shaking until Merlin squeezes his fingers. "You should write about her," he says. "It might help."
"It's too soon," Arthur tells the crashing waves in the distance. He doesn't pull his hand away from Merlin's.
"You should still write something. I'd draw for you if you did."
"How do I even know you're any good?"
"I am good," Merlin smirks.
It's the easiest thing for Arthur to lean forward. "Are you," he whispers.
"So good," Merlin says, and then he winks.
Laughing, Arthur remembers, feels just as wonderful as writing a good book.
-
They're doing it all wrong.
Merlin knows, but he can't stop himself from getting up every morning and going to Arthur's place. Arthur doesn’t invite Merlin inside after that first day, but they sit on the steps and just watch the waves. When it's raining, they move to the porch and sit on the hard wood. They talk, about everything and everyone, too intimate, too fast.
Merlin tells Arthur about his mother in Ireland, and how she's started dating again. He tells Arthur about how he never met his dad who was a doctor.
"I wanted to be just like him," Merlin says, on one of the rain days. "I went to med school and my mentor, Gaius, sat me down two weeks in and told me I had to quit."
Merlin sighs, tilts his head back until it hits the house wall. "Gaius was like a dad to me. He didn't want me wasting my life away on something that I didn't want to do."
Arthur knocks his knees against Merlin's. "You’d be no good as a doctor anyway," he says. "You're not professional looking enough."
"Oh," Merlin asks, raising an eyebrow.
"You look like a stereotypical starving artist. Your clothes, Merlin. You."
"And you don't look like a writer, but you don't hear me saying anything about how boring you look."
"I'm not boring."
"You are."
Arthur takes too long to answer, and when Merlin looks at him, Arthur's watching the waves again. He's not really there though. Arthur's eyes have that faraway look they get when Merlin asks about his father, or about Gwen. Merlin doesn’t like that look because Arthur's hands are balled into fists by his side and his jaw is clenched too tight.
Merlin knows a bit about Arthur now, knows even more from watching him. So, Merlin understands, that this isn't right, that Arthur should never hurt to the point where he shuts everyone else out. And Merlin wishes he knew who it was that made Arthur this way, who told Arthur that he had to hide when he was hurt.
"How do you manage to write anything," Merlin says because he needs to bring Arthur back. "When you can't even have a proper conversation?"
Arthur punches him on the shoulder, but Merlin catches the amusement lighting up Arthur's eyes. His hands itch to draw Arthur, to use him to fill in the empty spaces left on his dream drawings. Dreams that Merlin's stopped having ever since he met Arthur. His paintings have sat in his room, untouched because Merlin can't bring himself to finish them, not now that he's seen Arthur. Because Arthur is real, his eyes a more vibrant blue than the one's of the Prince in Merlin's dreams. Arthur's hands aren't calloused, his fingers are cold or warm depending on how long he's been holding his mug of tea. Arthur's hair is a darker shade of blond than the man Merlin used to dream off.
When Merlin walks up to him every morning, Arthur doesn't disappear, and Merlin doesn’t wake up.
-
Their first kiss is on Arthur's porch, just a quick brush of lips, soft because Arthur thinks Merlin is afraid to hurt him. They hold hands, fingers fitting together as though the spaces between Merlin's fingers were carved especially for Arthur's hand. Merlin holds on tight so that Arthur can feel every one of those long fingers, know that even though Merlin kisses like he's scared, he's not going to let go.
-
"It was my dad," Arthur says one day.
They're on Arthur's couch, the TV going on in the background.
"Your dad what," Merlin asks because this is important. He's not sure how he knows, but he's come to accept that. That when it comes to Arthur and him, they just know.
"We didn't say how we felt about each other," Arthur shrugs. "It was implied. But I never learned how to say it, and sometimes I think that's why Gwen left me."
"That's not your fault," Merlin tells him.
"She deserved better."
Merlin waits for more, but Arthur doesn't go on. He's irrationally angry at Gwen for not understanding Arthur. Angry at Arthur's dad because he let his wife's death hurt Arthur. Merlin understands that it's not his place to say anything, but he also understands that Arthur needs to hear certain things, things Merlin knows they're ready to say to each other.
It scares him, reminds him of the nights Merlin would wake up knowing there was something missing. He knows now, as he watches Arthur, that this is what was missing. Feeling like this, just knowing that the person next to him belongs there. Understanding who Arthur is and not being afraid to let Arthur know him. This is what Merlin was missing.
"Maybe," Merlin says, his voice catching in his throat. "But maybe so did you."
The noise from the TV can't drown out the silence that stretches between Merlin and Arthur. There's a moment when Merlin thinks Arthur is going to get up and walk away. He sits there, folds his left leg on the couch and lets his left hand drop over the back of the couch, so that Merlin's looking at Arthur. He can feel the warmth from Arthur's thigh seeping into his shin and he waits.
Arthur's eyes soften, the corners crinkling with his half smile.
"Your eyes," Arthur says finally, stroking underneath Merlin's eye with his thumb. "You have this look. Like you know things no one else does. Like you've been alive for too long."
Merlin laughs, "are you calling me old?"
Arthur shakes his head. "My dad called them old souls. He said I was one."
"And you think I'm an old soul," Merlin half laughs. "Reincarnation and all that?"
Arthur's hand curls around Merlin's jaw, and Merlin waits, breath held. "I could write about it," Arthur breathes against Merlin's lips. "I could, if you'd let me in."
Merlin can feel how wide his eyes are. He's leaning forward at the same time that Arthur is and they meet in the middle, lips and hands eager. "Yeah," Merlin gasps in between kisses. "Yeah."
-
Merlin dreams again, of a hand on his shoulder and a thumb against his collarbone. He dreams of worn leather gloves sliding against the palm of his hand, of accidental touches that last a little longer than necessary.
He dreams of open fields and a stone wall, as high as the trees around it, of a town inside. He dreams of horse riding in the woods, of arrows and spears, of blood and fire. Merlin dreams of Arthur, dressed in red, a crown on his head as he addresses his court.
Merlin dreams of nights by a fire, the way he and Arthur looked at each other. He dreams of whispers exchanged in unfamiliar forests, of Arthur's declaration, his mother's sigil. He dreams and feels the weight of a secret that Merlin can't share even though he wants to. He dreams of anger, of impatience, impotence, frustration, something bitter that almost feels like hatred. But underneath it all, there's love, overwhelming in its intensity, pure and vibrating.
Merlin dreams, and in his dreams, he loves.
-
"Who are you," Merlin asks.
Arthur wishes he had an answer. He understands the fear in Merlin's eyes, because he feels it too. No one is supposed each know other this well, this deeply, after a month. They fit too well, and what frightens Arthur isn't that he feels like he and Merlin just belong, what Arthur fears is how easily he's accepted it.
"Arthur Pendragon," he answers, like he's always answered since Merlin started asking. "Nice to meet you. And you are?"
"Merlin Emrys. Twenty eight year old artist, living in a friend's beach house. And you're Arthur, thirty two year old writer with two published works."
"We go over this every week," Arthur complains. "Why do you keep asking?"
He turns around and Merlin shrugs from where he's lying on Arthur's bed. There's the same sadness in Arthur's chest as he looks at Merlin. It's as though some part of Arthur knows Merlin isn't going to stick around, something that is telling him that Merlin is holding back. He can't explain it, not why it comes when Merlin kisses him or why it comes now, when Merlin is fitting into all of Arthur's empty spaces.
"I dream about you," Merlin says. "You used to be a prince and now you're a king."
"You think I'm a king," Arthur says, his smirk there on his face without permission.
"Shut up."
"You know what they say about dreams," Arthur starts.
"No," Merlin interrupts. "You're not that important."
It hurts more than Merlin can possibly know, more than Arthur knows it should. But he can't help the way he reacts around Merlin, can't help things that just happen, like the easy trust or the confusion over conversations he swears he's had with Merlin before.
"I'm not," Arthur says.
And he isn't, not in the grand scheme of things, but he feels important because Merlin is up out of the bed and in Arthur's lap. So Arthur does feel important when Merlin kisses him, when those fingers thread into his hair and hold on. He matters here and it hurts.
Because, Merlin knows who Arthur is. Because, he's worked himself into Arthur's home, but Arthur doesn't know how to keep Merlin, not really. It terrifies him to know that Merlin could walk away as easily as he walked into Arthur's life. Merlin seems fleeting and all Arthur can do is close his eyes and hold on, dig his fingers into the back of Merlin's hand just a little bit harder as they tumble into bed.
"I'm not going anywhere," Merlin whispers into the back of Arthur's neck.
Arthur shakes under the weight of Merlin on his back. The fingers of their left hands are fitted together as Merlin rocks his hips into Arthur. Merlin's other hand is clumsy on Arthur's cock, catches with the hand Arthur has wrapped around himself.
"Not going anywhere," Merlin repeats, chants it like a mantra into Arthur's ear. "I promise."
-
It's a Sunday afternoon when Merlin remembers.
He's in Arthur's-their-kitchen putting away their dishes. They have four sets now, in two different colours, for when their friends come over. It happens like breathing, natural, and all at once. It's like someone pulled the curtain away from Merlin's brain and the memories were just there.
The dish he's holding clatters to the floor and shatters.
"Merlin," Arthur calls as he comes into the kitchen.
Merlin sees the exact moment that Arthur remembers, the way his eyes find Merlin's and widen in surprise. There's sadness in the lines of Arthur's face, but the creases even out, replaced with longing so strong Merlin can feel it invading the spaces that are left in their home.
"Arthur," Merlin gasps. "I. Do you."
Arthur nods, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I do," he says in a voice so hoarse it takes Merlin a moment to process what he's saying. "I do."
Title: All my empty spaces
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Arthur/Merlin
Rating: barely r
Summary: They're doing it all wrong, moving too fast, but Merlin recognizes something in Arthur, and he can tell, from the way Arthur watches him, that he sees it too.
Warnings (if any): none
Total Word Count/Length: 4,274w
Original prompt number: 168 - Submitted by accioscar
Disclaimer: This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by the BBC and Shine TV. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's notes (if any): I fell in love with this prompt when I first saw it, so thanks to the prompter, and thanks so much to my beta. This would have been a much more painful writing process if I didn't know there was someone out there to read this over.
Beta(s): Anon
( Read on AO3 )
There are times in the afternoon, when the clouds are so dark and thick, that Arthur's room feels too small. The grey carpet on the floor and the wooden furniture just add to the illusion of darkness in the house. The rain is falling fast, pounding against the windows, the wind shaking the frame. It's quiet, despite all the noise, the flat empty without anyone in Arthur's bed.
He's seated at his desk, the straight back chair forcing him to sit up. There's a lamp on the right corner of his desk, angled so that the light shines from the top right corner of his desk to the bottom left. The paperback Arthur tossed there two nights ago is covered with a thin layer of dust and the cup of tea from this morning sits on a coaster.
There is water running in rivulets down the window in front of Arthur's desk. He can't see much past the fog that covers the window, and even if he could, there's nothing he hasn't seen. His flat looks out into long stretches of sand that separate the house from the ocean. Arthur jogs there in the mornings, just runs along the beach until the sun starts coming up over the horizon.
He stands up from his desk, goes to the white bedroom door. His hand is on the doorknob, but he doesn't turn it. He knows what he'll find outside of his bedroom. He has a couch in his living room, a TV that he only turns on every few days. The kitchen has a pair of plates, cups, and utensils, but only because things never come in packets of one.
Arthur drops his hand from the doorknob. He sits back down at his desk and watches the way the water runs down his window. He doesn’t touch the book, and after a moment, he goes back to bed.
-
Merlin was born knowing he was missing someone, but he forget, he supposes, along the way. He has friends who like to take him out on the weekends, and even if his mum is a country over, she's never been gone. He's actually a decent enough artist that he sells his paintings and isn't above using his connections to get a little place in the private beach. There's nothing glaringly missing from his life and Merlin wouldn't even know if it weren't for the dreams.
Nights are the worst, especially on nights like today, when the sound of rain is loud against the top of the air conditioner he forgets to put away from the winter. He dreams of a Prince, golden haired and dressed in red. Merlin doesn't know his name, but he knows that in his dreams, the Prince is looking for him. He calls out to Merlin from atop his black warhorse and Merlin wants to answer him, but can't.
He never can.
Sometimes, if Merlin is having a really bad night, he and the Prince see each other. They're usually at opposite ends of a stone hallway, torches lighting the path they're to walk. The Prince is dressed in chainmail, blond hair short and combed away from his face. He smiles at Merlin in this dream, whispers his name and holds out a hand.
Merlin imagines that hand would be calloused because the Prince has a sword strapped to his side. In his dream, Merlin reaches out, but he doesn't move. He knows the Prince is supposed to come to him, because if Merlin moves, he wakes up.
The Prince never comes.
-
Arthur likes watching the sunrise because it reminds him of the days he used to spend with his father. They'd sit on the porch and watch the joggers make their way down the beach. It's a private beach, so there were never many joggers, but Uther said he enjoyed watching them.
"It's good to know the people around you," his father used to say.
Arthur sits on his steps and watches the empty beach. He blames the bad weather they’ve been having for the lack of people running. It's fine, Arthur tells himself, as he warms his hands in his cup of tea. There's always tomorrow.
He's standing up, ready to make his way into the house when the boy runs up.
"Hey," the boy calls, still too far away to make out clearly.
Arthur walks down his steps, waits there as the boy-the man-comes to a stop in front of him. He has dark hair and dark blue eyes that widen when they see Arthur. His skin is pale, his nose red from the cold morning air. Arthur frowns as he watches the man shift from foot to foot.
"What," Arthur asks, voice harder than he intended.
"Oh, sorry, mate," the man says. "I was just passing through."
"And you thought it was necessary to talk to me?"
The man opens his mouth but stops himself from saying anything. There's something familiar about the tilt of his head and the way he looks at Arthur. It's as though Arthur knows this man in his dark jeans and loose plaid button down.
"It's polite, right," the man smiles, his dimples highlighting his sharp cheekbones.
Arthur says nothing.
"What," the man asks and Arthur has to shake his head when he realizes he's been staring.
"Sorry," he says extending a hand. "I'm Arthur."
The man looks at Arthur's hand, but doesn't take it. "Merlin," he says.
"You're kidding?"
"Wish I was."
They stare at each other, Merlin's right eyebrow raised in amusement as Arthur frowns.
"Merlin," Arthur asks. "Really?"
Merlin nods. "It's almost like-"
"Don't," Arthur groans putting his hand down. "Don't say destiny."
"So, you've read the books then?"
"Who hasn't?"
Merlin grins, "you'd be surprised."
There's a break where neither of them know what to say, but it doesn't feel wrong. It's not like the silences Arthur is used to, because this one isn't laced with unspoken words. There's comfort in this silence as he and Merlin stare at each other. The wind is ruffling Merlin's hair, colouring his ears to a dark pink. Arthur realizes he's grinning when he sees the way Merlin's eyes widen, sees how Merlin's eyes trace the edges of Arthur's lips.
"It's cold," Merlin says.
Arthur gets the hint and, for the first time in a long time, he invites someone into his home.
-
The house is huge, bigger than any beach house has a right to be. It's too big for just Arthur, the rooms filled with empty space more than they are filled with furniture. Merlin says nothing though as he makes himself comfortable on the grey couch in the living room.
"Tea," Arthur asks him.
"Yeah, thanks."
Merlin watches as Arthur goes to the kitchen, sees the empty cupboard with a single mug. He tries not to think about how lonely it must be in the house, how if Merlin were to paint it, he'd use grey and black.
He watches Arthur because he reminds Merlin of the Prince in his dreams. They both have the same blond hair, Arthur's shinier, his blue eyes more alive than the ones Merlin sees in his dreams. Arthur doesn't have a sword either. He dresses in jeans and a white t-shirt that makes him look younger than he probably is.
"Milk?"
Merlin shakes his head and accepts the mug Arthur offers him. They sit. Merlin can almost see the quiet, like black smoke, seeping into every crevice of the house. There's nothing for it to hide behind, the furniture too sparse. The room is too big.
"So, what do you do for a living," Merlin asks.
Arthur is sitting on the couch next to Merlin, close enough that Merlin can feel the heat coming from Arthur's leg.
"I used to write."
Merlin turns at the words and Arthur is already watching him. There's sadness in the downturned corners of Arthur's mouth, pain hiding in the Arthur's blue eyes. Their eyes catch and Merlin can't look away. The mug of tea is too warm against Merlin's fingers, but he pays it no attention. He watches the way Arthur's eyelids droop as though it takes too much effort to keep his eyes open.
Merlin's free hand is moving before he can stop himself, settling on Arthur's forearm. He leans a little closer, watches fascinated at the recognition in Arthur's eyes.
"Do I know you," Arthur whispers.
"What do you mean used to," Merlin asks instead of answering.
"I don’t write anymore," Arthur says.
"Why?"
Arthur is the first to look away, his eyes flicking downwards to where Merlin's hand is wrapped around his mug of tea. Merlin looks down too, sees that Arthur's fingers are a stretch away from touching the back of Merlin's hand.
Merlin doesn't look back up. He stares at Arthur's hand, the way his fingers uncurl. He holds his breath as Arthur runs the tip of his middle finger up the back of his hand. Merlin feels it all the way up his spine and he has to swallow against the sudden lump in his throat.
It's too soon, too new.
He's up at the same time that Arthur wraps his other hand around the back of Merlin's free hand. The touch is warm and the palm of Arthur's hand is soft, sure, as he hooks his fingers inside Merlin's palm.
"Will you come back?"
Merlin stares down at his hand in Arthur's, the way Merlin's fingers are covering Arthur's. They fit together so easily, fit so right it's painful.
"Yeah," Merlin answers, tightening his hold on Arthur's fingers. "I'll come back."
-
Merlin comes the next morning and he and Arthur sit on the steps of Arthur's house. It's cloudy and there are still no joggers along the beach, but the waves are high and there are seagulls trotting around on the wet sand.
"Do you do this often," Merlin asks.
"Used to do it with my dad," Arthur answers.
"Where's your dad now?"
Arthur knows Merlin can't possibly know about the shooting, or the nights Arthur spent by his father's bed, waiting, hoping. Merlin doesn’t even know about Arthur's mother and how she died soon after Arthur was born. Merlin doesn’t know how Arthur hasn't been able to write since Gwen left him, how he'd thought he was getting back into it before his father died.
"He's gone," Arthur answers.
"Oh."
They're quiet and Arthur lets his eyes wander down the beach. The seagulls are leaving webbed prints on the wet sand as they ruffle their feathers. Arthur notes the white feathers, the darker grey ones that blend into their wings. There's something heavy and untold in the prints on the sand, a story about two boys on the porch steps of an empty house, with their legs barely touching, watching the waddling birds.
"You should write," Merlin says, pulling Arthur out of his thoughts.
"What," Arthur asks. He feels his face twist itself into an incredulous expression, one eyebrow raised even as he shakes his head.
"I draw," Merlin offers. "I know what it's like to want to and not do it."
Arthur sighs, leans his elbows back on the step behind him. His leg brushes against Merlin's, and when Merlin leans back, their forearms touch too. Arthur looks at Merlin's hands, his long fingers, and he notices the pencil smudges on Merlin's middle and index fingers.
"Did you draw before coming here," Arthur asks.
Merlin flexes his fingers, and Arthur hears his heart speed up in his own ears. He remembers yesterday, the way Merlin had let Arthur hold his hand, how he'd hung on. He remembers the promise, likes that Merlin kept it and is sitting here on Arthur's porch. He understands that it feels right to talk to Merlin, to let Merlin push a little, to ask questions Arthur might not answer.
Arthur doesn't really understand why, but that isn't new. There have been many times in Arthur's life where he hasn't understood why things happen. He's learned to just go with it.
"I drew the sunrise," Merlin says when Arthur looks back at him, "or tried anyway."
Arthur's laugh is more of a scoff and he rolls his eyes, but Merlin is smiling, watching Arthur with assessing eyes. Arthur lets himself believe that Merlin wants to draw him too. They're watching each other again, and there's a pang of recognition that hits Arthur right in the chest. There's a lump in his throat that he can't swallow around, happiness that hurts instead of comforts. It's like Merlin is someone he lost, someone he's still trying to find.
"I haven't tried to write since my wife left me," Arthur tells Merlin. "She said I wasn't happy."
"And were you," Merlin asks shifting onto his side so that his back is to the step railing.
Arthur hasn't thought about it much, not when he was with Gwen because everything just seemed easy with her. She believed in him, no matter how much Arthur fucked up. He'd never thought about happiness with her because it seemed obvious; part of their relationship. But, as he watches the light in Merlin's eyes, Arthur's not sure. Because, with Gwen, there was never the sense of rightness that seems to pour out of Merlin, as though Merlin belongs spread out on Arthur's steps.
"I loved her," Arthur says, because he's sure of that. "She got my dad to like her an hour into our first lunch together."
This time, Arthur does laugh. "She wasn't from money, not the way we were, so she had no idea that there were different spoons for different kinds of soup. She complained about it and my dad just agreed with her. They spent the entire lunch trying to eat their soup with their forks. I think my dad even tried to eat his cake with the steak knife."
"She sounds nice."
Arthur nods. He doesn’t realize his hand is shaking until Merlin squeezes his fingers. "You should write about her," he says. "It might help."
"It's too soon," Arthur tells the crashing waves in the distance. He doesn't pull his hand away from Merlin's.
"You should still write something. I'd draw for you if you did."
"How do I even know you're any good?"
"I am good," Merlin smirks.
It's the easiest thing for Arthur to lean forward. "Are you," he whispers.
"So good," Merlin says, and then he winks.
Laughing, Arthur remembers, feels just as wonderful as writing a good book.
-
They're doing it all wrong.
Merlin knows, but he can't stop himself from getting up every morning and going to Arthur's place. Arthur doesn’t invite Merlin inside after that first day, but they sit on the steps and just watch the waves. When it's raining, they move to the porch and sit on the hard wood. They talk, about everything and everyone, too intimate, too fast.
Merlin tells Arthur about his mother in Ireland, and how she's started dating again. He tells Arthur about how he never met his dad who was a doctor.
"I wanted to be just like him," Merlin says, on one of the rain days. "I went to med school and my mentor, Gaius, sat me down two weeks in and told me I had to quit."
Merlin sighs, tilts his head back until it hits the house wall. "Gaius was like a dad to me. He didn't want me wasting my life away on something that I didn't want to do."
Arthur knocks his knees against Merlin's. "You’d be no good as a doctor anyway," he says. "You're not professional looking enough."
"Oh," Merlin asks, raising an eyebrow.
"You look like a stereotypical starving artist. Your clothes, Merlin. You."
"And you don't look like a writer, but you don't hear me saying anything about how boring you look."
"I'm not boring."
"You are."
Arthur takes too long to answer, and when Merlin looks at him, Arthur's watching the waves again. He's not really there though. Arthur's eyes have that faraway look they get when Merlin asks about his father, or about Gwen. Merlin doesn’t like that look because Arthur's hands are balled into fists by his side and his jaw is clenched too tight.
Merlin knows a bit about Arthur now, knows even more from watching him. So, Merlin understands, that this isn't right, that Arthur should never hurt to the point where he shuts everyone else out. And Merlin wishes he knew who it was that made Arthur this way, who told Arthur that he had to hide when he was hurt.
"How do you manage to write anything," Merlin says because he needs to bring Arthur back. "When you can't even have a proper conversation?"
Arthur punches him on the shoulder, but Merlin catches the amusement lighting up Arthur's eyes. His hands itch to draw Arthur, to use him to fill in the empty spaces left on his dream drawings. Dreams that Merlin's stopped having ever since he met Arthur. His paintings have sat in his room, untouched because Merlin can't bring himself to finish them, not now that he's seen Arthur. Because Arthur is real, his eyes a more vibrant blue than the one's of the Prince in Merlin's dreams. Arthur's hands aren't calloused, his fingers are cold or warm depending on how long he's been holding his mug of tea. Arthur's hair is a darker shade of blond than the man Merlin used to dream off.
When Merlin walks up to him every morning, Arthur doesn't disappear, and Merlin doesn’t wake up.
-
Their first kiss is on Arthur's porch, just a quick brush of lips, soft because Arthur thinks Merlin is afraid to hurt him. They hold hands, fingers fitting together as though the spaces between Merlin's fingers were carved especially for Arthur's hand. Merlin holds on tight so that Arthur can feel every one of those long fingers, know that even though Merlin kisses like he's scared, he's not going to let go.
-
"It was my dad," Arthur says one day.
They're on Arthur's couch, the TV going on in the background.
"Your dad what," Merlin asks because this is important. He's not sure how he knows, but he's come to accept that. That when it comes to Arthur and him, they just know.
"We didn't say how we felt about each other," Arthur shrugs. "It was implied. But I never learned how to say it, and sometimes I think that's why Gwen left me."
"That's not your fault," Merlin tells him.
"She deserved better."
Merlin waits for more, but Arthur doesn't go on. He's irrationally angry at Gwen for not understanding Arthur. Angry at Arthur's dad because he let his wife's death hurt Arthur. Merlin understands that it's not his place to say anything, but he also understands that Arthur needs to hear certain things, things Merlin knows they're ready to say to each other.
It scares him, reminds him of the nights Merlin would wake up knowing there was something missing. He knows now, as he watches Arthur, that this is what was missing. Feeling like this, just knowing that the person next to him belongs there. Understanding who Arthur is and not being afraid to let Arthur know him. This is what Merlin was missing.
"Maybe," Merlin says, his voice catching in his throat. "But maybe so did you."
The noise from the TV can't drown out the silence that stretches between Merlin and Arthur. There's a moment when Merlin thinks Arthur is going to get up and walk away. He sits there, folds his left leg on the couch and lets his left hand drop over the back of the couch, so that Merlin's looking at Arthur. He can feel the warmth from Arthur's thigh seeping into his shin and he waits.
Arthur's eyes soften, the corners crinkling with his half smile.
"Your eyes," Arthur says finally, stroking underneath Merlin's eye with his thumb. "You have this look. Like you know things no one else does. Like you've been alive for too long."
Merlin laughs, "are you calling me old?"
Arthur shakes his head. "My dad called them old souls. He said I was one."
"And you think I'm an old soul," Merlin half laughs. "Reincarnation and all that?"
Arthur's hand curls around Merlin's jaw, and Merlin waits, breath held. "I could write about it," Arthur breathes against Merlin's lips. "I could, if you'd let me in."
Merlin can feel how wide his eyes are. He's leaning forward at the same time that Arthur is and they meet in the middle, lips and hands eager. "Yeah," Merlin gasps in between kisses. "Yeah."
-
Merlin dreams again, of a hand on his shoulder and a thumb against his collarbone. He dreams of worn leather gloves sliding against the palm of his hand, of accidental touches that last a little longer than necessary.
He dreams of open fields and a stone wall, as high as the trees around it, of a town inside. He dreams of horse riding in the woods, of arrows and spears, of blood and fire. Merlin dreams of Arthur, dressed in red, a crown on his head as he addresses his court.
Merlin dreams of nights by a fire, the way he and Arthur looked at each other. He dreams of whispers exchanged in unfamiliar forests, of Arthur's declaration, his mother's sigil. He dreams and feels the weight of a secret that Merlin can't share even though he wants to. He dreams of anger, of impatience, impotence, frustration, something bitter that almost feels like hatred. But underneath it all, there's love, overwhelming in its intensity, pure and vibrating.
Merlin dreams, and in his dreams, he loves.
-
"Who are you," Merlin asks.
Arthur wishes he had an answer. He understands the fear in Merlin's eyes, because he feels it too. No one is supposed each know other this well, this deeply, after a month. They fit too well, and what frightens Arthur isn't that he feels like he and Merlin just belong, what Arthur fears is how easily he's accepted it.
"Arthur Pendragon," he answers, like he's always answered since Merlin started asking. "Nice to meet you. And you are?"
"Merlin Emrys. Twenty eight year old artist, living in a friend's beach house. And you're Arthur, thirty two year old writer with two published works."
"We go over this every week," Arthur complains. "Why do you keep asking?"
He turns around and Merlin shrugs from where he's lying on Arthur's bed. There's the same sadness in Arthur's chest as he looks at Merlin. It's as though some part of Arthur knows Merlin isn't going to stick around, something that is telling him that Merlin is holding back. He can't explain it, not why it comes when Merlin kisses him or why it comes now, when Merlin is fitting into all of Arthur's empty spaces.
"I dream about you," Merlin says. "You used to be a prince and now you're a king."
"You think I'm a king," Arthur says, his smirk there on his face without permission.
"Shut up."
"You know what they say about dreams," Arthur starts.
"No," Merlin interrupts. "You're not that important."
It hurts more than Merlin can possibly know, more than Arthur knows it should. But he can't help the way he reacts around Merlin, can't help things that just happen, like the easy trust or the confusion over conversations he swears he's had with Merlin before.
"I'm not," Arthur says.
And he isn't, not in the grand scheme of things, but he feels important because Merlin is up out of the bed and in Arthur's lap. So Arthur does feel important when Merlin kisses him, when those fingers thread into his hair and hold on. He matters here and it hurts.
Because, Merlin knows who Arthur is. Because, he's worked himself into Arthur's home, but Arthur doesn't know how to keep Merlin, not really. It terrifies him to know that Merlin could walk away as easily as he walked into Arthur's life. Merlin seems fleeting and all Arthur can do is close his eyes and hold on, dig his fingers into the back of Merlin's hand just a little bit harder as they tumble into bed.
"I'm not going anywhere," Merlin whispers into the back of Arthur's neck.
Arthur shakes under the weight of Merlin on his back. The fingers of their left hands are fitted together as Merlin rocks his hips into Arthur. Merlin's other hand is clumsy on Arthur's cock, catches with the hand Arthur has wrapped around himself.
"Not going anywhere," Merlin repeats, chants it like a mantra into Arthur's ear. "I promise."
-
It's a Sunday afternoon when Merlin remembers.
He's in Arthur's-their-kitchen putting away their dishes. They have four sets now, in two different colours, for when their friends come over. It happens like breathing, natural, and all at once. It's like someone pulled the curtain away from Merlin's brain and the memories were just there.
The dish he's holding clatters to the floor and shatters.
"Merlin," Arthur calls as he comes into the kitchen.
Merlin sees the exact moment that Arthur remembers, the way his eyes find Merlin's and widen in surprise. There's sadness in the lines of Arthur's face, but the creases even out, replaced with longing so strong Merlin can feel it invading the spaces that are left in their home.
"Arthur," Merlin gasps. "I. Do you."
Arthur nods, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I do," he says in a voice so hoarse it takes Merlin a moment to process what he's saying. "I do."