Fic: Tackling Albion (3/11)
Title: Tackling Albion
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Spoilers: Liberal use of strong language
Summary: Football AU. Merlin is a rabid fan, and Arthur is the eighteen-year-old striker for the team he salivates over. This chapter sees the struggling Arthur finally up his game after another run-in with Merlin. When things don't go to plan, and Arthur ends up in the medical centre, it is Merlin who provides the remedy.
Previous chapters here.
~ ~ ~
Hunith pulled a large tray of biscuits out of the oven, and caught Merlin’s eye.
“Don’t touch. Those are for Gaius; I need you to take them round to him later today.”
“Gaius? Since when is he back in this country?” Merlin asked. His uncle was a sports medic and had spent much of the last eight years working with football clubs in Germany and the Netherlands.
“Since August. He’s getting old now. He can’t be hanging around in Amsterdam at his age or he’ll have a heart attack.”
“Gaius?” Merlin asked. “Not likely. I’ll have a heart attack before he does.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Hunith admonished, “the way you exert yourself. Who was that the other night, by the way?”
Merlin froze.
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re taking about?”
“Come off it, Merlin. Nice girl, was she?”
“Uh… yeah.”
Of course, Will wasn't a girl, but he was nice. So it was only half a lie, Merlin reasoned.
“Pity you didn’t introduce me,” Hunith sighed, pulling washing out of the tumble dryer. “I would have liked to meet the girl who wears Camelot boxer shorts.”
She held up the incriminating evidence. Merlin looked from the shorts to her face and back again. He could always say they were his?
“And before you say they’re yours, I know your size. Don’t forget who does your shopping.”
Merlin had always wondered how he was going to tell his mother that he was bisexual. Sometimes he wished he was gay, because at least then he had a position of certainty. He may as well tell his mother that he didn't know what he wanted. That was public perception after all. Either that, or that he was depraved, or that he was just following a fashion.
None of these things was the case. He just couldn’t find a difference in having a relationship with a man or with a woman. Yes, the mechanics weren’t exactly identical, but the end result was the same.
“Mum, I’m bisexual,” he said.
“You’re what?” Hunith responded.
“Bisexual.”
“Like, half-gay? Very modern of you. So what are my chances of grandchildren?”
Merlin shifted awkwardly.
“I’m eighteen. I’m not thinking about that yet.”
“I can assure you that I am.”
“I can see that.”
For a moment, they stood in silence. Then Hunith put the washing down and pulled Merlin into a hug.
“I don’t care, you silly sausage. What do I want grandchildren for when I have a half-gay son whose emotional stability hasn’t improved since he was five? And I mean that,” she kissed him on the forehead, “in a good way. Don’t go getting serious on me now.”
She propped the washing basket on her hip and wandered off to find the ironing board.
“Bisexual or not, you’ll still have to take those biscuits to Gaius,” she called over her shoulder.
“Where is he nowadays?” Merlin asked. His mother shuffled back into the room wearing an expression of unconfined glee at knowing something Merlin didn’t.
“Oh, you’ll never guess!”
“He’s working at Camelot, isn’t he?”
Hunith’s face fell.
“Yes. How did you guess that?”
“You wouldn’t have asked me to guess otherwise.”
“Sometimes, Merlin, you’re so clever that I wonder how you managed to fail three A-levels. Then I remember that you spent the whole of study leave in a mad panic because Camelot were in the reservation zone.”
“Relegation zone, mum.”
“Either way, those biscuits need to be in The Castle’s medical centre at twelve thirty.”
Merlin smiled. He was looking forward to seeing Gaius again.
~ ~ ~
Merlin knocked on the door that read ‘Medic’ and burst in without waiting for a reply.
“Gaius, I brought you biscuits. Don’t worry; I didn’t make them… oh.”
“Just leave them here, Merlin, can’t you see I’m with a patient?”
Merlin could; it was Arthur Pendragon. Shirtless, but it could have been worse.
Arthur recognised Merlin from his first match, and felt guilty enough to attempt to make up for his earlier behaviour.
“No, Gaius, he can stay. Merlin, is it? I’m Arthur.”
Arthur held out a hand from where he sat on the bench having his shoulder examined.
“I know,” said Merlin coldly, shaking the offered hand.
“You’re a steward, right?”
“Oh, so you do remember.”
Arthur didn’t like the way that Merlin saw right through him.
“Remember what?”
Gaius left the room to fetch some machine or other. Merlin waited until he had gone.
“You, Pendragon, are an absolute arse.”
“What?”
“I know, and you know, that you’re only talking to me now because you feel guilty that you yelled at me on my first day. You yelled at me because you thought you were better than me.”
“Hold on a minute!” Arthur protested.
“No, I’m still speaking. You thought you were better than me then. But look at you now. You’ve messed things up. You’re not good enough to play for this side.”
Arthur opened and closed his mouth in disbelief.
“Tell Gaius I had to go somewhere, would you?” snapped Merlin, and left.
Arthur still couldn’t believe that had happened. He was now glad that he’d yelled at this kid Merlin, because he obviously deserved it. Idiot. He’d show him.
~ ~ ~
Show Merlin he did, or rather he imagined that he did. Either way, he had at least made himself far more popular with Camelot fans than he was with Blackburn fans.
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a brilliant result for the team, but it had been a hell of a spectacle. Fuck that, it’d been a hell of a way for Arthur to break his duck.
Arthur found himself being ushered into one of the tiny interview rooms where he was handed a bottle of champagne. A man wielding a microphone introduced himself.
“Guy Mowbray, Match of the Day.”
~ ~ ~
Merlin ought to change the channel, or go to bed. He had been out looking for more part-time work all day and was absolutely knackered. He considered calling Gwen, but realised that it was Freshers’ week, and she was undoubtedly pissed.
The familiar blare of the Match of the Day theme made its way from the box to Merlin’s ears. Oh, here they were. Today’s results. He still didn’t know the score from the Camelot game; after going down 3 - 0 before half time, he suspected that he didn’t want to know. But he also couldn’t be bothered to find the remote.
The usual drivel came up first. Manchester United beat Spurs, Chelsea beat Stoke, Liverpool beat Burnley. Merlin noted with a smile that local rivals West Brom had gone down 4 - 3 to Manchester City. Then, the familiar crests of Blackburn Rovers and Camelot F.C. appeared on the screen.
“Anyone commenting on the half-time scoreline at Ewood Park today could have been forgiven for thinking that it was a foregone conclusion,” began Gary Lineker. “However, anyone following the recent form of Camelot was in for a bit of a surprise.”
He did his trademark smile-and-nod at the camera, and it cut to a V.T. of the kick-off.
“Good afternoon, I’m Guy Mowbray. Most people expect these two teams will be fighting for survival at the end of the season, so these early clashes are really important. A slip here could mean the difference between seventeenth and eighteenth place, and that is all the difference in the world.”
Merlin smiled inwardly at the tendency for football commentators to lean towards the superlative when describing games. It was this, he expected, that put people off, the seemingly insane passion and overreaction to events.
Ugh. Three goals, three avoidable goals. Merlin was indeed surprised. He knew Camelot were bad; he didn’t realise they were this bad.
“It’s not even half time and people are leaving the stands. I’m not surprised- it looks like it’s all over.”
The video cut to the beginning of the second half, and a little box in the corner told Merlin that Pendragon had been substituted on for Monmouth.
“A change then for Camelot, Geoff Monmouth coming off and Arthur Pendragon coming on. This is a move that reeks of desperation; Pendragon hasn’t scored a goal for Camelot yet. Is this really the time to bring him on, when surely the best plan would be to play deep and try and minimise the damage? We’ll see.”
Cut to later in the match.
“Ordner, running up the wing, plays it in to Valiant, who plays it back to Bors. Bors now, moving up the left-hand side, crosses it into Pendragon, who… scores! A faultless volley, the ‘keeper never stood a chance.”
The video cut again.
“And it’s Maréchal, the French international, with the long ball in… Valiant… Gwaine Knight… back to Valiant, who strikes… corner. Bors will take. Bors plays it short to Pendragon, who looks like he’s trying to dribble it into the box. There are a lot of bodies in there, I don’t know if he can…and he’s scored! All of a sudden, Arthur Pendragon has put Camelot right back in the game.”
The video cut again, this time to a shot of the fourth official holding up a red number 2. Merlin was sat on the edge of his seat.
“There it is, two minutes of added time… and Camelot are on the attack. Hughes, who crosses to Maréchal, who wrongfoots the defender… and that’s a free kick to Camelot, surely. Yes, the ref’s given it. Gwaine Knight lines up the ball in surely what will be the last kick of the match. He hoofs it into the box and… it’s Pendragon! A hatrick for Arthur Pendragon! You wait a month for a goal and three come along at once. Well, I have no idea what’s changed, but Camelot fans will be hoping it stays that way. And there it is, the final whistle. Blackburn 3, Camelot 3.”
Merlin couldn’t believe it. Pendragon had played incredibly to score three goals in forty-five minutes. That just didn’t happen in football. Not unless you were amazing. The man in question appeared on the screen, sweaty and tousled and carrying a bottle of champagne.
“Arthur Pendragon, your first hatrick, and your first goals for Camelot… what happened?”
“It’s been tough for me, these first few weeks, adjusting to the standard of play, but hopefully now I’ve found my role. I just want to keep scoring goals.”
“Something’s obviously changed your outlook, and I’ve got to ask… what was it?”
“I knew the fans weren’t happy, that the guys weren’t happy. The other day, one of the staff really ripped into me, told me I wasn't up to it, and to be honest I just wanted to prove him wrong. I wanted to show him, I wanted to show the fans that I am good enough to be here, and that I deserve this champagne.”
“Arthur Pendragon- thank you.”
Merlin walked over to the set and switched it off.
~ ~ ~
Before kick-off against Fulham, Arthur took a jog around the perimeter of the pitch. He could pretend that he was just warming up, but really he was looking for someone. Finally, he spotted the dark hair and characteristic ears.
“Proved you wrong, Merlin.”
You’re still a tit, thought Merlin, ignoring him.
The blond striker jogged away again. Will glanced sideways at Merlin questioningly.
Tell you later, Merlin mouthed. Will nodded.
Twenty minutes in, Arthur put Camelot ahead. Curiously, his goal celebration brought him quite close to Merlin, and the steward could see him out of the corner of his eye, punching the air and beating his chest. His teammates gathered around him before dispersing- all but one.
“Easy, Penny,” spat Valiant, “there are eleven people on this team, you know.”
Merlin’s jaw dropped. Yes, Pendragon was a dick who didn’t know what he was saying half the time. But Valiant did, and he just said that to deliberately burst the other man’s bubble. What good would that do the team? Kicking a man when he’s down is bad sportsmanship. Kicking a man when he’s up is shameful.
Merlin was hardly surprised when Pendragon did not return for the second half.
Gaius was surprised; his eyebrows said as much when he explained to Merlin and Will after the match.
“The thing is, there was nothing at all wrong with him. Kept complaining about some tightness or other, but I couldn’t find anything. I’d ask you to keep an eye on him, Merlin, but I could see that you two didn’t get on.”
“That’s an understatement,” Will breathed as Gaius walked away. “What was that business before the match, anyway?”
Merlin ran a hand through his hair thoughtfully.
“I’m not sure now. I thought he was just being an arrogant prick, but now I don’t know.”
There was a distant look in Merlin’s eyes that Will didn’t quite like.
“Well, I’m off,” he chirped, slinging a rucksack over one shoulder.
“Eh?” Merlin snapped out of his daze. “Not coming for a drink?”
“Not tonight, no. I'm not a man to tread on anyone's toes. Night.”
“Night,” Merlin responded, and returned to his thoughts. He had barely registered what Will had said, and instead his thoughts turned to the young Pendragon. He muttered to himself, “What is Pendragon playing at? He thinks that if he scores he somehow gets one over on me. This makes him a prick. Only… only he isn’t. Valiant is, though. Valiant said something, and Pendragon got himself subbed off. He says he’s injured, but he’s not. How does it make sense?”
“Does it have to?” a voice responded from the gloom at the end of the corridor. An old man with a strong jaw and thin nostrils stepped into the light.
“Mr Draig!”
Merlin wasn’t sure whether to bow or curtsey. This man was the chairman of the club; his family had earned a lot of money over the years, and with his children dead, he had nobody left to give it to. So he had poured it into the club. This man was the only reason Camelot hadn’t gone down in smoke years ago.
“I wish people would call me Kilgarrah once in a while, but my first name is such a mouthful,” he smiled softly. “The young Pendragon. He won’t play?”
“No,” Merlin shook his head.
“Then you must help him.”
“Help him?” Merlin almost laughed. “He hates me.”
“I doubt that. Camelot won today.” The two statements were seemingly unconnected.
“They did.”
“And you weren’t watching?”
“No, I was stewarding!”
“It wasn’t an accusation, boy.’ He paused for a moment, “I knew your father.”
“You did?” Merlin hardly remembered his father. He didn’t realise before the age of eight that he ought to have memorised every last detail.
“You’ll be glad to know that you look nothing like him,” he smiled. Merlin joined in. “He told me that every time you watched a match, Camelot won. Is this still true?”
“Yes,” Merlin laughed, expecting that the old man was joking. “Only now I’m a steward, I have my back to the pitch every home game.”
“I guess you’ll have to find another way of making Camelot win,” Mr. Draig hinted mysteriously, disappearing into the shadows once more.
“What do you mean?” Merlin asked the darkness, but no answer was forthcoming. Not for the first time in his life, he felt a little bit mad.
~ ~ ~
“Merlin,‘phone!” shouted Hunith from the balcony, where she was overwatering the plants.
Merlin bounded out of his room, skidded across the kitchen tiles and picked up the ‘phone. Caller I.D. told him that it was Gaius.
“Merlin Emrys speaking, how can I help you?”
“Ah, Merlin, it’s you. Good.”
“What do you need?” he sighed.
“There’s a tenner in it for you.”
“I’m not twelve any more.”
“Fine.”
“I’m not saying that I don’t need the money, Gaius, I do. What is it?”
“Well, it’s one of the players, he says that he’s injured…”
“I can guess which one,” Merlin stated, rolling an apple across the worktop.
“Yes, Arthur. The thing is, I don’t know what to do with him. I just thought, you’re his age, maybe you could lift his spirits a little?”
“You want me to babysit a Premiership footballer?”
“No, not exactly… well, essentially yes.”
“Ten pounds, you say?”
Fifteen minutes later, Merlin was punching the code into the staff door and tripping down the steps to the medical centre.
“What are you doing here?” asked Arthur petulantly.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I’m here for physio.”
“You don’t need it.”
“Oh yeah? What do I need?”
Merlin opened the satchel slung over his shoulder and held out some items for Arthur to see.
“A radio, sandwiches, a blanket, tea and… the Molineux Grounds. They wouldn’t fit, so I left them where they were.”
“Once you’re quite finished with the crap jokes? I’m not coming.”
“If you don’t, Gaius tells your father what you’re playing at.”
Arthur looked up at Merlin sulkily.
“Fine.”
~ ~ ~
“So, why the Molineux Grounds? As if I didn’t know. This is what happens when people let a club die, blah, blah, blah.”
“That’s not why we’re here,” Merlin snapped. The blond was beginning to get on his nerves.
“Why then?”
“It’s just a quiet place. This is the most shit park in Wolverhampton; nobody ever comes here. You can listen to the radio here without little kids licking it.”
Arthur smiled.
“This is a crap park.”
“I take it you know the history?”
“Who doesn’t? Wolves ran out of money, the council refused to bail them out. The club died, the stadium was demolished, the people of Wolverhampton were lost. Then a man called Kilgarrah Draig set up a little club called Camelot, and eleven years later, with my dad at the helm, they reached the Premier League.”
“Why did you think I came here to tell you that?”
Arthur was silent.
“Don’t pretend you don’t feel guilty,” Merlin chided, tuning the radio.
“What’s that for?”
“Listening to the football.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
Arthur stood up, threatening to walk away.
“Come on, Arthur. Today, they’re just Camelot, and we’re just two blokes listening to the radio in a shit park on what was once holy ground.”
“You should write dialogue for British underdog films, you know that. Two blokes from a council estate in the Black Country go on to save the world and get the girls.”
“Ha. Except there’s one guy off a council estate and one guy who’s so posh his mother was flown to Wales by private jet to give birth?”
“I get lost in the details,” Arthur smiled, unwrapping a sandwich as the match kicked off. “How do you know that, anyway?”
“How does anyone know anything these days? Wikipedia.”
“You looked me up on Wikipedia?”
“Camelot signed a new player; what’s a fan to do?”
“I wasn’t signed as a new player; I extended my contract and for the first time didn’t sign a loan deal. I thought you’d know that.”
“I did. But your explanation is boring.”
They lapsed into silence, just listening to the match. Arthur stopped feeling like Camelot were somehow his responsibility. He had needed the day off, and if when he was away everything crumbled, maybe it was someone else’s fault.
Crumble it did.
“Pissing useless,” Merlin cried after the third Sunderland goal bounced across the line.
Arthur laughed bleakly, and lay back to stare at the grey September sky. It was one of those overcast days that still manage to be warm, a little disconcerting but not unpleasant.
“Oh, you taking a nap now? This not enough of a rest for you?” Merlin looked down at Arthur with his knees tucked into his chest.
“What’s your problem?”
Arthur was still determined to be a bullish prat, it seemed.
“I just feel uncomfortable sat up here while you’re down there.”
“Well,” Arthur patronised, “come lie down here?”
Merlin sat up on his knees, seemingly still debating the issue.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Arthur wasn't sure. The idea of Merlin lying next to him brought up other ideas, and he didn't really know how he felt about them.
“Stop being strange, Merlin, and just lie down for Pete’s sake.”
Merlin lay.
“Christ, you’re weird,” Arthur breathed through gritted teeth.
“And you’re a dick,” Merlin retorted.
Arthur turned to look at Merlin with an expression somewhere between disgust and confusion.
“Stephen Valiant now, inside the area… oh, and that’s a dive, no doubt about it, the defender never touched him… oh my word! The referee’s given it! He’s given the penalty!”
Both Merlin and Arthur sat up.
“And Valiant will take. You know I hate it when players claim they’ve gone down injured, but the moment it comes to taking a penalty, they spring up like nothing ever happened? Why is that I wonder? The referee blows his whistle and… he’s missed it! That ball went a clear five yards wide; how has he managed that!?”
“All you can say there, Alan, is that Lady Justice was obviously smiling on Sunderland today.”
Both Merlin and Arthur crumpled to the ground in disbelief and disappointment.
“He missed,” Arthur stated the obvious.
“The man’s a wanker, anyway,” said Merlin, after a considered pause.
“He is indeed,” nodded Arthur.
After another pause, they began laughing.
“God, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer bloke,” smiled Arthur.
“Pity he wasn’t genuinely injured.”
“True,” Arthur thought for a moment. “You know what we call him, me and Gwaine, when he’s not around?”
“Hit me.”
“Valerie.”
Merlin chuckled softly.
“Pathetic, I know,” nodded Arthur, “but he is an absolute cock.”
“He calls you Penny to your face.”
“Nobody else does. They call me Artie or AP. Everyone calls him Val. Which is still a girls’ name.”
“Giving a girls’ name to a cock. The irony.”
“It really gets to him,” Arthur smiled sardonically.
“He should learn not to take it too personally.”
“Why? It is personal. See, he wishes we would call him Stevie.”
“But you won’t?”
“No chance. Not now we now that’s what he wants to be called.”
“Harsh.”
“He deserves it.”
When it came down to it, they were a couple of blokes listening to a football match on the radio and complaining about work. Two utterly normal blokes, sitting in a crap park scattered with the concrete remnants of a football stadium, a temple to normal blokes.
Camelot lost 5 - 2, and they didn’t even care.
~ ~ ~
Arthur walked across Wolverhampton to where he’d parked his car. He’d have to pass his flat on the way, but he didn’t like the idea of leaving his Merc somewhere overnight.
He’d had a nice time. It felt tragic in a way, that such a crap picnic could have lifted his spirits so much, but it had.
How miserable had his life been before today? How miserable had his life been before Merlin blundered into it? Perhaps the sacrifices he had made for football were too much. His misadventures with Gwaine, Leon and Percy had told him it wasn’t the alcohol that was missing.
At the back of his mind, the monster he dared not speak the name of slowly opened its eyes.
~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Spoilers: Liberal use of strong language
Summary: Football AU. Merlin is a rabid fan, and Arthur is the eighteen-year-old striker for the team he salivates over. This chapter sees the struggling Arthur finally up his game after another run-in with Merlin. When things don't go to plan, and Arthur ends up in the medical centre, it is Merlin who provides the remedy.
Previous chapters here.
~ ~ ~
Hunith pulled a large tray of biscuits out of the oven, and caught Merlin’s eye.
“Don’t touch. Those are for Gaius; I need you to take them round to him later today.”
“Gaius? Since when is he back in this country?” Merlin asked. His uncle was a sports medic and had spent much of the last eight years working with football clubs in Germany and the Netherlands.
“Since August. He’s getting old now. He can’t be hanging around in Amsterdam at his age or he’ll have a heart attack.”
“Gaius?” Merlin asked. “Not likely. I’ll have a heart attack before he does.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Hunith admonished, “the way you exert yourself. Who was that the other night, by the way?”
Merlin froze.
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re taking about?”
“Come off it, Merlin. Nice girl, was she?”
“Uh… yeah.”
Of course, Will wasn't a girl, but he was nice. So it was only half a lie, Merlin reasoned.
“Pity you didn’t introduce me,” Hunith sighed, pulling washing out of the tumble dryer. “I would have liked to meet the girl who wears Camelot boxer shorts.”
She held up the incriminating evidence. Merlin looked from the shorts to her face and back again. He could always say they were his?
“And before you say they’re yours, I know your size. Don’t forget who does your shopping.”
Merlin had always wondered how he was going to tell his mother that he was bisexual. Sometimes he wished he was gay, because at least then he had a position of certainty. He may as well tell his mother that he didn't know what he wanted. That was public perception after all. Either that, or that he was depraved, or that he was just following a fashion.
None of these things was the case. He just couldn’t find a difference in having a relationship with a man or with a woman. Yes, the mechanics weren’t exactly identical, but the end result was the same.
“Mum, I’m bisexual,” he said.
“You’re what?” Hunith responded.
“Bisexual.”
“Like, half-gay? Very modern of you. So what are my chances of grandchildren?”
Merlin shifted awkwardly.
“I’m eighteen. I’m not thinking about that yet.”
“I can assure you that I am.”
“I can see that.”
For a moment, they stood in silence. Then Hunith put the washing down and pulled Merlin into a hug.
“I don’t care, you silly sausage. What do I want grandchildren for when I have a half-gay son whose emotional stability hasn’t improved since he was five? And I mean that,” she kissed him on the forehead, “in a good way. Don’t go getting serious on me now.”
She propped the washing basket on her hip and wandered off to find the ironing board.
“Bisexual or not, you’ll still have to take those biscuits to Gaius,” she called over her shoulder.
“Where is he nowadays?” Merlin asked. His mother shuffled back into the room wearing an expression of unconfined glee at knowing something Merlin didn’t.
“Oh, you’ll never guess!”
“He’s working at Camelot, isn’t he?”
Hunith’s face fell.
“Yes. How did you guess that?”
“You wouldn’t have asked me to guess otherwise.”
“Sometimes, Merlin, you’re so clever that I wonder how you managed to fail three A-levels. Then I remember that you spent the whole of study leave in a mad panic because Camelot were in the reservation zone.”
“Relegation zone, mum.”
“Either way, those biscuits need to be in The Castle’s medical centre at twelve thirty.”
Merlin smiled. He was looking forward to seeing Gaius again.
~ ~ ~
Merlin knocked on the door that read ‘Medic’ and burst in without waiting for a reply.
“Gaius, I brought you biscuits. Don’t worry; I didn’t make them… oh.”
“Just leave them here, Merlin, can’t you see I’m with a patient?”
Merlin could; it was Arthur Pendragon. Shirtless, but it could have been worse.
Arthur recognised Merlin from his first match, and felt guilty enough to attempt to make up for his earlier behaviour.
“No, Gaius, he can stay. Merlin, is it? I’m Arthur.”
Arthur held out a hand from where he sat on the bench having his shoulder examined.
“I know,” said Merlin coldly, shaking the offered hand.
“You’re a steward, right?”
“Oh, so you do remember.”
Arthur didn’t like the way that Merlin saw right through him.
“Remember what?”
Gaius left the room to fetch some machine or other. Merlin waited until he had gone.
“You, Pendragon, are an absolute arse.”
“What?”
“I know, and you know, that you’re only talking to me now because you feel guilty that you yelled at me on my first day. You yelled at me because you thought you were better than me.”
“Hold on a minute!” Arthur protested.
“No, I’m still speaking. You thought you were better than me then. But look at you now. You’ve messed things up. You’re not good enough to play for this side.”
Arthur opened and closed his mouth in disbelief.
“Tell Gaius I had to go somewhere, would you?” snapped Merlin, and left.
Arthur still couldn’t believe that had happened. He was now glad that he’d yelled at this kid Merlin, because he obviously deserved it. Idiot. He’d show him.
~ ~ ~
Show Merlin he did, or rather he imagined that he did. Either way, he had at least made himself far more popular with Camelot fans than he was with Blackburn fans.
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a brilliant result for the team, but it had been a hell of a spectacle. Fuck that, it’d been a hell of a way for Arthur to break his duck.
Arthur found himself being ushered into one of the tiny interview rooms where he was handed a bottle of champagne. A man wielding a microphone introduced himself.
“Guy Mowbray, Match of the Day.”
~ ~ ~
Merlin ought to change the channel, or go to bed. He had been out looking for more part-time work all day and was absolutely knackered. He considered calling Gwen, but realised that it was Freshers’ week, and she was undoubtedly pissed.
The familiar blare of the Match of the Day theme made its way from the box to Merlin’s ears. Oh, here they were. Today’s results. He still didn’t know the score from the Camelot game; after going down 3 - 0 before half time, he suspected that he didn’t want to know. But he also couldn’t be bothered to find the remote.
The usual drivel came up first. Manchester United beat Spurs, Chelsea beat Stoke, Liverpool beat Burnley. Merlin noted with a smile that local rivals West Brom had gone down 4 - 3 to Manchester City. Then, the familiar crests of Blackburn Rovers and Camelot F.C. appeared on the screen.
“Anyone commenting on the half-time scoreline at Ewood Park today could have been forgiven for thinking that it was a foregone conclusion,” began Gary Lineker. “However, anyone following the recent form of Camelot was in for a bit of a surprise.”
He did his trademark smile-and-nod at the camera, and it cut to a V.T. of the kick-off.
“Good afternoon, I’m Guy Mowbray. Most people expect these two teams will be fighting for survival at the end of the season, so these early clashes are really important. A slip here could mean the difference between seventeenth and eighteenth place, and that is all the difference in the world.”
Merlin smiled inwardly at the tendency for football commentators to lean towards the superlative when describing games. It was this, he expected, that put people off, the seemingly insane passion and overreaction to events.
Ugh. Three goals, three avoidable goals. Merlin was indeed surprised. He knew Camelot were bad; he didn’t realise they were this bad.
“It’s not even half time and people are leaving the stands. I’m not surprised- it looks like it’s all over.”
The video cut to the beginning of the second half, and a little box in the corner told Merlin that Pendragon had been substituted on for Monmouth.
“A change then for Camelot, Geoff Monmouth coming off and Arthur Pendragon coming on. This is a move that reeks of desperation; Pendragon hasn’t scored a goal for Camelot yet. Is this really the time to bring him on, when surely the best plan would be to play deep and try and minimise the damage? We’ll see.”
Cut to later in the match.
“Ordner, running up the wing, plays it in to Valiant, who plays it back to Bors. Bors now, moving up the left-hand side, crosses it into Pendragon, who… scores! A faultless volley, the ‘keeper never stood a chance.”
The video cut again.
“And it’s Maréchal, the French international, with the long ball in… Valiant… Gwaine Knight… back to Valiant, who strikes… corner. Bors will take. Bors plays it short to Pendragon, who looks like he’s trying to dribble it into the box. There are a lot of bodies in there, I don’t know if he can…and he’s scored! All of a sudden, Arthur Pendragon has put Camelot right back in the game.”
The video cut again, this time to a shot of the fourth official holding up a red number 2. Merlin was sat on the edge of his seat.
“There it is, two minutes of added time… and Camelot are on the attack. Hughes, who crosses to Maréchal, who wrongfoots the defender… and that’s a free kick to Camelot, surely. Yes, the ref’s given it. Gwaine Knight lines up the ball in surely what will be the last kick of the match. He hoofs it into the box and… it’s Pendragon! A hatrick for Arthur Pendragon! You wait a month for a goal and three come along at once. Well, I have no idea what’s changed, but Camelot fans will be hoping it stays that way. And there it is, the final whistle. Blackburn 3, Camelot 3.”
Merlin couldn’t believe it. Pendragon had played incredibly to score three goals in forty-five minutes. That just didn’t happen in football. Not unless you were amazing. The man in question appeared on the screen, sweaty and tousled and carrying a bottle of champagne.
“Arthur Pendragon, your first hatrick, and your first goals for Camelot… what happened?”
“It’s been tough for me, these first few weeks, adjusting to the standard of play, but hopefully now I’ve found my role. I just want to keep scoring goals.”
“Something’s obviously changed your outlook, and I’ve got to ask… what was it?”
“I knew the fans weren’t happy, that the guys weren’t happy. The other day, one of the staff really ripped into me, told me I wasn't up to it, and to be honest I just wanted to prove him wrong. I wanted to show him, I wanted to show the fans that I am good enough to be here, and that I deserve this champagne.”
“Arthur Pendragon- thank you.”
Merlin walked over to the set and switched it off.
~ ~ ~
Before kick-off against Fulham, Arthur took a jog around the perimeter of the pitch. He could pretend that he was just warming up, but really he was looking for someone. Finally, he spotted the dark hair and characteristic ears.
“Proved you wrong, Merlin.”
You’re still a tit, thought Merlin, ignoring him.
The blond striker jogged away again. Will glanced sideways at Merlin questioningly.
Tell you later, Merlin mouthed. Will nodded.
Twenty minutes in, Arthur put Camelot ahead. Curiously, his goal celebration brought him quite close to Merlin, and the steward could see him out of the corner of his eye, punching the air and beating his chest. His teammates gathered around him before dispersing- all but one.
“Easy, Penny,” spat Valiant, “there are eleven people on this team, you know.”
Merlin’s jaw dropped. Yes, Pendragon was a dick who didn’t know what he was saying half the time. But Valiant did, and he just said that to deliberately burst the other man’s bubble. What good would that do the team? Kicking a man when he’s down is bad sportsmanship. Kicking a man when he’s up is shameful.
Merlin was hardly surprised when Pendragon did not return for the second half.
Gaius was surprised; his eyebrows said as much when he explained to Merlin and Will after the match.
“The thing is, there was nothing at all wrong with him. Kept complaining about some tightness or other, but I couldn’t find anything. I’d ask you to keep an eye on him, Merlin, but I could see that you two didn’t get on.”
“That’s an understatement,” Will breathed as Gaius walked away. “What was that business before the match, anyway?”
Merlin ran a hand through his hair thoughtfully.
“I’m not sure now. I thought he was just being an arrogant prick, but now I don’t know.”
There was a distant look in Merlin’s eyes that Will didn’t quite like.
“Well, I’m off,” he chirped, slinging a rucksack over one shoulder.
“Eh?” Merlin snapped out of his daze. “Not coming for a drink?”
“Not tonight, no. I'm not a man to tread on anyone's toes. Night.”
“Night,” Merlin responded, and returned to his thoughts. He had barely registered what Will had said, and instead his thoughts turned to the young Pendragon. He muttered to himself, “What is Pendragon playing at? He thinks that if he scores he somehow gets one over on me. This makes him a prick. Only… only he isn’t. Valiant is, though. Valiant said something, and Pendragon got himself subbed off. He says he’s injured, but he’s not. How does it make sense?”
“Does it have to?” a voice responded from the gloom at the end of the corridor. An old man with a strong jaw and thin nostrils stepped into the light.
“Mr Draig!”
Merlin wasn’t sure whether to bow or curtsey. This man was the chairman of the club; his family had earned a lot of money over the years, and with his children dead, he had nobody left to give it to. So he had poured it into the club. This man was the only reason Camelot hadn’t gone down in smoke years ago.
“I wish people would call me Kilgarrah once in a while, but my first name is such a mouthful,” he smiled softly. “The young Pendragon. He won’t play?”
“No,” Merlin shook his head.
“Then you must help him.”
“Help him?” Merlin almost laughed. “He hates me.”
“I doubt that. Camelot won today.” The two statements were seemingly unconnected.
“They did.”
“And you weren’t watching?”
“No, I was stewarding!”
“It wasn’t an accusation, boy.’ He paused for a moment, “I knew your father.”
“You did?” Merlin hardly remembered his father. He didn’t realise before the age of eight that he ought to have memorised every last detail.
“You’ll be glad to know that you look nothing like him,” he smiled. Merlin joined in. “He told me that every time you watched a match, Camelot won. Is this still true?”
“Yes,” Merlin laughed, expecting that the old man was joking. “Only now I’m a steward, I have my back to the pitch every home game.”
“I guess you’ll have to find another way of making Camelot win,” Mr. Draig hinted mysteriously, disappearing into the shadows once more.
“What do you mean?” Merlin asked the darkness, but no answer was forthcoming. Not for the first time in his life, he felt a little bit mad.
~ ~ ~
“Merlin,‘phone!” shouted Hunith from the balcony, where she was overwatering the plants.
Merlin bounded out of his room, skidded across the kitchen tiles and picked up the ‘phone. Caller I.D. told him that it was Gaius.
“Merlin Emrys speaking, how can I help you?”
“Ah, Merlin, it’s you. Good.”
“What do you need?” he sighed.
“There’s a tenner in it for you.”
“I’m not twelve any more.”
“Fine.”
“I’m not saying that I don’t need the money, Gaius, I do. What is it?”
“Well, it’s one of the players, he says that he’s injured…”
“I can guess which one,” Merlin stated, rolling an apple across the worktop.
“Yes, Arthur. The thing is, I don’t know what to do with him. I just thought, you’re his age, maybe you could lift his spirits a little?”
“You want me to babysit a Premiership footballer?”
“No, not exactly… well, essentially yes.”
“Ten pounds, you say?”
Fifteen minutes later, Merlin was punching the code into the staff door and tripping down the steps to the medical centre.
“What are you doing here?” asked Arthur petulantly.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I’m here for physio.”
“You don’t need it.”
“Oh yeah? What do I need?”
Merlin opened the satchel slung over his shoulder and held out some items for Arthur to see.
“A radio, sandwiches, a blanket, tea and… the Molineux Grounds. They wouldn’t fit, so I left them where they were.”
“Once you’re quite finished with the crap jokes? I’m not coming.”
“If you don’t, Gaius tells your father what you’re playing at.”
Arthur looked up at Merlin sulkily.
“Fine.”
~ ~ ~
“So, why the Molineux Grounds? As if I didn’t know. This is what happens when people let a club die, blah, blah, blah.”
“That’s not why we’re here,” Merlin snapped. The blond was beginning to get on his nerves.
“Why then?”
“It’s just a quiet place. This is the most shit park in Wolverhampton; nobody ever comes here. You can listen to the radio here without little kids licking it.”
Arthur smiled.
“This is a crap park.”
“I take it you know the history?”
“Who doesn’t? Wolves ran out of money, the council refused to bail them out. The club died, the stadium was demolished, the people of Wolverhampton were lost. Then a man called Kilgarrah Draig set up a little club called Camelot, and eleven years later, with my dad at the helm, they reached the Premier League.”
“Why did you think I came here to tell you that?”
Arthur was silent.
“Don’t pretend you don’t feel guilty,” Merlin chided, tuning the radio.
“What’s that for?”
“Listening to the football.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
Arthur stood up, threatening to walk away.
“Come on, Arthur. Today, they’re just Camelot, and we’re just two blokes listening to the radio in a shit park on what was once holy ground.”
“You should write dialogue for British underdog films, you know that. Two blokes from a council estate in the Black Country go on to save the world and get the girls.”
“Ha. Except there’s one guy off a council estate and one guy who’s so posh his mother was flown to Wales by private jet to give birth?”
“I get lost in the details,” Arthur smiled, unwrapping a sandwich as the match kicked off. “How do you know that, anyway?”
“How does anyone know anything these days? Wikipedia.”
“You looked me up on Wikipedia?”
“Camelot signed a new player; what’s a fan to do?”
“I wasn’t signed as a new player; I extended my contract and for the first time didn’t sign a loan deal. I thought you’d know that.”
“I did. But your explanation is boring.”
They lapsed into silence, just listening to the match. Arthur stopped feeling like Camelot were somehow his responsibility. He had needed the day off, and if when he was away everything crumbled, maybe it was someone else’s fault.
Crumble it did.
“Pissing useless,” Merlin cried after the third Sunderland goal bounced across the line.
Arthur laughed bleakly, and lay back to stare at the grey September sky. It was one of those overcast days that still manage to be warm, a little disconcerting but not unpleasant.
“Oh, you taking a nap now? This not enough of a rest for you?” Merlin looked down at Arthur with his knees tucked into his chest.
“What’s your problem?”
Arthur was still determined to be a bullish prat, it seemed.
“I just feel uncomfortable sat up here while you’re down there.”
“Well,” Arthur patronised, “come lie down here?”
Merlin sat up on his knees, seemingly still debating the issue.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Arthur wasn't sure. The idea of Merlin lying next to him brought up other ideas, and he didn't really know how he felt about them.
“Stop being strange, Merlin, and just lie down for Pete’s sake.”
Merlin lay.
“Christ, you’re weird,” Arthur breathed through gritted teeth.
“And you’re a dick,” Merlin retorted.
Arthur turned to look at Merlin with an expression somewhere between disgust and confusion.
“Stephen Valiant now, inside the area… oh, and that’s a dive, no doubt about it, the defender never touched him… oh my word! The referee’s given it! He’s given the penalty!”
Both Merlin and Arthur sat up.
“And Valiant will take. You know I hate it when players claim they’ve gone down injured, but the moment it comes to taking a penalty, they spring up like nothing ever happened? Why is that I wonder? The referee blows his whistle and… he’s missed it! That ball went a clear five yards wide; how has he managed that!?”
“All you can say there, Alan, is that Lady Justice was obviously smiling on Sunderland today.”
Both Merlin and Arthur crumpled to the ground in disbelief and disappointment.
“He missed,” Arthur stated the obvious.
“The man’s a wanker, anyway,” said Merlin, after a considered pause.
“He is indeed,” nodded Arthur.
After another pause, they began laughing.
“God, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer bloke,” smiled Arthur.
“Pity he wasn’t genuinely injured.”
“True,” Arthur thought for a moment. “You know what we call him, me and Gwaine, when he’s not around?”
“Hit me.”
“Valerie.”
Merlin chuckled softly.
“Pathetic, I know,” nodded Arthur, “but he is an absolute cock.”
“He calls you Penny to your face.”
“Nobody else does. They call me Artie or AP. Everyone calls him Val. Which is still a girls’ name.”
“Giving a girls’ name to a cock. The irony.”
“It really gets to him,” Arthur smiled sardonically.
“He should learn not to take it too personally.”
“Why? It is personal. See, he wishes we would call him Stevie.”
“But you won’t?”
“No chance. Not now we now that’s what he wants to be called.”
“Harsh.”
“He deserves it.”
When it came down to it, they were a couple of blokes listening to a football match on the radio and complaining about work. Two utterly normal blokes, sitting in a crap park scattered with the concrete remnants of a football stadium, a temple to normal blokes.
Camelot lost 5 - 2, and they didn’t even care.
~ ~ ~
Arthur walked across Wolverhampton to where he’d parked his car. He’d have to pass his flat on the way, but he didn’t like the idea of leaving his Merc somewhere overnight.
He’d had a nice time. It felt tragic in a way, that such a crap picnic could have lifted his spirits so much, but it had.
How miserable had his life been before today? How miserable had his life been before Merlin blundered into it? Perhaps the sacrifices he had made for football were too much. His misadventures with Gwaine, Leon and Percy had told him it wasn’t the alcohol that was missing.
At the back of his mind, the monster he dared not speak the name of slowly opened its eyes.
~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~