Beyond the Neon Trees - Part 4 (Big Bang 2011)

[mightypretty]

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to stay here… We’ll let you know if there’s any change.” The nurse tells them patiently, like she has probably been taught to do, leaving the three of them, side by side in the eerily vacant corridor. The ambulance ride was just as stilted. Merlin sat across from Lance, a lifeless Gwaine between them as medics strapped contraptions and prodded him with needles; he purposely avoided Arthur’s eye throughout the journey.

“Someone should tell his dad,” says Lance, the words ringing out hollow in the sterile corridor.

Merlin brings his head to rest in his hands. “Crap, I didn’t even think of that.”

“Hey, it’s all good.” Lance stands beside him, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. “I’ll give him a call; see if I can get hold of Leon and the boys too.” He gives Arthur’s knee a hearty slap and turns round the corner. The creak of his footsteps dying down into silence, leaving a heavy awkwardness in its wake. Tension rattles between them palpably; the heavy draws of their breath intermittent with the distant laugh of the nurses at their station.

“So,” Merlin starts, the words sounding foreign in the quiet. “Are we going to talk about how you knew Gwaine was taking coke or is this just another thing we pretend is not happening?”

“Merlin -“

“How long has he been taking it?” Merlin asks, face stoic and closed off as he continues to stare straight ahead, the vast whiteness of the wall burning his eyes.

He can hear Arthur shuffling beside him, the gap of the seat between them growing wider with every passing second. “Since New Year’s,” Arthur finally says and Merlin can’t help the scoff that leaves his lips. New Year’s? That night comes back to him in a flood of drunkenness; he can remember the rustling of the small plastic bag, the sinking feeling of dread that hit him when he laid eyes on it. Can remember Gwaine’s drunken stumbling as he made to leave and can most clearly of all remember his friend’s all knowing eyes and nudging smiles directed at Arthur. Shit, it all makes sense now.

Merlin pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger, the flickering strip lights above creating a steady staccato that thumps in his head. He doesn’t know how to voice the next question. He feels like he’s back in his bedroom six months ago, with Arthur sat opposite him blathering about Myror and money and drugs, and shit, he had hoped they managed to put this behind them. That they weren’t becoming stereotypical fucked up estate kids who could do nothing more than cheat and scheme and lie and get junked up to deal with it.

Fuck.

He’s tired of it. Of the weight of constantly feeling like a lesser person; of feeling like he’s not good enough because of where he lives, and the one time he actually has something to celebrate, something to be proud of, the night has been tarnished. Trod on and turned into a fucking nightmare, and he has an awful sinking suspicion that Arthur has a hand in it more than he’d like to admit.

So with a heavy heart, he asks, “And… and when did you start taking it?”

A broken down apology, maybe a brief amount of denial is what Merlin’s expecting in response, but what he does receive however is such a vehement cry of indignation that it makes his heart flutter with something akin to hope. “What? I haven’t… Merlin, I told you I never took coke once; I haven’t touched anything since you asked me.”

“So, what, Arthur, you just happen to know exactly how much Gwaine had on him how? You know exactly how long he’s been taking the stuff because -“ Merlin’s rant is cut off by the choked gasp that clutches at his lungs, a vice around his heart. It’s slotting together, like some hideous puzzle that Merlin wants to stop, to distort so it doesn’t fit… so it isn’t true. But as he turns to look at Arthur for the first time since they started talking, he can tell it is. “Oh God,” he breathes as he drops his head fully in his hands, willing away the nausea swimming in the pit of his stomach.

Arthur scuttles closer, narrowing the distance by shepherding into the seat next to him. He can feel the brush of Arthur’s leg against his own. “Merlin.” His name is whispered, and for the first time, it sounds disgusting to his ears.

“You know… because you dealt him the stuff, didn’t you?”

Arthur’s breath is hitting the side of his face, hot and damp and wrong, so wrong; he wants to move, get away, but he doesn’t trust his legs to carry him. Then Arthur’s hand is curling around one of his wrists, softly trying to peel it away from his face. His touch is gentle, delicate, but his fingers scorch like fire through Merlin’s skin, and he snatches it away quickly with a hissed, “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Arthur’s shaking; it vibrates through the chairs and through Merlin’s own body. He’d be concerned if he could find it in him to care. A litany of apologies rain from Arthur’s lips, whispers broken on dry sobs. Merlin ignores them all.

“When? When did you get back into it… become Myror’s little bitch again?”

“It’s not-you have to let me explain, Merlin, please. I didn’t want you to know, to get hurt again…” Arthur stammers, as he turns sideways to plead his case. Merlin still can’t meet his eye. “Dad and money, it’s hard… and with Christmas-“

“Oh, God,” says Merlin, eyes fluttering closed. He feels like he’s on a loop, a broken record, but each new revelation claws deeper under his skin, gnawing at his chest and clutching his heart. “You didn’t… you never stopped, did you?”

A snuffled whimper is his only reply as a hand reaches out to touch, to comfort, but Merlin doesn’t want it. Doesn’t want any of it anymore. He shuffles as far away as the chair will allow, the thumping in his head echoing the thumping in his chest as his voice quietens to a broken plea. “Get out.”

Arthur’s in front of him then, on his knees. This close Merlin can’t avoid taking in his face, flushed with eyes red-rimmed, “You think I want to be doing this?” Arthur hisses, fingers clutching at Merlin’s jeans, “I can’t fucking stand it, it’s killing me… but I don’t have a choice”

Merlin’s not sure who he’s looking at anymore. The boy in front of him is so far away from the friend he knew, the boyfr--, the person he’d thought he could be. This isn’t the Arthur he wanted. “You’re wrong. Not only are you putting your own life at risk; you’ve put your friend’s too… and mine. After that… that night, I thought things had changed, thought you’d realised how dangerous this was…”

“I wouldn’t let him hurt you again.”

“You can’t promise that!” Merlin cries, throat hoarse. “Just one slip up and he knows how to make you pay… You - you’ve lied to me this entire time. I can’t… I can’t even look at you right now. I need you to go.”

“Merlin…”

“Leave, Arthur… or I swear to god, I will hit you.”

The hall is quiet and still. Arthur’s shoes barely make a sound on the linoleum floor as he pushes silently on his knees and stands. Merlin thinks Arthur’s about to argue, or sit down next to him and insist on making him see why he’s done this, or even just run his fingers through the top of his head like he’s done countless times before. He does none of those things. Simply does as Merlin asks - leaves.

He’s left alone until Lance returns a few minutes later. Unquestioning of Arthur’s absence, they sit in silence until a nurse comes round - sad eyes telling them softly there’s been no change. They wait there until Gwaine’s dad arrives, looking hurt and angry and confused; they wait until he asks them to leave. And then they do.



Merlin’s unsure whether he’s welcome as he steps quietly into the Lambeth ward. Gwaine’s dad was anything but pleased last night when Lance valiantly tried to explain what had happened, using words such as ‘cocaethylene’ and ‘metabolites’ whilst Merlin stood beside him silently shaking. He just needed to get out of the flat. Arthur had taken to hammering on his door for most of the morning, his booming voice hollering through the letterbox that he’d wait all day if he had to. It turns out his neighbours weren’t too keen on this arrangement or his insistent level of noise and soon told him to scarper, quickly. That’s when the calls started. The whole situation gives Merlin a throbbing headache, piled on top of already the worst hangover ever. By three-o’clock, he gave up, grabbed his coat, praying Arthur had not taken residence on the staircase, and hopped on the first bus into town to St Thomas’s Hospital.

Which is where he now finds himself; pacing outside room 320, a row of hospital beds lined either side, partitioned with curtains that never quite seem to close fully. He can make out Gwaine four beds back, his dark matted hair lying spread out across the crisp white pillow. He’s awake. Merlin’s heart is immediately at ease. He’s sitting up and he’s breathing. His father is beside him reading the paper. He should turn around, leave them to each other; he wanted to make sure Gwaine was ok, and he can see that now, so he should go. But he has questions. So many fucking questions of why and how and seriously, coke, really? Looking in on them one last time, he decides his answers can wait. It’s typical, therefore, that at that moment, Mr Anderson raises his head and stares directly at Merlin. Shit! He should go; he definitely needs to go now. He twists from the door to walk down the corridor, back the way he came.

The hand on his shoulder a moment later isn’t entirely unexpected but causes him to flinch anyway; he really doesn’t fancy getting yelled at in front of passing nurses and patients. When he turns to face Gwaine’s dad, however, the man doesn’t look like he’s about to explode; instead he just looks tired, worry lines frown his brow, the droop of his eyes indicating little, if any sleep has been had. “Merlin, isn’t it?” he asks, hand dropping to his side.

“Yes, sir.”

“I didn’t say it last night but… thank you for getting him to hospital in time.”

Merlin can tell the words are painful to say, the thought of possibilities, of what-ifs sinking in his stomach uncomfortably. He can simply nod awkwardly, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. “Of course… it was nothing, really. I mean I wish I knew - could’ve helped him or stopped him… I’m sorry; I tend to ramble.”

There may be a hint of a smile on Mr Anderson’s lips, but if there is, it falls just as quickly. He coughs, straightening up to look down at Merlin. “I need to go pick his brother up from school. It would be good if Gwaine had some company while I was gone,” he says, offering Merlin a brief pat on the back before stalking down the hallway. He stands there for a beat, trying to get his head straight before walking back to the room. He peers through the circular window in the door once more before forcing himself to push it open and stride over to the Irishman’s bed.

Gwaine clocks him as soon as he’s walked through, a rogue smile on his face, eyes crinkled. “Merlin, my old friend, you look terrible.” He greets him, nodding toward the chair next to him.

Merlin pulls off his jacket and sits, dragging it closer to the bed and resting his clasped hands atop the blankets. “Could say the same for you, mate.”

“Yeah, hospital gowns do nothing for my image.”

Merlin chuckles, “I bet you’ve got all the girls in here swooning when you turn around though.”

“Of course, my arse is my best asset!”

They both titter off a laugh, struggling to keep eye contact for too long. “So, how are you?”

“Oh, grand. Now they’ve pumped out my stomach and made my heart stop beating like a fucking racehorse.” says Gwaine, tight smile pulled on his face.

Merlin shakes his head, pulls his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Coke though, Gwaine?” He finally asks, turning questioning eyes to his friend.

Gwaine takes a heavy sigh, bringing a hand to settle the blankets over his thighs before meeting Merlin’s gaze. “I know; I’m a bloody eejit.”

“But… But why?”

“Because I thought it’d be a laugh… Yeah, no great excuse really. I just thought I’d give it a go, see what the craic was. And then she became a bitch and wouldn’t let go.”

“S’pose it doesn’t help when you’ve got a mate pushing it at you on the side,” says Merlin bitterly, picking at his nails.

Gwaine raises an eyebrow before shuffling to get comfortable on the narrow hospital bed. “Arthur told you then, I gather?”

“Not really. I-sort of had my own ways of finding out he was dealing.” He lets out a wry chuckle, hollow and humourless. “Didn’t know he was dealing to you though.”

“Yeah, well, he’s helped me out for a while now; where’d you think I got all that grass from?” He winks, prodding at the pillow behind his back until Merlin leans across and fixes it for him. “Saw him about eight months ago, exchanging hands with some shady character.”

“Myror.” Merlin supplies coldly.

“Mmm.” Gwaine hums, head lolling back. “Asked what the deal was, he filled me in. - just the usual bit of weed every now and then. Christmas I asked for something stronger; he didn’t want to give it me, mind-“

“He shouldn’t have.” Merlin cuts in.

“You know me, Merlin, never one to back down. It’s not his fault I’m in here, you know.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Merlin mutters, head hanging low. Gwaine whacks him on the arm, shoots him a pointed look as Merlin pouts and mumbles a pitiful ‘ow!’

“A foolish man blames others for his own decisions,” he states clearly, a tilt of a smile on his lips as he watches Merlin rub the red mark on his arm covertly. “No one drew a line in front of me and forced me to snuff it up.”

“Yeah but still, if Arthur-“

“If Arthur hadn’t sold it to me, I’d have gone to someone else,” says Gwaine simply. Merlin rubs his hands over his eyes, digging the heel of his palm tight into the crevice, the headache he felt building all day beginning to come to a head.

“Still doesn’t make it right,” he says. Gwaine simply looks down at him with tired eyes.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“I’m sorry; you’re looking shattered. I should leave you to rest.” Merlin makes to pull his jacket back on but Gwaine reaches out an arm to grip his fingers.

“Be careful with Arthur.” He says softly. Merlin opens his mouth to protest but Gwaine continues, “I’m not talking about the drugs…”

“I don’t know-“

“Look,” Gwaine interjects. “You’re being subtle enough; don’t worry about that, but I’ve know the both of you for far too long, plus I’ve had my fair share to know when two people are going at it like rabbits…”

Merlin’s eyes widen, his jaw drops and the sinking feeling of ‘Shit!Shit!Shit!’ flashes through his mind. “We haven’t even-“

“I really don’t want to know who tops or bottom.” Gwaine says with a raised hand; his face changes in that instant, schooled into seriousness. “But mate, you can’t keep it going; you know that… not here.”

Merlin tries to pull his arm free but Gwaine simply tightens his hold, “I’ve seen people get done for a lot less on Holly; if you get caught by anyone who doesn’t like it…”

Merlin gets that - he does. The locals on the estate aren’t exactly welcoming to the gays. Even the brief hint or taunt of ‘fag, poof, bender’ will gain you cautious looks and heaps of unwanted attention.

“Don’t worry; we’re done.” Merlin says sombrely, really wanting this conversation to end right the fuck now.

“Cause if it’s about… getting a bit, there are places you can go, hushed on the other side of town, but, if you’re doing it on Holly, mate… I don’t want anything to happen to the pair of you.”

Merlin wants to ask how the fuck Gwaine is suddenly the expert on where he can go to get some gay sex on the sly. And shit, was he really entering into a conversation over his sexuality with Gwaine of all people, in a bloody hospital? He needs to get out now - the nausea from his hangover is starting to pull forward, the sound of a tiny marching band strumming along in his head. He wants to curl up in bed with his mum, drink tea and eat chocolate covered hobnobs, laughing at the idiots on Jeremy Kyle.

“Thanks… I think.” Merlin utters eventually, after an awkward moment of pure silence; he finally pulls free and finishes threading his arms through his jacket, coming to a stand. “But we’re over, so it’s not an issue anymore.”

“Right, well… Thank you.” Gwaine says softly, tilting his head back further into his pillow. “Medics say I had a scrawny bloke with unfortunate ears to thank for getting me help in time.”

“Oi, less of the ear jokes!” says Merlin, laughing, jabbing a light punch to Gwaine’s shoulder before uncoiling his fingers and giving it a tight squeeze. “I’m glad you’re safe. You know I’m here for you to help you get off the stuff.”

Gwaine pulls him down for a hug, clasping Merlin’s back with a wide palm. “Cheers mate. Help Arthur too, yeah?” he whispers, pulling back with a wink, before he shuts his eyes to drift into slumber. Merlin tucks the blanket around him further before leaving.



When Merlin opens the front door, he isn’t expecting to see his mother sat at the kitchen table, a mug of tea cooling between her palms. Yet, a wave of relief washes over him at the thought of spending a quiet evening with her after the absolutely monstrous twenty-four hours he’s just lived through. That is, until he turns from hanging up his coat and catches the weariness on her face.

“Mum, why are you home? What’s wrong?” he murmurs, slipping into the chair beside her, pulling one of her hands from around the mug. The tea is still filled to the brim, but he can tell from the brief touch of his fingertips, the liquid inside is now ice cold. Hunith looks up at him, dazed, almost as if she hadn’t even heard him enter.

“Hmm?” she hums, eyes glazed over. “Sorry, love, was out of it for a bit.” She smiles softly, petting his hand the same way she has done countless times before.

He wraps his fingers around hers. “You not feeling well?” he asks unsure.

Hunith turns a blinding smile to him then, and for a brief moment, she seems perfectly fine. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine, love, just have a headache… been feeling a bit tired lately so the Heights send me home. Anne said she’d cover my shift tonight at A&E too.”

“That’s good… but why aren’t you sleeping then? You need to catch up on your rest, Mum.”

“Well, I was until Arthur near enough pounded down the door,” says Hunith, watching Merlin carefully the intensity making him duck his head from her gaze.

“Yeah?” he asks, nervously twining his fingers along the seam of her sleeve. She merely hums in assent.

“He told me what happened last night… to Gwaine.”

Merlin snaps his face up; shocked that Arthur would divulge the events to his mother of all people. “Oh?”

“Merlin, I know they’re your friends and they mean a lot to you but… I never wanted drugs to become part of your life,” she says, near tears, throat swallowing thickly. “That’s - That’s why I worked so hard to provide you with a life where you wouldn’t need to turn to that.”

“You did. Mum, I promise you, I’ve never taken cocaine or E or heroin,” he whispers the last part, suddenly feeling a guilty stone weigh heavy in his stomach that he was for a while stupid enough to smoke weed. “I don’t want that for me either… I’m not involved in any of that.” The ‘anymore’ is left unsaid.

“I would hope so.” Hunith replies. She sits up straighter, subtly brushing away the pool of unshed tears with the back of her hand. “Drugs are a nasty bit of work; they can change a person Merlin, good people, and make them a shadow of themselves. I only want everything that is good for you, my boy.”

He stands to hug her tightly from behind, arms wrapping fiercely protective, soothingly whispering into her hair over and over. “I promise, I promise.”



A week later, and he has still yet to see Arthur in person.

He’s received a barrage of texts, an endless stream of voicemails as well as a rather pissed off Leon; who is acting like some fifth grade messenger boy passing notes back and forth. The more he thinks of Arthur, the angrier he gets. Yet Merlin fears all it’d take is one look at his stupidly blonde hair, his disgustingly blue puppy dog eyes and he’d be falling back into him deeper than ever before. So he keeps away, resolves himself to it.

He is doing a pretty damn good job of it too. That is, until he runs bang smack into him, of course. Rounding the staircase onto the courtyard, he’s all but barrelled over, kept on his feet purely by Arthur’s tight grip on his elbow. And really, Merlin’s not all too convinced that he hasn’t just been suspiciously lurking there, waiting.

“Still unable to operate on two feet, I see.” Arthur says, smiling. The bastard actually has the audacity to smile at him? Merlin pulls his arm back sharply, side stepping him with little more than a glance before continuing on his way.

He can hear Arthur following behind. “Come on, Merlin, please, can’t we just talk?”

“I think I’ve heard everything you’ve got to say.” Merlin says, eyes resolutely staring straight ahead; not wanting to see the hurt or anguish that is no doubt painted across Arthur’s face. He should not be made to feel guilty; he just really, really wishes Arthur would leave him alone now.

Arthur grabs his arm again. “No, no, you haven’t. You haven’t allowed me to explain.”

“What is there to say, Arthur? You said you’d stopped and you hadn’t. The people you work for beat the shit out of me and yet you went back for more! You lied to me, Gwaine ended up in fucking hospital - what else is there?”

Merlin can hear Arthur’s heavy pants in the chilled air; there are kids playing in the jungle gym to the right, a few mums with push buggies sat on benches. It’s quiet enough, but still neither the right time nor place for them to do this. “I think you should let go of me.” Arthur’s fingers coil tighter, his irises darkening in tone.

“Arthur, people can see. Let. Go.”

He finally does with a curious glance around, shoving his hands deep in his jeans.

“I just want you to give me a chance to explain.” Arthur says quietly; the first splattering of rain begins to fall, heavy droplets blinking into their eyes.

“That really won’t change anything.” Merlin utters the words sadly, drawing the hood of his jacket over his head. “You want to fuck up your own life with drugs, be my guest, but that is not going to be my future.”

“I’ve quit dealing,” Arthur replies, so sincere that Merlin wants to believe him, yet he still can’t help the light scoff that tumbles from the back of his throat.

“Forgive me if I have a bit of trouble actually believing that.”

“It’s true.”

“Well, that’s brilliant for you.” Merlin says, an edge of irritability biting through. “But it still doesn’t change the fact that I want nothing to do with you.”

There’s no escaping the flash of pain that darts across Arthur’s face, and for an instant, Merlin feels guilty for his clipped tone. “No, no, come on, you don’t mean that.”

Merlin sighs, the bitter rain is beginning to fall harsher around them; his limbs starting to shake - he’s not sure whether it’s due to the driving rain or Arthur still not getting it, so he tells him straight. “Look, I’m not ready to forgive you yet. I don’t want - You’re just not what I need in my life right now… so just leave it, yeah?”

He doesn’t look at Arthur’s face as he zips his jacket up and turns to face the howling wind. Arthur doesn’t follow him this time, as he walks off with all the conviction a man can muster, feeling hollower with every step that he takes.



“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Merlin cries, slamming his phone shut and tossing it across the bed. The sun is just beginning to lower in the sky on a lazy Sunday afternoon, and that was the third time Arthur had called. After their run in the other day, Merlin expected that the hurt look on Arthur’s face as he strolled away meant he had finally got the hint. The 10 texts and 15 missed calls since however would suggest otherwise.

“Well, seems like you’re handling things just fine,” says Gwaine with a chuckle, back perched against the head of the bed, ankles crossed.

Merlin looks up at him from where he’s sprawled across the bottom, resting the crick of his neck across Gwaine’s shins. “He just doesn’t understand I need time to think.“

Gwaine cocks his head, gazing down at his friend with an impish grin. “To be fair to the lad, he’s been used to getting it regularly and now his source has been cut off, he’s bone dry. It’s like starving a man of food and water… You’re a cruel bastard, my friend.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, flicking Gwaine on the ankle. “How many times do I have to tell you we didn’t have sex!“

“And yet again I say, spare me the details.”

“Well, stop bringing up sex all the time.”

“Who mentioned sex? Did anyone mention sex?” Gwaine asks, bringing his hands up in defence, “I think you, my old chum, are suffering from a good ol’ case of blue balls.”

Gwaine laughs as Merlin’s attempt to hurl a pillow at his face ends up rather pathetically sailing five inches wide. Instead, he jigs his leg up and down, unsettling Merlin who finally growls out his annoyance and sits up. “Say what you like, but I bet since your little tiff, you’ve thrown out any such wank fantasies about our dear Wart and now you and your little… friend down there have had very little hand to face time. Am I right?”

Merlin’s face clouds over in a wave of shock or disgust; he’s not quite sure which. “I am not discussing my wanking schedule with you!”

“Ah, don’t be such a prude,” Gwaine says, folding his arms behind his head. “Never know. I may be just the person to help you out.”

And now it’s definitely shock that pales Merlin’s face, causing all moisture in his mouth to dry up, barely allowing him to splutter out. “You’re-you’re offering to…?”

The almost double take Gwaine does is part amusing, part insulting. “Wha--? No… No! I mean, not that you’re a munter-“

“Oh, charming.”

Gwaine cuts him a look. “But, I barely know what to do with my own cock, let alone anyone else’s.” Merlin sniggers, folding his legs underneath himself on the covers. He’s not offended at Gwaine’s words but really, did he have to mention sex and cocks, ‘cause the only thing that flashes behind his eyes at those words is one royal prat who he is vehemently, definitely not entertaining any such thoughts of. No way. So determinedly focused on not having these thoughts is he that he almost doesn’t hear Gwaine continuing.

“I do know, however where you can… acquire such services.”

That really wasn’t what he expected to hear. “I’m not going to pay anyone, Gwaine.”

“No, no, it’s not like that. It’s more of a… meeting place for men with similar… urges.”

Every time Merlin thinks he’s just about managed to work Gwaine out, up he pops with yet another random insight. “It baffles me how you know all this.” Merlin tells him dryly under a raised eyebrow.

“Look, just give it a go. God knows you need to loosen up a bit. You’re stretched tighter than a g-string on ol’ Grunhilda upstairs.”

Merlin’s almost gagging at the thought. “That’s just… God, why do you insist on inflicting such hideous images on my psyche?”

“Because it amuses me the way your left eye twitches… Right…” Gwaine says, rolling to the end of the bed, hovering over Merlin’s prone figure, “...there.” He jabs a chubby finger directly into the corner of Merlin’s eye, the resulting scuffle pathetically tame.

Merlin’s left flat on his stomach, Gwaine mirroring him; he flicks his leg up to whack the crook of Gwaine’s knee. “Cock.”

Gwaine hums low and deep in his chest, nestling his head on his crossed forearms. Merlin smiles down at him softly. “Speaking of twitches, how are the shakes?”

“Better,” Gwaine says, holding his right hand out off the bed as proof. “Doctor came round today. He’s sorting me out with a sponsor, group sessions once a week. Said I was lucky that I wasn’t on it for longer… Apparently if I didn’t have the attention span of a two year old, I would have got more addicted. Don’t know whether to take that as an insult or a compliment.”

“I’d say just roll with it.”

“Yeah… it’s hard though.”

Merlin smiles sadly. “I bet.” They sit quietly as rays of sunshine skirt through the cracked shutters, bathing them in late afternoon warmth. “Which is why you have me here to beat your ass at blackjack.”

“Oh, is that so?” Gwaine laughs, sitting up to retrieve the pack of cards from his nightstand. He shuffles the deck with the flair and ease of a pro, casting sly glances across at Merlin as he begins to deal. “I know you think you’ve cleverly dodged the subject, but I’ll text you the address of that place… Who knows? Maybe it’ll be what you need to finally let him go?”

It isn’t.



The address, he double checks on his phone, leads him to the wrong side of Hackney Wick. Considering the entire area of Hackney Wick is pretty down-beat, the signs aren’t looking good.

He’s not even sure why he’s here. He’s angry - that seemed a good enough reason. It was the sight that greeted him when he returned home from school three days later. Arthur was sat at his kitchen table, zoning in on the glass of water he was currently tapping his fingers against. After a fair amount of expletives, Merlin finally discovered that Arthur had sweet-talked Hunith into letting him wait inside for Merlin while she’d gone off to work. After yet more expletives, Arthur was promptly kicked out. Merlin then decided that maybe Gwaine was right - which is never a good thought - but on this occasion, it was the only one he had going for him. That’s how he finds himself anxiously glancing around the derelict street corner: a row of backend garages, the odd late-night kebab shop and a couple of rather shifty-looking alleyways. He’s close to bolting right back out, hopping on the bus home, maybe grabbing some chips on the way and spending the evening watching Eastenders.

But then across the street, a man unfurls himself from the shadows, lithe body leaning engagingly against the brick wall behind him; a lazy smile and knowing eyes grab his firmly. The man tilts his head, locks of shoulder length brown hair cascade across his eyes; he runs a hand through it to push it back - from here, it looks glossy with shine. Merlin finds himself unable to move. What’s the exact etiquette for ‘I’ve come here for a blow-job’ when the guy could just as likely be here to mug him off and maybe even beat the shit out of him whilst he’s at it? Then again, the man doesn’t exactly look that built; Merlin’s pretty sure he could take him if push comes to shove.

The man cocks his head again a moment later, the bow of his lip tucking under his teeth as he sends across a wink before slowly slithering around the corner of the ledge into a small passageway. Merlin follows.

As he walks deeper down the alley, he finds him once again leaning by the wall, one foot kicked up against it; he’s smoking the last of a roll-up. Tobacco, not weed - Merlin can smell it. He takes a step closer. The man isn’t as young as he first looked - late 20’s, 30’s maybe; either way he exudes an air of confidence and experience that immediately sets Merlin’s heart beating faster.

“You’re new.” The man purrs, stubbing the cigarette out with the heel of his shoe before walking towards Merlin, crowding closer until he feels the sharp coarse brick at his back. “I’m Cedric.”

“Merlin.” He finds himself saying, words hushed in the vast echo of the alley. Up close, Merlin can see that Cedric’s hair is not shining with gloss, but looks tacky with grease, the stubble on his jaw a ratty-looking coarse beard that is now brushing against his temple.

“Mmm, you smell good.” Cedric grins, lips wide and round as they brush along the length of Merlin’s jaw, down his neck. “Want to know how you taste.”

Deft fingers work open his belt, Cedric making a one hand job look easy as the other palms up Merlin’s abdomen, riding his shirt higher with each stroke. He eventually pops the button and draws the zip of his jeans down, sinking to his knees to mouth at the soft fluff of hair beneath his belly button. Merlin closes his eyes. He’s hard; that he can’t deny - bound to be when anyone’s hot breath is tantalising him through the thin cotton of his underwear. To an extent, it feels the same, coarse fingers dipping tight into the crevice of his hip, tongue running long wet stripes along the jut of bone. What is new, however, is the deep onerous feeling of self-loathing that sits heavy in the pit of his stomach. He feels sick, dirty, cheap. Cedric’s hands are palming his arse; the globe of his cheeks squeezed tight, the draw of his lips now humming lower, teasing over the rim of his boxers.

Merlin doesn’t think. Just runs. The sudden movement tips Cedric off balance and onto his arse. Merlin can just barely hear the “Fucking cunt!” yelled into the night air as he sprints as fast as he can, haphazardly zipping himself back up as he turns back onto the high street. Thankfully, the bus only takes five minutes to arrive and he hurries to the top deck and curls himself into the back corner - the stench of smoke still lingering on his clothes, the dampness of licks and kisses still seeping through his skin.

He wants to cry but the tears won’t come. He has fallen so far from who he wanted to be, who his mother hoped he could be. Instead he’s become the type of person that has resorted to this; hiding in darkened alleyways, letting any bugger who’s willing have a go on his cock. And right now there’s only one person he blames. Well, fuck him.

He doesn’t want Arthur. How can he want Arthur if he doesn’t know who Arthur is? He doesn’t want him. If he tells himself that enough times, maybe he’ll start to believe it.



Spring bursts through in late April. The days become a bit warmer, the sun shines for a bit longer, trees begin to bloom and daffodils sprout along the roadside. It would all be rather quaint if Merlin actually took a moment to enjoy it, but he’s done such a good job this past month of avoiding things-well, one thing in particular, that the days mould into one; seasons can come and go, and to Merlin, it’s still the same old shit with every day passing to night. He hasn’t returned to that place since that night - the very thought of stumbling across Cedric again makes him heave.

It was hard at first. To blatantly cut out his best friend from his life. To ignore the plethora of texts and calls that flooded his phone. (They all varied along the lines of apologies, forgive me’s and please just answers.) But Merlin never did.

Avoiding him in person, however, proved to be trickier. When Arthur wasn’t waiting for him by his locker, or god forbid, outside his front door (as he’d taken to doing), he was snuck behind alcoves, darting out, taking Merlin by surprise in the most unusual of settings. When Arthur opted to stake out the dark room at school, two weeks after their argument, he inexplicably startled poor Ms LeFay half to death; which resulted in Merlin letting out an annoyed tirade the next time Arthur caught him on the bus ride home, telling him to ‘Please just drop it. Stop… before you kill my art teacher before I even get to Liverpool!’ The last part came out a bit fond, causing Arthur to smile at him slightly with downturned eyes, and no, no, that wasn’t the most adorable thing Merlin had ever seen. It wasn’t. To prove his point, he stood and got off at the next stop. Twenty minutes earlier than he should have. Still… principles.

After a month, it finally sunk in. The texts stopped coming, the phone stopped ringing, and when Merlin turned the corner onto his floor, Arthur wasn’t waiting outside his door. He got what he wanted. Whenever he has a feeling of doubt, of weakness or loneliness, he remembers why he’s done this, why he can’t bear to look Arthur in the face, and he’s sure again.

To make matters worse, he’s seeing even less of his mother than before. Her days at A&E are getting longer. ‘It’s the sun,’ she says, ‘Makes people do crazy things’ whilst packing her work bag and slipping out the door. More shifts at the hospital lead to earlier starts and later nights; they sometimes pass in the kitchen, her coming home, him going to school. She pets his cheek, whispering a goodnight before heading deeper into the flat to the sanctuary of her bed whilst Merlin steps out into the blistering sunlight. She’s beginning to look older, weighed down with fatigue. Merlin tries to suggest he works again, does it via the safety of a post-it note tacked to the fridge one Monday morning. When he returns from school, the note is ripped in half on the kitchen table, a blue one of her own in its place: ’Don’t even think about it, my boy - I’m just having trouble sleeping, nothing to worry about. You focus on becoming the new Da Vinci.’. He smiles softly, folding the piece of paper before sliding it in the back pocket of his jeans. Michelangelo? Da Vinci? His mum really needs to brush up on some modern painters.



“Hey Merlin.”

He glances up from the tray slopped with the latest dish of the day provided by the school’s canteen.

“Your turn today, is it?” he asks, fork prodding at the orangey-brown mixture on his plate… Maybe a spoon would be better.

Lance sits down with a heaved sigh, ushering across a spare spoon from his tray at Merlin, who takes it shyly with a small smile. “I wish you’d stop saying that - you know that’s not what’s going on.”

“Look, I get it, you know, when two people in a group of mates stop talking, it gets awkward.” He indicates with his newly acquired spoon to the other side of the room where Leon, Elyan and Percy are valiantly trying to engage a morose looking Arthur into conversation. “I just don’t want you to feel you have to sit here with me to make up for it.”

“That’s not why I’m here.” Lance replies, unwrapping his rather much more appealing sandwich and taking a deep bite. “Besides, does that really look like the fun table to you?”

They laugh quietly, comfortable in the temporary silence that lulls over them. Lance’s eyes cast over to the five or six black binders lain on the table between them, each wrapped in supple leather casings. “Those for the exhibit?” he asks.

Merlin rests a gentle hand atop of the files, fingers stroking the black lining. “Mmm, Miss Lefay put them together for me, in case any potential investors wanted to take a copy of my portfolio.”

“You excited?”

“More nervous,” Merlin tells him honestly, giving up on the foul excuse of lunch in front of him to take a swig from his bottle of water. “Can’t believe its next Wednesday.”

“Time flies.” Lance says softly. Merlin hums. He can feel Lance watching him cautiously, always practised and measured with what he says.

“Spit it out, Lance. Whatever it is has you looking like a constipated cow.”

Lance shoots him a bewildered look. “A constipated cow?”

“Yup, nasty things, so… out with it.”

“It’s just-It’s been two months” Lance starts carefully, “can’t you see to forgive him now?”

“It’s not as simple as that” says Merlin shortly, jabbing the fork into his plate of goo hoping it offers some cathartic measures - it doesn’t.

“Look, he’s a dick for doing what he did, we all get that and he feels like shit over the whole Gwaine thing but…he’s still our mate. He needs us all to stick by him whilst he sorts himself out. We all do things we’re not proud of….I thought you of all people would get that”

Merlin glances sideways across at him, a niggling irritancy crawling through his skin, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing alright, it’s just…when we’re tight for cash or - struggling, we each do what we have to yeah, but we always have each other’s back. Sure dealing is the stupidest one of the lot but-“

“I knew before.”

Lance pulls his brows together, lines of confusion running in between, “What? I-“

“I’ve known he’s been dealing…I found out last October,” says Merlin, drawing the cuffs of his hoodie further over his wrists.

“Oh-“ Lance seems surprised, darting quick subtle glances across the canteen to where Arthur is slumped in his chair, scrolling through his phone, “so why are you now-“

“He told me he’d quit.”

“Ah”

“He promised-you know what, it doesn’t even matter anymore…” Merlin trails off, running the tip of his tongue across the scales of his teeth. He knows that their conversation is being lost in the sea of students yet he still finds himself unable to look up and catch Arthur’s eye….just in case. “I better go, I need to pop into the art block before registration” Merlin says eventually, standing, leaning across the table to gather his portfolios. Lance watches him for a beat before placing a hand atop of the black books, preventing Merlin from lifting them.

“I’m not going to try and understand what’s happened between the two of you,” he starts, “all I know is you’re best friends and you’re both looking so damn miserable right now…and for what it’s worth he genuinely has stopped. Took Percy with him to meet this Myror, squared It all up with him, he had to sell his mother’s ring to do it but he did.”

Merlin swallows the lump caught at the back of his throat - he’d known how much that ring had meant to Arthur, knew it had been his only last reminder of her. It still didn’t change things though.

“I have to go” he says, fleeing from the canteen, straight into the school toilets before promptly throwing up.



A week later, he finds himself being shepherded out the house, rucksack packed - filled with four square cut ham sandwiches and a flask of tea - Hunith faffing with his scarf on the doorstep.

“Mum, mum, I’m fine! It’s just one night,” says Merlin, trying to fix said scarf from his mother’s insistent fingers. She’s one step away from smudging her thumb at the side of his mouth when he grips her shoulders and crushes her in a tight hug. “I’m 18 now; think I can wrap a scarf round my own bloody neck.”

“Oh, of course I know that, dear, but I hear its cold up North - even in May; now you packed that jumper, didn’t you?”

“The hideously brown moulting one? Yes, I did; now you need to get some sleep… I thought you were meant to be getting off at 3 this morning?” He asks, shuffling the straps of his bag firmly over his shoulders. He thought he’d have to creep out this morning at 7am, all ready to leave his mother a post-it note goodbye whilst she slept off the nightshift; except she wasn’t in bed, but rather just stepping through the door herself.

“Mmm, was a nightmare shift, we were just swamped, and then this poor little thing comes in with a fever, had the whole of us fearing it was meningitis - thankfully not, bless the lord - but look at me now, I’m rambling; you best be off, do you have everything?”

“Yeah, I think so. Are you going to be ok?”

“Of course, darling. I’m only at the Heights for a couple of hours this afternoon and then not back at the hospital until tomorrow morning. If anything, it’s a quiet few days! Now remember to call me tomorrow morning before the exhibit and straight afterwards, ok? I want to hear all the wonderful things they said about you!”

“Muuuum.” Merlin rolls his eyes, bending down to wrap his arms once more around her shoulders. He can feel her wistful sighs against his neck.

“I am so very proud of you, my boy… Now go knock ‘em bandy!” she smiles wide, crinkles setting deep in the corner of her eyes. Merlin gives her a quick wink along with a slight wave before bundling down the stairs - feeling like, maybe, just maybe his life is about to start.



“You excited?” Miss LeFay asks, black duffel bag clutched tight in her neatly manicured fingers. They dodge and weave down the bustling Paddington platform and Merlin can only nod in reply as they locate their carriage and step on board.

The train trundles down the line, a sea of green fields whipping past his eyes at alarming speed as the train picks up pace. Ms LeFay is heavily engrossed in the book in her lap. Merlin slips his headphone buds in his ears, scanning down to something decidedly mellow and fitting. An hour in, and his phone beeps, the vibration running down his leg. When he sees Arthur’s name flash across the screen, he can’t help the sharpness of his breath - it’s been over a month since Arthur last messaged him; seeing the new text now seems unreal. The words stand bold against white, making the flutter in his chest move down to swim in his stomach: ‘Good luck tomorrow, it will be brilliant - I’m so proud of you. A x’

He doesn’t reply, just grips his phone tightly in his hand, presses it against his heart as he rests his head against the window pane. The world is moving fast around him, but he’s holding onto this moment.



“Very nice work, Mr. Emrys. You really have a good hand at acrylics.”

Merlin has been virtually mute for the past ten minutes, looking more like the nodding Churchill dog with every compliment bestowed upon him, as the organisers and exhibit board take their time perusing the various individual works.

“Ah, but this is my favourite.” A deep booming voice sounds from the front of their little crowd, an elderly looking gentleman with soot coloured hair and round bifocal glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. The piece is of Arthur, as most of the other work is also, an action shot that Merlin snapped during one of their groups’ football sessions. The track of his movement stretched off behind him in a black and white haze making him look like some crazily speedy cartoon character. But to Merlin, this is just Arthur - he has to admit it’s probably one of his favourites too.

“Thank you, sir.” Merlin replies arms locked fiercely behind his back, shielding his shaking hands from view. The man, the head of the whole exhibit, Mr. Kilgharrah steps casually around Merlin’s partition, eyes roving over the various prints and canvases, before he comes to stand directly in front of him. His eyes bore straight through his tinted lenses, faintly squinting as though trying to read his thoughts. A twitch begins to pull in the side of Merlin’s cheek at the intense scrutiny until Mr. Kilgharrah sticks his hand out to shake. Merlin does so happily, giving his palm a quick wipe on his trousers before clasping the man’s firm grip.

“I feel we will be hearing your name a lot in the coming years, Mr. Emrys.” Kilgharrah smiles, the taut pull of his lips making the action seem rare. “Keep a’hold of your muse… I sense you have a great destiny to share in the future.”

Merlin stammers out a ‘Thank you’ as he tries to make sense of the words. The other members of the board nod and acknowledge him before moving on to the other artists involved. Ms. LeFay grabs his elbow as soon as they’re out of ear shot.

“They said you were amazing! You must be so thrilled!” she coos, and right at that moment, Merlin wants to hug her but fears the boundaries he may be crossing, so he simply offers her a beaming grin instead. Flagging down one of the waitresses dressed all in black, Ms. LeFay picks up two of the glass flutes of champagne, passing one to Merlin before raising it in a toast.

“To the future superstar of London’s art scene,” she says, eyes twinkling through thin wired frames. “Who will remember his dear old art teacher when he’s living in Paris or New York and showing in all the top art galleries in the world making millions!”

He laughs, clinking their glasses together. “Of course; I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you!”

“You’re here because of your talent, Merlin… which has got the whole of Liverpool abuzz! Cheers!”

“Cheers!” He salutes, gulping down the fine tasting alcohol, bubbles tickling the back of his throat.

“Right, shall we check out the competition?” she asks, passing her empty glass back to a waitress.

“It’s not a competition, Miss”

“No, because if it were, you’d be winning!”

He chuckles, feels lighter than he has in days, weeks - hell, he can’t even remember the last time he felt this genuinely happy and content, alive with a sense of pride that only comes with the knowledge that something you’ve done, something you’ve created, has succeeded. The buzz of euphoria filling his veins is like nothing he’s ever felt, his heart is skipping beats, as he struggles to grasp that this is his art hung up on walls where other people can actually see it. He’s on a completely organic high and he never wants to come down.



The whole afternoon is unequivocally a success. He’s met some pretty amazing people too, including a lad from South London, Gilli, whose sculptures took his breath away. He also has the business cards of three men who hinted at possible work on advertising campaigns when he finishes school. Looking around the room, Merlin finds it hard to believe that he’s actually here, stood in the back corner gazing out at all these beautiful crafts of art. He spots Ms. LeFay walking through the doors a moment later; slipping her phone back in her bag as she comes towards him, her heels clacking on the cream marbled floor.

Merlin smiles at her as she approaches, but the corner of her lips are pulled downwards, her eyes no longer twinkling with light but filled with sadness. His heart kicks out at his chest, dread washing over him.

“Merlin,” she speaks softly. “I need to-I need to talk to you. Can we step outside?”

She cups the bow of his arm, hooking her fingers around him as she leads them both to the small courtyard outside the gallery. He’s worried now as she motions for him to sit on the wooden bench lining the stone wall entrance. She perches beside him, deep heavy breaths snaking out in the cool northern wind.

“The school just called me. They’d tried to get through to you but it kept going to voicemail… I’m afraid your mother’s been rushed to hospital,” she says, her hands folded nervously in her lap. “She’s suffered a heart attack. That’s-that’s all we know at the moment.”

Merlin stays silent. He feels like the bottom has fallen out from under his feet and he’s free-falling into an endless pit of darkness. The air trying to breech into his lungs sticks heavy in his mouth, making him choke out dry gasps. He can’t-he can’t lose her; she’s all he has. LeFay places a gentle hand on his shoulder, easing him back from where he’s hunched over himself. “We’re going to head to the station now and get an earlier train home. I need you to go pack up your stuff from the hotel, ok?” She says soothingly, rubbing wide circles across his shoulder blades.

Merlin barely finds the strength to nod, his body utterly wracked numb. “But she’s… she’s okay, yeah? I mean-they would have said if she’d died, wouldn’t they? They’d have said she died from a heart attack, not suffered, wouldn’t they?”

Ms. LeFay tilts her head to catch his eyes, perfectly white teeth dragging over her upper-lip. “I would guess so, Merlin… I’m hoping so.”

Shakily, he stands; his suit feels much too large and much too heavy as it hangs off his wiry frame. He’s still a boy, just turned eighteen; he’s still a babe who only wants his mother to hug him tight and tell him that everything’s going to be okay. The euphoric highs of earlier seem a distant memory, as that possible world of such beauty and colour is cruelly ripped away from him and he sinks back into the depths of greyness.



Part 5