Beyond the Neon Trees - Part 1 (Big Bang 2011)
--
Life is a dream, realise it.
Life is a challenge, meet it.
Life is sorrow, overcome it.
Life is a song, sing it.
Life is a struggle, accept it.
Life is a tragedy, confront it.
Life is an adventure, dare it.
Life is luck, make it.
Life is life, fight for it.
-- Mother Theresa
The air swims around him muggy. Summer evening chill clinging to Merlin’s skin as he steps outside. Blends of orange hues chasing pinks dance above as the night draws closer to darkness. Sparse beams of light cast halos on the gravelled floor from the streetlights overhead, their glow wrapped in shadows as the wiry arms of the trees wrap around the cool metal pole. Years spent twisted and moulding, hugging the scattered lampposts tightly in their grasp, causing its foliage to blaze in neon light.
The courtyard is empty, save him and the figure of a small boy across the way. The child can’t be more than six, shaggy brown hair tousled over his face as he runs and jumps across the playground equipment in the fenced off section. High pitched giggles echo across to Merlin’s ear, the boy’s carefree laughter piercing Merlin’s heart through with sadness.
Swallowing he sets down his bag, taking the few steps across to the play area, flinching at the loud screech the rusted gate exhales as he pushes it open. The little boy stops swinging on his seat, eyes wary and unsure. Merlin offers him a bright smile, comes to sit on the swing-seat next to him and pushes off the ground gently.
“Hi” Merlin tries. The boy remains quiet. “I’m Merlin. What’s your name?”
“Mum says I’m not to speak to strangers.”
Merlin lets out a soft chuckle, “Your mum is very wise.” He stops swinging and looks at the small child beside him. “Didn’t she also tell you to not be out so late?”
“She’s sleeping… I just wanted to play.”
Merlin hums, casting an eye back towards his bag set just outside the fence. “I haven’t seen you outside playing before. Are you new here?”
The little boy nods uncertainly, big round eyes peek out from deep raven lashes. “Me and mum moved here two days ago… My name’s William by the way.”
“Nice to meet you William… Is it just you and your mum?”
William nods, hands squirming as he clutches at a little plastic toy in his lap.
“You like dragons?” Merlin smiles, eyeing the gold painted figurine, tints of red glistening under the streetlamps. The little plastic toy is probably from a Happy Meal box but by the way William holds it close to his chest, Merlin can obviously tell it’s precious to him. He gets up and heads over to his bag, pulls out a few t-shirts and pairs of socks until he finally finds what he’s looking for. Running a delicate finger down the spine, he turns and finds William hanging nervously by the gate. “Now William, I’m about to go away, see?” He looks across at the duffel holder and back at the little boy whose eyes are raking over the wooden figure in his palm. “I need someone who’s going to take extra special care of this for me. Think you can do that?”
William’s fingers slowly reach out, smiling as he holds the two dragon toys in his hands; he nods emphatically. “Yes”
“Good lad. Now you better get back home before your mum wakes up huh? You need to take extra special care of her too”
William cocks his head to the side, gives the toys in his hand once last look before grinning at Merlin widely, yelling a “thank you” as he runs back to the staircase, nearly knocking someone over as he goes.
“Hey, you ready?” the voice says and Merlin nods.
.: 9 months earlier :.
Merlin would dream most nights of another life.
He’d live in France, Paris naturally, (wasn’t that where all the best artists lived?), he’d have one of those swanky converted loft apartments along the Cours La Reine; and if he leant out his window just so, tilt his head to the right and there, there he would see the Eiffel Tower, in all its beautiful splendour. His days would be spent in boutique cafes. A cappuccino cooling in the soft spring breeze as his fingers dusted charcoal across the notepad spread in his lap, the smudges and shades moulding into a young girl, no more than six, her tight auburn curls danced across his page; her lips pursed as the soapy liquid at the end of her wand created a sprinkling of bubbles that glinted multi coloured in the late afternoon sun. Her peal of laughter echoed in his mind, the carelessness reverberating against his ears, deafening, the noise taking an almost hollow cackle as it built and built and built… until the sound of some rather large, previously unmovable object, shook him from his dream, landing against the other side of his wall with a thud.
Merlin can barely decipher the screams from next door but the yells of anger are still loud enough to rouse him from his slumber. He rubs his eyes, blearily pulling the tattered curtains back to reveal the same dull grey London skyline that had greeted him every morning for the past seventeen years. A harrowing shriek of “Get out, you lying pig!” has Merlin collapsing back in bed, cursing just how far away Paris really is.
Living here, the days seem to blur together. Merlin follows the same routine every morning: Get up, brush teeth, have a shower (if there was still enough hot water left in the tank) and get dressed. He stumbled into the kitchen, pulled out a slice of bread from the freezer and shoved it in the toaster, the bread tacky and sticking to the roof of his mouth. The only thing keeping him sane most mornings was a sharp hit of tea; flicking the kettle on, Merlin reaches out to pull the teabags from the cupboard and - ah.
There is the note for today.
He and his mother seem to communicate via notes of late. He finds them on the table (Remember to put the washing on before you go to school dear), or pinned to the fridge hanging from a magnet found at the bottom of a cereal box six years ago (Working the night shift at the hospital again love, make sure to fix yourself something for dinner). Or like this morning when he pulls it off the empty PG Tips packet (Out of teabags - could you be a dear and fetch some? Ta, love mum x). Merlin smiles softly to himself as he turns off the kettle and fills himself a glass of water instead; taking a seat around the decrepit kitchen table, he allows himself a few minutes of solitude before facing the sullen life outside the door. Not that he should complain really, he’s been living the same life for as long as he can remember and from what his mother has told him, she’s been living it a lot longer than that.
Merlin dreams of getting off this estate every damn day. Some places have a shiny glossy exterior, like one of those girls he’d see running after the night bus, in plastic heels, with plastic lashes and plastic smiles on their faces. Some places have a veneer that hide something dark and ugly underneath, but here on the Holly Street estate there is no cover, no caked over painting of a happy neighbourhood.
No, Holly Street is just as ugly on the outside as it is on the in. Not only that but it makes the people who live there ugly too.
Merlin can never shake the pitiful looks he receives from the school receptionist when he rattles off his address, or the disapproving glances he gets from those on the bus when he gets off outside the tall dark grey buildings: “Oh, he’s one of them,” he could hear them whisper, and well, isn’t that just sweet prejudice in its truest form? The fact is that they aren’t the nicest flats - none of the fancy big televisions or latest gadgets - but they make do and with Hunith spinning three jobs on the trot ‘making do’ was the best they can manage. Truth is, he wants to be free of this estate as much for his mum as himself; he owes her everything. After his father passed away when he was barely a few days old, Hunith was left on her own, no money to afford the rent and no job willing to take on a young mother with a baby in tow. If truth be told, Merlin still doesn’t understand how she managed it, how she coped with it all. She refused even to let him leave school and help her with the bills.
“No, Merlin, I want more for you, so much more. Study and craft, find something you love, my dear boy; find something you’re passionate about. That’s all I want for you.”
So he studies. Hard. He’s currently sat at an ‘A’ for all his A-levels (Maths, Physics, and Art); the term ‘nerd’ is often brandished as a taunt in the hallways; but the truth of the matter is for Merlin, it all comes naturally. He may not be able to tell you the score for the West Ham game last weekend but ask him what the square root of 832 is and he can tell you at the drop of a hat (it’s 28.8 by the way). But his true passion, the thing that often got him through the lows of feeling inadequate, useless - stuck - the only thing that pulled him through is art. Be it the afternoons he spends in the school studio, hands cracking with dry paste, shirt sprinkled with blasts of colour that only a strong dose of white spirit would ever be able to remove; or those quiet moments where he lies belly down on his bed, headphones plugged in to the latest Death Cab for Cutie album, pencil in hand simply sketching whatever came into his head - those were the moments he clings to.
The sharp sound of a klaxon shatters his contemplative silence, his phone flashing 8:30am, time to leave. Merlin shuts off the alarm and reaches for the tatty bag that he’s owned since he was twelve, slinging it over his shoulder as he steps out of the house. The wind whirls around his ankles, three floors up the cold is a hard smack in the face, making Merlin grab the ends of his jacket to zip it up quickly. He stumbles down the staircase, skipping a couple steps as he goes. Rounding the corner onto the courtyard, he sidesteps quickly out of the way of the bratty school kids whizzing by on their heelies (are those blasted things even cool anymore?).
“Oi, Oi, big ears!”
Rolling his eyes, Merlin turns around and keeps walking.
“Hey,” a breathy greeting comes from his left and Merlin can’t suppress his small smile at the bundle of blonde hair and bright teeth that face him.
“You’d think after eight years, you could come up with a more inventive nickname,” Merlin sighs.
“Now where would be the fun in that eh?” the boy laughs, nimble fingers coming to flick playfully at Merlin’s, now rather red, ears. ‘You got them off your father,’ his mother would say as she stroked his hair - Damn genetics.
“Jesus, Arthur, get a new pet to fondle, will you?”
“Oh but Merlin, you know you’re my favourite thing to fondle.” He practically purrs; lips stretched wide.
Arthur was…Arthur; a class prat with a heart of gold. Sometimes Merlin would look at his friend and see the same wide-eyed eight year old he’d met when Arthur first moved in. He’d been nervous, unsure, like a woodland creature that was startled with every creak of the building and every shrill of a siren that aired during the night. Hunith took him under her wing, as she did most of the children on the estate, forcing Merlin out from behind her legs to smile shyly at this new boy. When Merlin had fallen off his new skateboard the next day Arthur had been sat on the wall quietly watching; before he’d jumped down, ripping a tear of his shirt to bandage around Merlin’s scabbed knee, muttering “idiot” under his breath as he did so. Being Arthur’s friend after that became second nature.
Arthur may not have lived this life as long as Merlin had but in some ways Merlin thinks that’s worse. To know, to remember how things had been. To recall a time where life hadn’t been dossing in a fifth floor poky flat, where walls weren’t covered in graffiti, where hallways weren’t shrouded in darkness and littered with dirty syringes. But Arthur had settled, more than settled he’d grown. Become a part of the Holly Street Estate, bedded his roots and staked his claim. Merlin was just thankful he’d been taken along for the ride. Being best friends with Arthur was never easy, but it was safe, and that was a precious thing on these streets.
Merlin pushes him away with a chuckle as the boys fell into step, “Sod off, you bloody prat.”
“So where you off to?” Arthur asks.
“Oh, I don’t know, where would I be going at half eight on a bloody Wednesday morning?” Sarcasm rolls off his tongue. “I’m going to school, which is where you should be heading too!”
“Nah, I don’t feel like it today, bunk off with me.”
“Arthur, we have mocks in two months! What exactly are you planning on doing instead: head up to the hill and get stoned?” he scoffs. The hill is in fact not much of a hill, more a mound of dirt spattered with clumps of dry grass and stones that dig in the most inconvenient of places. There are only ever two reasons one goes there: to cop a feel or to get high. There is, however, one other thing ‘the hill’ did afford - a pretty splendid view of the entire East End. Not that the East End was a particularly breathtaking view mind, but still, on a clear night when the smog had taken leave you could just make out Canary Wharf and the bright lights of Central London, and for a while, you could pretend you were somewhere else, someone else.
“We don’t have to get stoned…” Arthur shrugs, “We could just get pissed.”
Merlin rolls his eyes, “I’m not getting pissed… not that I could afford it anyway.”
“Come now Merlin, we both know you don’t need money to get a bottle of vodka.”
“I am NOT nicking booze for you, Pendragon! Especially not from old man Gaius on the corner; you know what happened when I last went in there for fags, batty old man clipped me round the head with a broom!”
Arthur laughs at the memory, “Yeah, but you were a perfect distraction for me and the lads to bag that whiskey.”
“Well, I’m so happy to have been of service.”
“Oh don’t be like that, come on…”
“Piss off,” Merlin throws over his shoulder.
“Merrrrlin, just a couple of cans,” calls Arthur, jogging to catch up, slapping a playful hand on his shoulder as he overtakes him, proceeding to walk backwards.
“You really are the biggest twa-"
The words die on his lips as Arthur’s fingers grip Merlin’s elbow tightly, swinging them both until Merlin’s back hits the stone wall of the alcove alleyway. A hiss of pain escapes his lungs, which is quickly masked by Arthur’s hand coming to seal his mouth. And God since when have Arthur’s eyes been so blue? The narrow pathway leaves little room for one person, let alone two, as Merlin’s chest heaves with undulated panic, his body brushes against Arthur’s and Christ he was like a furnace. All warm heat and soft skin, and yes, he still has his sodding great big hand over Merlin’s mouth. His eyes however are trained on the courtyard they’ve just vacated. Merlin follows his gaze, catching sight of four boys - no, not boys, they were built more like men - strolling across, clearly looking for something… or someone. And well, it doesn’t take Sherlock-fucking-Holmes to figure it out. Merlin cuts his eyes to his friend in front of him and brings his teeth down to nip at the fingers sealed across his lips. Arthur growls his annoyance as he finally pulls his hand free and wipes it across Merlin’s shirt.
“What the fucking hell you got yourself involved in, Arthur?” he hisses, worry making his words come out dry and hushed, less angry than he intended.
Arthur doesn’t answer. Just keeps his hand braced against Merlin’s chest to peer out from around their hiding spot, scanning the area. He takes a cautious step free of the shadows, then two more assured ones, before turning his blinding smile back to Merlin as if the past five minutes hadn’t happened.
“So, school you say? Sounds like a plan,” Arthur grins, grabbing Merlin’s arm and all but dragging him, mouth agape to the high street.
“Are we seriously going to pretend like that didn’t just happen?” he asks incredulously, feet scuffling, trying to keep up.
Arthur gives him a look, one Merlin’s been subjected to countless times before - one that tells him simply, ’just leave it’. So Merlin nods, lips tightly drawn, adjusts his backpack one last time and takes a quiet seat on the bus stop bench.
A beat later Arthur sits beside him, shoving him lightly with his shoulder, and just like that it becomes a bit easier to breathe again.
There are few occasions when Merlin can say he is able to enjoy the tranquil moments in life. Right now, however, is not one of those occasions.
“Oh, will you look who’s here, the boy wizard himself.”
And isn’t that just bloody brilliant. Lifting his arm over his eyes, Merlin squints up into the warm afternoon sun. As if some sort of epiphany or holy ascension, a shadow falls across him and he’s looking up into beaming eyes and hair - so much fucking hair - which, if it’s even possible, looks glossier and gleaming with the halo of sun bracketing him.
“A good afternoon to you too Gwaine.” Merlin sighs, struggling to sit up as Gwaine gives a kick to his ankle and comes to plonk down beside him.
“Skiving off again?” he asks, hand coming to tussle Merlin’s hair, and why does everyone think he’s some kind of dog that needs constant petting? Trying futilely to bat Gwaine’s hands away and get his hair somewhat back to its styled state, he mumbles out a ‘you can bloody well talk’ - the Irish man just chuckles.
“Gwaine, do you always have to fucking shoot up here, it’s not a bloody race, y’know? Oh… hey Merlin.”
Merlin smiles over his shoulder at the pure muscle that greets him. Percy scared him shitless the first day of school; he was certain that those pretty impressive biceps were going to do some pretty impressive damage to his face. Yet, for all his worries, Percy is the biggest damn softie around, which is why Merlin has taken to calling him the BFG, though never to his face, never, ‘cause well, Merlin isn’t stupid.
Lance, Elyan and Leon all follow in his wake, stepping over the ladder that leads to their perch on the rooftop of the science building, with various forms of greeting: Leon gives him a fist to the shoulder as he leans across to pinch the fag Gwaine just spent the past two minutes rolling. An indignant ‘Hey!’ is exclaimed from his left as Merlin laughs heartedly at their antics, taking a long drag when Leon passes him the cigarette.
“Skipping P.E. again Merlin?” Lance asks, shrugging off his leather jacket and placing it on the gravelled lining of the roof top, hanging just a little bit back from the edge. Everyone presumes it’s because Lance is one of those introverted types, but Merlin really knows it’s because he’s scared of heights.
“Forgot my kit.” Merlin answers, flicking the cherry of the cigarette over the roof edge before finally passing it back to a brooding Gwaine with a smirk.
Elyan smiles, “Mmm, likely story.”
“Its rugby, Els, rugby.” Merlin states, flipping Gwaine the finger as he appears to choke on his inhale, probably from the image that a rugby playing Merlin conjures up, “For some reason I don’t see that being a future career choice.”
“Now, now Merlin I thought your ability to flail like a girl and fall over air made you an excellent candidate.”
The others laugh around him as a grinning Arthur comes into view; he flops down beside Merlin and throws a friendly arm across his shoulder. He can feel the heat of Arthur’s arm across his neck, the skin damp with sweat - and it should stink, he should find it bloody disgusting, but it only serves to offer an odd comfort that sits low in Merlin’s belly and has him clearing his throat before answering, “Yeah well my hiding up here only prevents my ability to catch an odd shaped ball, you lot on the other hand are missing out on fundamental business skills!”
Arthur snorts and removes his arm to flip out a cigarette from his own Benson & Hedges pack whilst Merlin tries to hide his disappointment at the cold air that hits his previously warmed skin, “I think we’ve all managed to grasp the strenuous principle of supply and demand.”
“See, I was under the impression that when demand falls, that’s when you stock up on shit loads of supply.” Leon remarks sarcastically, sucking the last remnants of Gwaine’s roll up before tossing it over the edge of the building.
“Had it escaped your notice, Merlin, that we are geniuses?” Gwaine smirks, arms spread wide in an air of defiance.
“Ah right, so you staying behind for extra tutoring sessions with Mr Simmons last week - that was what? Lessons in the art of something else?” Merlin waggles his eyebrows suggestively as the rest of the lads burst into various levels of disgust and hilarity. Lance chokes on his can of Coke, only managing to calm down after a fair few serious pounds on the back from Percy.
Gwaine looks a mix between pissing angry and an odd sort of pride that Merlin is able to be that quick witted. “You cheeky shit!” he cries, scrabbling to his feet ready to land a few soft blows to Merlin. But then Arthur’s wrapping an arm around his neck, bringing him into an uncomfortable headlock that Merlin weakly attempts to struggle out of.
“Alright, alright, Emrys has somehow managed to develop a sense of humour, lets not knock it out of him,” says Arthur, palm wide and predatory across Merlin’s shoulder blades.
Gwaine shakes his head and pretends to make another lunge before laughing it off and taking a seat across the rooftop. If either boy notices how Merlin’s fingers gripped the front of Arthur’s t-shirt - neither say anything.
Merlin tries to resist the shiver that passes down his spine as Arthur’s hand traces the length of it, coming to rest on the gravelled floor behind him. The closeness of Arthur’s hand to his ass is like a fire which is quickly put out when he hears the low whistle of approval beside him.
“Looks like the matinee performance is about to begin, boys!”
The others laugh and try not to seem too eager as they huddle to the roof edge, just as the year 13 girls exit the changing rooms and step onto the court below. Dressed in tight white polo shirts and fanned out little red skirts, the image they make is any teenage lads’ wet dream. Well, most teenage lads at least, most bar Merlin of course. He tried, spent many an afternoon huddled under his duvets, laptop shakily resting on his legs, hands down his pants, the latest titwank from RedTube loaded up on screen - and nada. He’s no blushing virgin either; Freya from the year below made sure of that. So when he tried and failed to have another early morning wank to busty blondes, he hesitantly shifted the cursor along and clicked the ‘gay’ tab.
It took him just 20 seconds to come.
That pretty much summed it up for him. And then of course there’s Arthur. Arthur who is all gloriously sun-kissed skin and dusty golden hair and the clearest blue eyes Merlin has ever seen. Arthur, who is currently lying flat on his belly atop the rooftop floor, nudging Leon and Percy whose eyes bulged at all the flesh on show below - Arthur who is very much his best friend, and clearly, very much straight.
“Oh man, would you look at the legs on her!” Leon exclaims, edging closer still, eyes firmly fixed on the strawberry-blonde Sophia’s striking tanned pins. The rest of the boys are making noises of agreement, banter and comments flittering back and forth.
“Mm, have to say there’s a couple things about Vivian that are grabbing my attention right now,” says Gwaine, a sly smile and wink sent across to the rest of the group.
“She is rather lovely,” says Merlin, “and smart too.”
“Ah Merlin, you expect too much of me!” laughs Gwaine, nudging him into a rather bemused, yet quiet, Arthur. Merlin studies him for a beat, the strong line of his shoulders flexing beneath the thin black cotton t-shirt he wears. He daren’t cast his eyes lower, already knows he’ll be greeted with the sight of a gorgeously pert ass encased in tight dark denim. Arthur isn’t a skinny jeans kind of guy, how could he with thighs as thick as tree trunks. Thighs that Merlin has not fantasised about pinning him against walls, or wrapped around his neck as he went to town on…no. Merlin has no such thoughts. But still, Arthur has the physique of a Greek God, strong yet lean; muscular but not too so; in all senses of the word Arthur is perfect.
“Who’s got you all porny-eyed!?” asks Gwaine, elbow digging into Merlin’s side, and it’s only then he realises the rest of the group are staring at him with various smirks and knowing grins on their faces. He feels the blush spread across his cheeks as he casts his head down to avoid their heated stares.
“It’s that Nimueh, isn’t it? Cracking sort, bit crazy mind, but you’ve always liked a pretty brunette, eh?” says Gwaine, pushing Merlin’s head down even further in a jovial shove.
He laughs, they all laugh - except Arthur.
Arthur’s eyes are trained on the side of Merlin’s face; he can feel it, a piercing gaze that leaves something heavy and weighting in his throat. And it’s moments like those, moments that have become all too frequent over the past year that make him wonder, maybe, just maybe… and then, within a blink of an eye, it’s gone, replaced with one of those blinding smiles that’s all crooked teeth, “Nah, she’ll eat him alive!”
“That’s what he’s hoping for, ain’t it my man?” Leon slaps him on the back, the lads fall in to fits of wolf whistles and cat calls - and just like that the tension in his chest eases.
"It’s what we're all hoping for," says Gwaine, eyes twinkling as he takes in the display the girls make below, "So many ladies, such little space on the 'Gwaine love train,'" he sighs.
"Keep calling it that and you'll have no fucking passengers," says Arthur, bringing snorts of laughter around him.
"Ah, and what about our dear little Wart, none of those beauts down there catch your eye? Not even the gorgeous Gwen? You know you wanna tap that."
"Hey!" Elyan suddenly pipes up, pointing an accusing finger towards a bemused Gwaine, who simply holds his hands up in a placating manner. "No one, no one, is tapping anything of my sister's!"
Leon stands and places a friendly arm around his shoulder, pulling the dark-skinned man to his side, "Come now Els, who would you rather see your sister with? Sir Shags-a-lot or our very own shining Prince Arthur?"
"Neither of you pricks are getting anywhere near her!" laughs Elyan, but the meaning behind it isn't lost. Gwaine goes on to display an act of theatrical indignity whilst the rest of the group settle down and argue over which of the year 13’s would give the best head.
Merlin keeps his eyes focused on Arthur; follows his gaze to the slender figure below, the one with a pretty head of ringlets and honey coloured skin. He knows just as well that Lancelot's eyes are on the same path. He doesn't say anything.
Merlin comes slamming into the flat, throwing his bag on the nearest available surface, whistling that new bloody Cheryl Cole tune he’s had stuck in his head for the whole god-damn day.
He dances around the kitchen table, opens the fridge expectantly, eyes scanning the sparse shelves that consisted mostly of various forms of processed meats and suspiciously curdled milk. Merlin's head is buried deep in the fridge, looking for anything to calm the late afternoon munchies that are currently making his stomach sound like something out of a Jurassic Park movie, when he hears the creaking of a door. He takes a steady breath, then two more, grasping the closest thing to hand, and lets out an almighty roar as he turns to face.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, is that how you greet your mother now, boy? And what were you going to do with those eggs -- make me into a bloody omelette?"
Merlin places a hand on his chest as he collapses against the counter.
Hunith sighs as she strides across the kitchen and takes said eggs out of her son's hand still raised mid-air. She places them back in the fridge, kissing the top of his head as she goes.
"What are you doing home? Aren't you supposed to be at the Heights?" Merlin asks, the pounding in his heart steadily returning back to normal.
"Well it's nice to see you too.” Hunith quips, pottering around in cupboards, taking out a couple of mugs and switching the kettle on. She pulls down the newly opened pack of tea-bags, sending Merlin a quick quirk of her lips in silent thank-you. “Susan asked if I could take the night shift instead for her, her ma’s poorly so can’t look after the kids so I said I'd swap rotas.”
"Jeez mum, when are you going to sleep?" asks Merlin, lines of worry forming across his forehead. The Heights is a care home in the north of Dalston; it’s a stressful, tiring job, one which involves copious amounts of cleaning, patience and bloody hard work, which wouldn't be too bad -- except this is Hunith's third job. Besides her moon-lighting at the care home, she also spends most mornings dealing with the early risers at the local cafe around the corner, before heading to Homerton University Hospital where being a receptionist on the A&E ward provides equal measures of drama and amusement. It is understandable, therefore, that Merlin worries. Hunith smiles back at him, a tenderness in her eyes that never fades despite the dark circles that line them.
"Well, that's exactly what I was trying to do when a stampede broke through my kitchen," she smiles, lips quirked softly as she comes to sit down next to Merlin, pushing across a bowl of noodles that are no doubt her lunchtime leftovers.
’Sorry’ he mumbles, eyes cast low, fork poking and twisting around the lukewarm strings. Hunith leans across towards him, brushing the dark tufts of hair off his forehead, "All’s forgiven, my boy... At least now I get to see you. Gosh, are you even eating?" She grasps his chin in her pale ivory fingers, tilting his face left and right, running a questioning thumb along his cheekbone.
"Course I am mum," he grumbles, pulling his face free, and twirling a load around his fork raising it to his mouth with an arched eyebrow, a look of 'See, I eat'. "You know it'd be much easier if you'd just let me go out and work."
The look Hunith shoots him stops his train of thought dead. "All I want you to worry about is your A-Levels, you hear me?" Merlin simply nods. "How is school? I haven't had any letters from Mr Clark in a while, you actually enjoying P.E. now?" she asks. What she doesn't realise is that Merlin has a stack of about four letters regarding Merlin's 'unfortunate lack of any form of hand-eye co-ordination and balance' -- no need in giving his mother extra worry.
So instead he answers with a, "Yeah we're doing hockey," and an "I think it's something I'm actually good at." Hunith simply hums in reply and if Merlin didn't know better he'd say it was her, 'i-know-you're-lying-but-hearing-your-rambling-excuses-is-too-amusing' face. Strangely, Arthur seems to wear the same look whenever Merlin goes off on one of his inane chatters too.
"So did you manage to get that light room....or night--?"
"Dark room," Merlin clarifies. "Yeah, they finished installing it last week. Still have a few bits and pieces to add, mind, but I should be able to get into it by Friday.”
"That’s brilliant darling," says Hunith, patting Merlin's hand, “How lucky am I to have such a talented artist for a son, huh?” she smiles, giving Merlin’s fingers a tight squeeze.
Merlin’s cheeks turn a dark crimson as he casts a glance at his mother under his lashes.
“Right, well,” Merlin stutters, eager to break the awkward silence that has fallen, standing up he clears his bowl away in the sink. “I’ll just head out and get out of your hair.”
“You don’t have to do that, love.”
“No its ok, I need to pick up something from Arthur’s anyway.”
“Mmm, tell that boy to come round for dinner sometime. I saw his father the other day, poor man.”
“He’s a bloody drunken slob,” states Merlin, a hint of bitterness in his tone.
“Merlin James Emrys! There is no need for that, he’s been through a lot,” Hunith chides.
“Maybe, but he still sits on his ass all day doing jack shit and living off the benefits -“
“That is quite enough.” Hunith cuts him off. “What their family go through is their own business. You just worry about yourself.”
“I worry about you too.” says Merlin, gifting his mother with a weary smile, “I don’t like you working the night shifts, be careful on your way home, ok?”
"I will, my boy, and be careful yourself, I heard from Marge next door that those lads from Green Street Estate have been nosing round here. Nasty bit of work they are Merlin, you know what happened last time... that poor boy. I hope you're not getting involved in any of their mess."
"Me?" Merlin splutters, "Why would I have anything to do with them?"
"You or any of your friends...." Hunith says softly, eyes shining with concern, there’s no hiding the insinuation under her words, "I worry."
"Arthur's not like that."
"No," Hunith agrees, having had the younger Pendragon run around her ankles as much as Merlin - she knows him just as well, "but I worry about him too."
Merlin sighs, standing to wrap his arms around her shoulders, chin resting atop her head. He closes his eyes for a brief moment and savours these quiet few seconds with his mother. He doesn’t get them enough. "Go get some sleep," he says, planting a kiss to her temple, "and make sure someone gives you a lift home. I don't want you getting the night bus back."
"Who’s the parent here?" she laughs, fingers gripping the hem of his tattered jumper. With his free hand, he pets her hair, and he feels like he's five years old again.
Merlin takes the stairs two at a time, hands swinging by his sides to give him momentum, never touching the hand rail - that was a lesson he learned all too soon. You never hold onto the railing, for fear of what you'll find there when you retract your hand. He can hear snippets of conversations from the flats lining the front balcony. The walls to the lodgings aren't particularly built for loud conversations or sordid activities. They may as well have been partitioned by sheet paper for all the good it did - makeshift ear plugs in the form of cotton buds have been Merlin’s salvation for most of his teenage years. He finally reaches the fifth floor (two up from his own) side-stepping around a shaggy haired mongrel of a dog that’s tied to the banister, yapping at his heels.
As he nears lodging 522 he can already hear the loud slurs that shake from its walls: a drunken cry of "fucking useless" followed by a deep hollow thump. Merlin swallows nervously; the desire to turn, to run back downstairs and huddle in his room is overwhelming. Then he pictures his mother feeling guilty for sleeping when Merlin is home, arguing that she should be making the most of the time they got together, and he raises his fist to the door, knocking gently.
The arguing continues, his presence unanswered and unheard outside. Another dull thud echoes through the walls, causing Merlin to jump back suddenly. Whatever has been thrown lands solidly against the front door, footsteps drawing closer in order to retrieve it.
"What a waste of fucking space" is spat coldly, words clipped and harsh through the thin wood door. Merlin can't help but curl his lips at the tone and knocks again - louder. The footsteps halt, the previously loud shouts turning into grumbling murmurs. A few moments later, the door swings open revealing a dishevelled Arthur, clothes askew, eyes dark and heavy. He can make out Uther in the background: grey hair receded further then when he last saw him with what look to be at least six days worth of stubble over his face. The older man is struggling with his jacket, arm chasing the sleeve with increasing difficulty, knocking him into the pointed end of the coffee table with a curse.
Merlin casts his eyes back to his friend in front of him, offering a half turned smile, "Bad timing?"
Arthur scoffs, his face softening slightly, “I’ve come to expect nothing less from you, Merlin.”
Merlin smiles shyly, hands fiddling in the pockets of his overly baggy hoodie, frayed and grey from the numerous washes but way too comfy to ever throw out.
"I can go," he offers meekly.
"Um, it's kind of --"
Arthur is cut off by Uther pushing roughly at his shoulder, trying to move his son from his stance across the doorway.
"Would you sodding well get out of my way." He gruffs out. This close, Merlin can see the ragged tiredness on the man's face, lines etched into the skin around his eyes making him look much older than his youthful forty years should allow.
"Dad, we hadn't finished talking." Arthur cuts in, placing a gentle hand on his father’s chest that is just as quickly shoved away.
"I'm heading down the pub, said I'd meet Geoff and Roy there."
"But dad --"
"Oh for Christ’s sake, we'll talk when I get home." Uther is forcefully pulling Arthur's arm from its place on the door jamb, "Look, you've got..." He looks at Merlin, clearly struggling to remember his name, "this sod here, now just piss off... move out of my way, boy." That he directs at Merlin as he stumbles into him and out of the flat, pulling the collar of his jacket up against his jaw as he goes.
Arthur has already turned around, walking back into the quiet living room whilst Merlin stays uselessly at the door. He's about to open his mouth to make some excuse or reason to bolt back off home when Arthur's voice cuts through him, "Well, if you're coming in, bloody hurry up - and shut that door; it's fucking freezing." Merlin does as he's told.
Flat 522 is fairly different to his own (314) downstairs. Whereas Hunith still finds time to give their dire surroundings a 'mother's touch,' it's clear that Uther has had no such desire. The walls are a dark shade of blue, the carpet a grotty brown that was once red but now scattered with patches of questionable colour and substance. Merlin never gets used to it, struggles to grasp how Arthur can be such a cheerful bundle of energy - all happy teeth and bright blue eyes - then come back every night to this and still have the energy to get up every morning. Merlin thinks he would have given up years ago.
He kicks his way through the living room, watching silently as Arthur pulls out a black bin-liner from the kitchen and dutifully begins picking up the strewn cans that litter the floor - some half-empty with slurring liquid still swishing inside, threatening to leak out onto the already stained furnishings - some have been used as ashtrays - Merlin concludes those are the worst. Arthur doesn't offer a thank you as Merlin bends down, fills his own hands with sticky Carling cans before throwing them into the outstretched liner. He does smile though, softly. To Merlin that’s thanks enough.
Once the sitting room reflects a somewhat liveable space again, Arthur proposes a round of 'Call of Duty' which has them scurrying off to his room to spend the next few hours shouting orders and shooting people. It's very cathartic.
After far too many hours, Arthur eventually begins to get bored, if the half-hearted attempts to take out the enemy with one hand on the controller, the other dangling a fag loosely between his fingers, is anything to go by. Merlin watches him stealthily out of the corner of his eye, gaze firmly fixed on the small TV screen in front of him.
“So those guys the other day…” he begins casually, thumbs jabbing at the buttons as Arthur’s man on screen comes to a halt.
“What guys?” Arthur asks eventually, air of faux flippancy in his tone.
Merlin scoffs and pauses the game, turns to face Arthur at the foot of the bed. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe the ones you dragged me into the alleyway to avoid? The ones that have had you on edge for days now?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Jesus mate, just be straight with me. Did you and Gwaine get into a drunken fight with them or something?”
Arthur ignores him, resolutely staring straight ahead as he starts back up the game. Merlin releases a heavy sigh as he thumbs at the controller to pause it again; that eventually gains him eye-contact, even if it is an aggravated annoyed gaze.
“Would you just sodding well drop it!” Arthur cries out, face turning cloudy with frustration, a look that is rarely directed in Merlin’s direction. “For your own good just leave it.”
The game sparks to life again under Arthur’s fingers as he jabs out the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray lying on the side. Merlin watches him for a moment longer before returning his attention to the screen. Fine - if Arthur wants to keep his secrets, let him bloody well keep them. Merlin wasn’t going to worry himself over them anymore; he was going to do exactly as Arthur asked - leave it.
Part 2